I watched Vicky Cristina Barcelona for the first time last night.
Typical Woody Allen mood permeated the thing, I must say. I'm not the biggest fan of his style, but I did enjoy the film.
Juan Antonio's constant sincere self-disclosure was excellent. He truly meant every word, with both women. I've yet to see mention of self-disclosure as a means of seduction in the PUA community, save for brief allusions to it in The Art of Seduction. I suppose I'll have to keep digging.
I decided to skip the audition today. I read into it further and realized that there was no way in hell I was going to be part of any show that would want me to act as if I were someone else, to shrug off my mellow exterior for some dramatic persona to entertain masses I can hardly stand on my best of days.
My sister was disappointed, but ever the pleaser, hid it well. Unfortunately, she's a talker. So I'm sure she told anyone who would listen to her about how I chose not to go at the last minute.
Can you blame me?
I'm not part of her world. I have no interest in being part of her world. Our entire lives we've been each other's opposites. While we look alike, we're built completely different, we think differently, we engage differently. I'm quite content with her being who she is, and me being who I am, but she constantly feels like I should be more like her, and is constantly disapproving of my choice in clothing and how I interact with people.
She reads a single book every two or three years.
I read somewhere between one to five books a week on average, depending on my schedule.
She dyes her hair blonde. Various, but continuous, shades of blonde.
I've dyed my hair red, brown, gold blonde, bleach blonde, red with black tips, blue, chocolate, before finally settling on this soft black with brown and red highlights.
She's built like a couture model: almost no curves to speak of. She's the fashionable rail.
I'm built like a pin-up model: my entire body is curves.
Her eyes are blue and gray, while mine are blue and yellow.
I've got around 13 hours of ink on my body.
She pierces her ears.
I spend fifteen minutes in the bathroom in the morning. Make-up is for when I feel like bothering, and is generally an annoyance and cramps my already hectic schedule.
She spends anywhere from forty minutes to an hour and a half in the bathroom. Make-up is a necessity. Make-up is how she zens out. She doesn't mind getting up an hour earlier just so she can be pretty when she goes to the store.
My room is organized. Even though I recently moved, everything is in its place. No clothes on the floor, nothing strewn about.
Her room looks like a landfill in Beverly Hills. Shoes, make-up, clothing, fashion magazines, jewelry exploded. You need a bulldozer to shut the door.
The majority of my disposable income goes towards books and events.
The majority of her disposable incomes goes towards Nordstrom and dining out at fancy restaurants that she can't really afford.
The main guy (GV8) I'm seeing is a childless, wealthy businessman in his early forties, who happens also to be a sexually dominant swinger. He plays beta to cover up his colorful history, but switches into alpha when pressed.
Her boyfriend is a 24 year old father and divorcee, who barely makes ends meet (has moved into my parent's house, actually) and is constantly procrastinating on everything he possibly can. He also spends most of his money on clothes and fine dining. He'd be an alpha male, probably, if he'd just deal with his damage. He has social skills, but he lets himself be railroaded and controlled so easily.
I'm plagued with depression and social anxiety. In fifth grade, I was such an emotional wreck, my doctors thought I had begun to develop ulcers because of what the stress was doing to my body. It just continued from there. No ulcers, though.
Somehow, the family depression skipped my sister. Even though both sides are strong carriers, she missed that bullet. And anxiety? None.
In high school, I was a loner. The outcast oddball. I almost flunked out of my junior year, then skipped my senior year, graduating a year early through independent study so I could get the hell out of there.
In high school, she was a cheerleader, on the dance team, choir president, dating first the rebel indie guitar player a grade above her, then moving onto the choir director's son. Straight A's.
In college, I took to drinking, drugs, and lots of wild sex. I was kicked out of my first college because I managed to flunk or drop all but two classes through three semesters. Too busy getting high and drunk, or playing cards at the local indie coffee shops, smoking cloves and boning those who interested me.
In college (going to the one I was kicked out of), she continues to get straight A's, while working part-time in a very social environment. The stress of carrying 12 units a semester and working 18 hours a week really gets to her.
When I returned to school, once I got out of the community college system and into a regular university, I was working 50 to 60 hours a week in a high stress job and carrying 12 to 15 units a semester, perfectly happy, not at all stressed.
She goes from serious long-term relationship to serious long-term relationship. She's had three boyfriends (on the third now), and went out with two other guys possibly twice each. She's not at all sexual, and even though her current man lives with her, I'm not even sure if she's had sex yet, though if she has, it's been a recent development.
I don't remember what age I lost my virginity because I really didn't care. 15 or 16? Probably one of the two. Sex partners? Again, don't know. Oral, I can't even guess. Boyfriends? 6. Lovers? Many. How many times have I been in love? 4.
My sister has kept pretty much the same social group since she was in elementary school, though now she's picking up a new one at her place of employment.
I can't even begin to count the number of social groups I have had in the past and continue to have.
Anyhow, I think that list more than illustrated my point, even though I could continue to add to it.
We have the same parents. It's very physically obvious that we're both our father's children. We both are overly sensitive, though she's more likely to show it. We went on the same vacations, spent time with the same family members. But we were parented very differently and it shows.
She wants me so badly to be part of her world, her lifestyle, with the focus on presentation and external development.
And, sometimes I wonder if it is for her or for me.
When she goes out with our mother, especially when they're meeting up with more recent friends of my sister's, or going to her place of employment, she always wants my mother to dress right, to do her make-up right, to wear the right shoes, make sure the jewelry matches and her hair looks fine. She comes into my mother's bedroom as she's getting ready and helps her pick out clothing, makes sure everything looks right.
This has been going on for years.
She has a tendency to make my mother feel bad about how she presents herself, about what she wears. My mother has a very intense life, working her own job, helping my father run his business, scheduling large family events, keeping the house clean, and maintaining my father on an emotional level. She wears t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers.
My sister finds this embarassing.
I've offered to take my mother clubbing with me in the past, wearing whatever she likes because I really don't care. I want to spend time with her, and none of my friends would judge her for her casual wardrobe. And, really, few of my sister's friends would judge my mother's choice of clothing or make-up either.
It still bothers my sister. She doesn't realize how condescending she is to our mother, how bad she makes her feel about not looking good enough for my sister's friends.
I like to rock the boat.
My sister has mostly given up on my choice in clothing. I keep towards the dark colors, keep things simple and elegant. The pronounced curve of my lower back and my "ghetto booty" make it hard to shop for pants that don't bag out in the back. My chest gets in the way of button-up shirts ever fitting properly. I don't get to wear "normal" fashions because they don't fit. Even if I was rail-thin, I would still have to hunt for stores that allow for my curvy bone-structure.
In public, I push things with her. Most of the time she's okay, but when she feels the need to impress, I have to throw her curve balls. Sometimes she laughs, sometimes she gets embarrassed.
But it feels so much like she still hasn't settled on reforming me to her lifestyle.
It's something I think about often, obviously. I try to get to the heart of the issue, my wish that I could be normal, that I could blend, that I was built like her so that I could wear the fashions she does. That if I had her body, maybe I would be more confident.
The other day, I was walking with GV8 down Sunset Blvd and someone honked and stuck out their head to yell "Yeeeeeahhhh!" at me. GV8 laughed and shouted at him, "That's right, she's with me!" I'm used to being honked at, whistled at, yelled at when I'm out walking. I'm not used to it in Hollywood. I don't have the Hollywood body. I'm too heavy, too curvy. I'm not fat, not even chubby, but I do know that I have extra weight on me that does not fit the Hollywood ideal. Having those guys do that was incredibly disconcerting.
As I told GV8, "Do they realize that they're in Hollywood, and that because we're here in this city, I'm considered an obese cow?"
I believe he just laughed at me.
But it does bother me, occasionally finding her laundry. Size 0? It does hurt to know that most of my boyfriends found her attractive. We're so different, it makes me feel inferior. Like if we could move my brain into her body, they'd be happier. Because she's got a normal, socially desired body.
Maybe I'm compensating. Maybe I've been compensating for years, trying to be different than she is so I'm not just a weak shadow. So something makes me desirable in a way she could never be.
It's funny. I sleep with incredibly attractive men, I tend to always get the guy I want, I'm desired by most of my male friends, and yet I still can't get over this hump.
But I hear that's normal for women.
I must be female after all.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
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.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Somebody leave the light on...
My mother and I went out to lunch the weekend before last.
We've always been very close, for all our differences.
She was going on a mini-vacation to visit her best friend who lives up in Portland now.
She usually goes up there once a year for a few days. They run around Oregon together, giggling and drinking, visiting friends, playing cards, etc.
But this time was different.
We were talking, at lunch, and she was telling me about her trip. How she realized, with the help of her therapist and a book on recovering from grief, that the last few years of her life had been overshadowed by grief, but mourning.
She looked at me and said, "I've been mourning for my family," touching her hand to her chest, "My father, mother, and brother. My family. How things were, how they are now."
I never really thought of her "original" family as her family.
Her father was an alcoholic and chain smoker. He died when I was five, battling out liver failure and lung cancer for years until he finally gave in.
Through that alcoholism and tendency towards abuse (though I do not remember, oddly, if it was physical, psychological, or both) towards his wife, he took an already very temperamental woman (my grandmother) and turned her into a bit of an anxiety basketcase with agoraphobia.
My mother's mother declined over the years, especially after the Northridge earthquake, which split her and her sister's condo in half, so they moved into separate apartments. Her sister, my great-aunt, really grounded her.
She eventually ended up living in an apartment in Los Angeles, with multiple psych meds controlling her and having horrible influences on her to the point of her breaking down and never leaving her apartment.
We moved her into a nursing home, and, after a couple of years, we had to move her to a mental ward.
She died there.
My mother's brother had a serious long-term girlfriend when he was in his early twenties, named Janice. One evening, they were driving in his hippie van and someone rammed them, killing her instantly.
He married a woman named April. She left him without warning and took their son with her.
He then remarried a woman from New Orleans. Insane born-again Christian and dental hygienist, who hated my mother and was infertile, so they were continuously adopting foster children. They lived in Kentucky. Contact was very minimal, save for talking about my grandmother and the state of her care for the few years before she died.
They would come out here, occasionally, for the holidays or very important family events, and stay with us. My aunt would take over, would be rude, would be forceful, would be very religiously intolerant, would never thank us for putting them in our beds, in our bathrooms, shuttling them around.
Guilt-trips were tossed from my uncle and his wife to my mother that she was not visiting their mother often enough, that going to the mental home two or three times a week while having a job and raising children was not often enough.
My grandmother began to resent my mother. Hate my mother. Ignore her.
As sanity left her, her personality fled her face, leaving her wardrobe as the only thing recognizable to us. She would hit the other residents, attack them in fits of rage with unknown sources. My mother was there constantly, trying to feed her, making friends with all the nurses and care-givers so that they would personally call her if anything happened, so she could come in after hours when her schedule did not allow for opening hours.
The entire time, from across the country, her brother was sending emails and calling, letting my mother know that she wasn't doing good enough, that we should risk damaging what was left of my grandmother's brain by moving her to Kentucky so my uncle and aunt could watch her properly since my mother obviously couldn't do it.
My mother started having to bring my sister or myself with her, so my grandmother would interact with us. She pretended that my mother did not exist, so trying to feed her was difficult.
Thinking on it, I believe the only grandparent I had that we did not have to spoon-feed at one time or another was my father's mother. I could be wrong, though.
While in she was in the mental ward, my uncle and aunt flew out to visit.
My mother walked into my grandmother's room to visit during this time, and found my aunt scaring the hell out of my grandmother who, at the time, had the mental capacity of a three year old, by telling her that if she did not accept Jesus as her savior, she was going to burn in Hell for eternity and never see anyone she loved again. My grandmother was bawling her eyes out like a little kid.
My mother walked in on this.
My mother is very diplomatic.
If I had been there, my aunt would have been backhanded and barred from ever coming to the facility again.
They have not been back since then.
My uncle occasionally comes into town for work, but he no longer stays with us and rarely calls to let us know that he'll be here.
My mother has lost a father to his addictions, a mother to hers, and a brother to his fear that he'll lose another partner.
Her base unit has been scattered, has been demolished.
As a child, did she ever expect things to turn out this way? Did she ever look at her father, tossing back whiskey and chainsmoking into the early hours of the morning, going from job to job to job, and know that one day this would kill him?
Did she ever watch him yell at her mother, thinking of the possibility of the damage that would occur that would echo through the years until her mother's death?
When her brother, the science nerd, played countless pranks on her, did she ever stop to think that his adulthood would be one desperate gripping hope that he would be able to keep a significant other? That he would be so very afraid of being alone? That he would take all their shared experience, all their background, and toss it aside because of this fear?
Did she even think that he would leave her? Her older brother? Her protector and tormentor?
I look at pictures of her as a child, in high school, on camping trips with my father, their wedding.
Did she ever know?
Did she ever lay in her bed at night and know, somehow, that she would lose so much?
The smile on her face, the white sweater and long black skirt as she posed for the photo for the yearbook club. Did she know? Even then, was her father declining? Were the ripples in her mother's mind beginning to show?
The laughing waterfights the four of them would get into, hoses in the house and water pistols, using the kitchen sink as a defense. The heavy rains that would flood the backyard and the cats that always seemed to be at least part siamese. Playing Barbie, Queen of the Prom with her father, staying in her room with her friends, listening to The Beatles on the turntable and swooning over Paul.
Waves travel forward.
Did she know?
Did she know that she would meet a man plagued by chronic depression and would fight for years to bear his children? And that, when born, those daughters would be night and day? Did she realize that her husband's mother would become one of her closest friends, and that she would heal the gaping rift between her husband and his father? That she would be instrumental in fixing a family that was so very wounded?
When we were born, did she know that one of us would be going to therapy constantly throughout her life, while the other would be going to cheerleading practice? Did she realize that she would be giving birth to two daughters so different that fairytales could be based off of them? That fairytales and short stories have been based off of them?
She told me once, that when I was three, she realized I would never have an easy life. Somehow, she looked at me and knew, to her core, that my life would never be smooth.
But did she know about her own?
We've always been very close, for all our differences.
She was going on a mini-vacation to visit her best friend who lives up in Portland now.
She usually goes up there once a year for a few days. They run around Oregon together, giggling and drinking, visiting friends, playing cards, etc.
But this time was different.
We were talking, at lunch, and she was telling me about her trip. How she realized, with the help of her therapist and a book on recovering from grief, that the last few years of her life had been overshadowed by grief, but mourning.
She looked at me and said, "I've been mourning for my family," touching her hand to her chest, "My father, mother, and brother. My family. How things were, how they are now."
I never really thought of her "original" family as her family.
Her father was an alcoholic and chain smoker. He died when I was five, battling out liver failure and lung cancer for years until he finally gave in.
Through that alcoholism and tendency towards abuse (though I do not remember, oddly, if it was physical, psychological, or both) towards his wife, he took an already very temperamental woman (my grandmother) and turned her into a bit of an anxiety basketcase with agoraphobia.
My mother's mother declined over the years, especially after the Northridge earthquake, which split her and her sister's condo in half, so they moved into separate apartments. Her sister, my great-aunt, really grounded her.
She eventually ended up living in an apartment in Los Angeles, with multiple psych meds controlling her and having horrible influences on her to the point of her breaking down and never leaving her apartment.
We moved her into a nursing home, and, after a couple of years, we had to move her to a mental ward.
She died there.
My mother's brother had a serious long-term girlfriend when he was in his early twenties, named Janice. One evening, they were driving in his hippie van and someone rammed them, killing her instantly.
He married a woman named April. She left him without warning and took their son with her.
He then remarried a woman from New Orleans. Insane born-again Christian and dental hygienist, who hated my mother and was infertile, so they were continuously adopting foster children. They lived in Kentucky. Contact was very minimal, save for talking about my grandmother and the state of her care for the few years before she died.
They would come out here, occasionally, for the holidays or very important family events, and stay with us. My aunt would take over, would be rude, would be forceful, would be very religiously intolerant, would never thank us for putting them in our beds, in our bathrooms, shuttling them around.
Guilt-trips were tossed from my uncle and his wife to my mother that she was not visiting their mother often enough, that going to the mental home two or three times a week while having a job and raising children was not often enough.
My grandmother began to resent my mother. Hate my mother. Ignore her.
As sanity left her, her personality fled her face, leaving her wardrobe as the only thing recognizable to us. She would hit the other residents, attack them in fits of rage with unknown sources. My mother was there constantly, trying to feed her, making friends with all the nurses and care-givers so that they would personally call her if anything happened, so she could come in after hours when her schedule did not allow for opening hours.
The entire time, from across the country, her brother was sending emails and calling, letting my mother know that she wasn't doing good enough, that we should risk damaging what was left of my grandmother's brain by moving her to Kentucky so my uncle and aunt could watch her properly since my mother obviously couldn't do it.
My mother started having to bring my sister or myself with her, so my grandmother would interact with us. She pretended that my mother did not exist, so trying to feed her was difficult.
Thinking on it, I believe the only grandparent I had that we did not have to spoon-feed at one time or another was my father's mother. I could be wrong, though.
While in she was in the mental ward, my uncle and aunt flew out to visit.
My mother walked into my grandmother's room to visit during this time, and found my aunt scaring the hell out of my grandmother who, at the time, had the mental capacity of a three year old, by telling her that if she did not accept Jesus as her savior, she was going to burn in Hell for eternity and never see anyone she loved again. My grandmother was bawling her eyes out like a little kid.
My mother walked in on this.
My mother is very diplomatic.
If I had been there, my aunt would have been backhanded and barred from ever coming to the facility again.
They have not been back since then.
My uncle occasionally comes into town for work, but he no longer stays with us and rarely calls to let us know that he'll be here.
My mother has lost a father to his addictions, a mother to hers, and a brother to his fear that he'll lose another partner.
Her base unit has been scattered, has been demolished.
As a child, did she ever expect things to turn out this way? Did she ever look at her father, tossing back whiskey and chainsmoking into the early hours of the morning, going from job to job to job, and know that one day this would kill him?
Did she ever watch him yell at her mother, thinking of the possibility of the damage that would occur that would echo through the years until her mother's death?
When her brother, the science nerd, played countless pranks on her, did she ever stop to think that his adulthood would be one desperate gripping hope that he would be able to keep a significant other? That he would be so very afraid of being alone? That he would take all their shared experience, all their background, and toss it aside because of this fear?
Did she even think that he would leave her? Her older brother? Her protector and tormentor?
I look at pictures of her as a child, in high school, on camping trips with my father, their wedding.
Did she ever know?
Did she ever lay in her bed at night and know, somehow, that she would lose so much?
The smile on her face, the white sweater and long black skirt as she posed for the photo for the yearbook club. Did she know? Even then, was her father declining? Were the ripples in her mother's mind beginning to show?
The laughing waterfights the four of them would get into, hoses in the house and water pistols, using the kitchen sink as a defense. The heavy rains that would flood the backyard and the cats that always seemed to be at least part siamese. Playing Barbie, Queen of the Prom with her father, staying in her room with her friends, listening to The Beatles on the turntable and swooning over Paul.
Waves travel forward.
Did she know?
Did she know that she would meet a man plagued by chronic depression and would fight for years to bear his children? And that, when born, those daughters would be night and day? Did she realize that her husband's mother would become one of her closest friends, and that she would heal the gaping rift between her husband and his father? That she would be instrumental in fixing a family that was so very wounded?
When we were born, did she know that one of us would be going to therapy constantly throughout her life, while the other would be going to cheerleading practice? Did she realize that she would be giving birth to two daughters so different that fairytales could be based off of them? That fairytales and short stories have been based off of them?
She told me once, that when I was three, she realized I would never have an easy life. Somehow, she looked at me and knew, to her core, that my life would never be smooth.
But did she know about her own?
Fully fed, yet I still hunger...
I've gone out almost every night this week. Every night last week. Every night the week before that and the week before that.
This has become my life, in this weird way.
Last night was seeing a friend's band play at a bar, the night before that, a dinner celebration out at a bar and grill with drag queen performances. The night before, dinner party. The night before, a final, and whatever happened afterwards, I don't remember. It all just blends together and it's hard to keep track of anything past the last three days, max.
Tonight, dinner with friends, then maybe to a small social gathering.
Tomorrow, chiropractor, shopping, touring a friend through LA (downtown/Little Tokyo/Venice Beach/Beverly Hills/Sunset Strip/Hollywood/Amoeba), dinner date, and clubbing, along with various errands jammed in what tiny openings of my schedule they can fit.
Sunday, undecided. Could be another concert. Could stay in bed with GV8 all day again.
I need to get him to set up a soundsystem in his bedroom.
Ah, my favorite dance troupe will be back in town in September. Lovely.
Pointless dribble, how I loathe it. I type until the words I want to say come out. But until then... total tripe.
Just keep scraping off the layers.
I've noticed a trend in some of the blogs I read lately, a feeling of wanting to change/save/heal the world.
I've always though that sentiment was so very ego-centric.
Like your version of saving/changing/healing is any better than anyone else's, that the world would find your view so incredibly enlightened that everyone would agree that your path/idea/healing was the route for them.
I've never wanted to save the world. I've never thought that my ideas, my personal philosophy, my ethics, were for anyone but myself.
It feels so religious, so personal-crusading, to try or hope to enforce your way of being onto others.
I much more agree with Buddha.
"Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who said it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense."
People who know me, they know I do not discuss politics or religion. My belief system is my own, and what I believe should have no impact on the people around me.
When people come to me for sex and relationship advice, which is quite often, I make a disclaimer for everything I say. My experiences, my temperament, my needs, are not the same as theirs. I offer up opinions with full acknowledgement that they are simply opinions, and that the man or woman with the question should realize this and not take my thoughts as the ultimate truth.
Some people do anyway. But, fortunately, not that often.
As much as it squicks me to say it, I am admired. The way I handle men and sex has often become this glorified focus of whatever social group I am inhabiting, even if people don't always agree with my usual lack of emotional attachment to sex.
But I don't expect anyone else to take on my viewpoints. I don't expect that my idea of healing and personal growth is for anyone but myself.
So odd.
... ... ...
C, one of my couch-hosts, and I went to see a friend's band play last night.
She has a lust-crush on said friend, who I'll call Crosser. He is a good looking man, though his haircut really isn't for me. Too emo. But that's her type, so more power to her.
So we went to the bar where the band was playing, I spent 30 seconds applying make-up (so lazy), she spent about twenty minutes doing up her hair. This is what happens when you get a complicated haircut that involves actual work before going out. She gets all girly-glammed up while I wait.
See, I don't really care. I'm tired. Sure, I know the bar will be packed with good looking guys. Fairly apathetic. I'm not a bar-scene girl, I don't appreciate drinkers at all, and I just really don't see the point. Clubbing, sure. Bar-hopping, no.
We finally get down there, too late to see his band. Whatever. She wanted to see him, not the band. And she does look incredibly cute and stylish. Points for her.
Walk in, pay the door, find Crosser, who chats with us a little before introducing us to his twin brother (who is much more my physical type, oddly), and we all sit down at a tiny table where they're selling merch.
Now, earlier in the day she informed me that she was no longer interested in him because he was too prone to flaking on her and kept sending mixed signals and she decided to just be platonic with him.
But as he kept leaving the table to talk to friends who came out to see the band, her head kept turning to follow him. And when his brother got up, her head kept following him as well. As soon as it was just the two of us, I would have to nudge her to bring it back to the table.
To stop watching.
To stop showing the social undesirability that she was.
I mean, crap, really? This is basic stuff. Be happy on your own, be exciting on your own, keep an animated conversation, bring strangers in from around you, make new friends, laugh, smile, and subtly move the people around you so that you are always the social focus. Even if you aren't the focus, if you position yourself right, you will become the focus. Ask questions, keep people talking, tease and flirt, make the men around you that you aren't even interested in want you, make them fight for your attention.
This is attraction 101. You don't even have to pay for parking.
So I kept trying to bring her back in. Kept trying to get her to stop following them with her eyes like a puppy, nudging her with my knee under the table, asking engaging questions, conversation starters so she would have a chance. She said she had given up, but she obviously hadn't.
Finally, another friend of hers showed up and sat across from us so her body language changed, so she had to look away from the guys so she could see and hear her friend. That worked much better.
It was amusing, though. We were talking about Hackers, he hadn't seen it. Thursdays nights a bunch of us usually get together at C's house and watch crappy movies and eat dinner. So I casually slide into her, not even looking at him, "Oh, we should make Hackers next Thursday's movie!" and she agrees, starts talking about what we'll have for dinner and I'm chatting back with her about my preferences and he's just listening to us with this vaguely questioning look.
"Oh, yeah. A group of us get together on Thursdays. C cooks dinner and we watch bad movies. C's a great cook, we always have a lot of fun. Madness ensues," side-thought, "Oh! Maybe you could come, since you haven't seen it."
Finally C understands. Lights up, offers her address, which he takes.
(Later, by the by, she told me how glad she was that she quick enough on her feet to invite him. She didn't even notice what I was doing.)
Other things happen, I suppose. He suggests we go back to his place after we're done with the bar. I decide to go home instead, give her some time with him without another female about.
It's odd to me, this whole thing. C is a few years older than me. She's had relationships, had boyfriends and girlfriends, had triad relationships, continues to have lovers, but I don't quite get why she doesn't know this basic stuff. I had her read The Game, and she flipped through to what she called the "applicable" parts of The Art of Seduction, so she should have at least an elementary grasp of this stuff.
I get attention easily, when I bother. I've had enough men tell me some version of, "You caught my eye because you just sparkle," or some such descriptor.
It's crowd control.
That's how I got my last boyfriend.
He should have been so much better than he was.
Oh well.
I want to sit down with her and break this stuff down even further, but I really don't know if it will do any good. You have the inclination and the mind, or you don't. I think she's really lacking the inclination... until someone catches her eye.
Girls are strange creatures.
Learn everything you can. If you never use it, at least you know it.
This has become my life, in this weird way.
Last night was seeing a friend's band play at a bar, the night before that, a dinner celebration out at a bar and grill with drag queen performances. The night before, dinner party. The night before, a final, and whatever happened afterwards, I don't remember. It all just blends together and it's hard to keep track of anything past the last three days, max.
Tonight, dinner with friends, then maybe to a small social gathering.
Tomorrow, chiropractor, shopping, touring a friend through LA (downtown/Little Tokyo/Venice Beach/Beverly Hills/Sunset Strip/Hollywood/Amoeba), dinner date, and clubbing, along with various errands jammed in what tiny openings of my schedule they can fit.
Sunday, undecided. Could be another concert. Could stay in bed with GV8 all day again.
I need to get him to set up a soundsystem in his bedroom.
Ah, my favorite dance troupe will be back in town in September. Lovely.
Pointless dribble, how I loathe it. I type until the words I want to say come out. But until then... total tripe.
Just keep scraping off the layers.
I've noticed a trend in some of the blogs I read lately, a feeling of wanting to change/save/heal the world.
I've always though that sentiment was so very ego-centric.
Like your version of saving/changing/healing is any better than anyone else's, that the world would find your view so incredibly enlightened that everyone would agree that your path/idea/healing was the route for them.
I've never wanted to save the world. I've never thought that my ideas, my personal philosophy, my ethics, were for anyone but myself.
It feels so religious, so personal-crusading, to try or hope to enforce your way of being onto others.
I much more agree with Buddha.
"Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who said it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense."
People who know me, they know I do not discuss politics or religion. My belief system is my own, and what I believe should have no impact on the people around me.
When people come to me for sex and relationship advice, which is quite often, I make a disclaimer for everything I say. My experiences, my temperament, my needs, are not the same as theirs. I offer up opinions with full acknowledgement that they are simply opinions, and that the man or woman with the question should realize this and not take my thoughts as the ultimate truth.
Some people do anyway. But, fortunately, not that often.
As much as it squicks me to say it, I am admired. The way I handle men and sex has often become this glorified focus of whatever social group I am inhabiting, even if people don't always agree with my usual lack of emotional attachment to sex.
But I don't expect anyone else to take on my viewpoints. I don't expect that my idea of healing and personal growth is for anyone but myself.
So odd.
... ... ...
C, one of my couch-hosts, and I went to see a friend's band play last night.
She has a lust-crush on said friend, who I'll call Crosser. He is a good looking man, though his haircut really isn't for me. Too emo. But that's her type, so more power to her.
So we went to the bar where the band was playing, I spent 30 seconds applying make-up (so lazy), she spent about twenty minutes doing up her hair. This is what happens when you get a complicated haircut that involves actual work before going out. She gets all girly-glammed up while I wait.
See, I don't really care. I'm tired. Sure, I know the bar will be packed with good looking guys. Fairly apathetic. I'm not a bar-scene girl, I don't appreciate drinkers at all, and I just really don't see the point. Clubbing, sure. Bar-hopping, no.
We finally get down there, too late to see his band. Whatever. She wanted to see him, not the band. And she does look incredibly cute and stylish. Points for her.
Walk in, pay the door, find Crosser, who chats with us a little before introducing us to his twin brother (who is much more my physical type, oddly), and we all sit down at a tiny table where they're selling merch.
Now, earlier in the day she informed me that she was no longer interested in him because he was too prone to flaking on her and kept sending mixed signals and she decided to just be platonic with him.
But as he kept leaving the table to talk to friends who came out to see the band, her head kept turning to follow him. And when his brother got up, her head kept following him as well. As soon as it was just the two of us, I would have to nudge her to bring it back to the table.
To stop watching.
To stop showing the social undesirability that she was.
I mean, crap, really? This is basic stuff. Be happy on your own, be exciting on your own, keep an animated conversation, bring strangers in from around you, make new friends, laugh, smile, and subtly move the people around you so that you are always the social focus. Even if you aren't the focus, if you position yourself right, you will become the focus. Ask questions, keep people talking, tease and flirt, make the men around you that you aren't even interested in want you, make them fight for your attention.
This is attraction 101. You don't even have to pay for parking.
So I kept trying to bring her back in. Kept trying to get her to stop following them with her eyes like a puppy, nudging her with my knee under the table, asking engaging questions, conversation starters so she would have a chance. She said she had given up, but she obviously hadn't.
Finally, another friend of hers showed up and sat across from us so her body language changed, so she had to look away from the guys so she could see and hear her friend. That worked much better.
It was amusing, though. We were talking about Hackers, he hadn't seen it. Thursdays nights a bunch of us usually get together at C's house and watch crappy movies and eat dinner. So I casually slide into her, not even looking at him, "Oh, we should make Hackers next Thursday's movie!" and she agrees, starts talking about what we'll have for dinner and I'm chatting back with her about my preferences and he's just listening to us with this vaguely questioning look.
"Oh, yeah. A group of us get together on Thursdays. C cooks dinner and we watch bad movies. C's a great cook, we always have a lot of fun. Madness ensues," side-thought, "Oh! Maybe you could come, since you haven't seen it."
Finally C understands. Lights up, offers her address, which he takes.
(Later, by the by, she told me how glad she was that she quick enough on her feet to invite him. She didn't even notice what I was doing.)
Other things happen, I suppose. He suggests we go back to his place after we're done with the bar. I decide to go home instead, give her some time with him without another female about.
It's odd to me, this whole thing. C is a few years older than me. She's had relationships, had boyfriends and girlfriends, had triad relationships, continues to have lovers, but I don't quite get why she doesn't know this basic stuff. I had her read The Game, and she flipped through to what she called the "applicable" parts of The Art of Seduction, so she should have at least an elementary grasp of this stuff.
I get attention easily, when I bother. I've had enough men tell me some version of, "You caught my eye because you just sparkle," or some such descriptor.
It's crowd control.
That's how I got my last boyfriend.
He should have been so much better than he was.
Oh well.
I want to sit down with her and break this stuff down even further, but I really don't know if it will do any good. You have the inclination and the mind, or you don't. I think she's really lacking the inclination... until someone catches her eye.
Girls are strange creatures.
Learn everything you can. If you never use it, at least you know it.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
To pull myself together...
I have this sort of mental issue with goals.
Throughout my life, whenever I've really, really wanted something, I never get it.
The more I express excitement or joy over a particular possibility, the more I allow my mind to imagine my potential future as impacted by whatever it is I want (a job, a man, a contract, a raise, an item), the less likely that possibility seems to occur.
It's quite frustrating.
So I don't set goals for myself. Not actively.
And I don't let myself daydream about stuff that might at all be possible. I reserve my daydreams for the land of complete fantasy.
It's not that I feel that I don't deserve to be happy.
I am happy most of the time.
It's just that a major part of me feels that my desire for something will, somehow, have a negative correlation with the chances of me getting it.
Like I'm not allowed to have dreams that come true.
For instance, there is a company that I've wanted to work for for years. It's been a dream employer of mine, something I thought I would never get because my lifestyle does not allow for the hours or wages I would receive.
Suddenly, I'm put in the position where I can take the hours, where I can take the minimal paycheck that starting there would entail.
And, on top of that, I'm able to go back to school to get my Master's in the field I actually want to go into, which I wasn't able to do for my BA. This job's hours would complement the hours I would be going to class. This job could keep me employed for the next three years with a stable company that is barely impacted by this recession. I would be working with my kind of people, with people that I've known for years.
And I'd be able to sleep in my own bed during the week, as opposed to the couch-surfing I'm engaging in now which, while I've gotten used to it, leaves me little of the alone time I so desperately crave.
I submitted my resume in early May, through one of their managers.
I have multiple, shining references all over the field, within their own company, and companies that they partner with.
I have years of experience with their products. I speak their language easily.
It's almost mid-June.
This is taking forever.
The more days pass the more I wonder if this is just another one of my dreams. That I hoped too much.
I don't even vocalize my goals to people, for fear that even saying the words aloud will make them not come true, so often has this happened.
I pushed back my school schedule for an entire semester so I could potentially get this job.
Is this going to be the rest of my life? Too afraid to set goals, too afraid to acknowledge and pursue dreams because I've convinced myself over the years that I will fail immediately once they are spoken aloud?
All I've ever wanted to do was make enough money writing so I could travel all over the world and write.
I've always been addicted to stories, following around my grandparents and parents, cousins, aunts and uncles, in-laws and neighbors, harassing them for tales of their youth. I know so much about my family, about what they were like as children, what pets they had, their hare-brained adventures, their traumas, their high school life, their family issues, etc. Even now, I have an ability to somehow make people open their lives to me.
It was pointed out to me that this is because I am so honest and disclose so much of myself, that wakes up things in people that make them want to disclose as well. And then the floodgate bursts open.
My head is a mass of stories.
I wish I could take all the stories I've heard and put them together. I know so many random, interesting people with such colorful histories, and each of them has a tale or twenty that is a moment in time, this perfect snapshot of intense emotion, emotion so overwhelming that there is nothing but honesty, nothing by this pure experience.
I wonder, sometimes, what would happen if I took all my writing from over the years and somehow managed to consolidate it.
That would be converting notes, napkins scribbles, sketchbooks, journals, and class notebooks partially converted to the written word, into text files. That would be bringing together all my old work, scattered across the internet and hidden in various email inboxes, into one location.
My writing is, apparently, nomadic in nature.
We hunt wooly mammoths together, with keyboards for shields and pencils instead of spears.
I am such a dork.
Everyone is a story.
I love to people-watch. I love to find a corner in some horribly crowded area and sit and listen, sit and watch how people interact with each other, wonder about the story behind a well-used hat, faded tattoos, a scar running up someone's forearm. Accents and voice patterns, inside jokes that cause only a few people to laugh and the rest to stare on in confusion.
I approach strangers fairly often. If I can, I get information from them. About them. People like to talk about themselves and I like to listen.
I would rather write about myself, anyway.
The keys beneath my fingers open up more inside me than any conversation could.
Throughout my life, whenever I've really, really wanted something, I never get it.
The more I express excitement or joy over a particular possibility, the more I allow my mind to imagine my potential future as impacted by whatever it is I want (a job, a man, a contract, a raise, an item), the less likely that possibility seems to occur.
It's quite frustrating.
So I don't set goals for myself. Not actively.
And I don't let myself daydream about stuff that might at all be possible. I reserve my daydreams for the land of complete fantasy.
It's not that I feel that I don't deserve to be happy.
I am happy most of the time.
It's just that a major part of me feels that my desire for something will, somehow, have a negative correlation with the chances of me getting it.
Like I'm not allowed to have dreams that come true.
For instance, there is a company that I've wanted to work for for years. It's been a dream employer of mine, something I thought I would never get because my lifestyle does not allow for the hours or wages I would receive.
Suddenly, I'm put in the position where I can take the hours, where I can take the minimal paycheck that starting there would entail.
And, on top of that, I'm able to go back to school to get my Master's in the field I actually want to go into, which I wasn't able to do for my BA. This job's hours would complement the hours I would be going to class. This job could keep me employed for the next three years with a stable company that is barely impacted by this recession. I would be working with my kind of people, with people that I've known for years.
And I'd be able to sleep in my own bed during the week, as opposed to the couch-surfing I'm engaging in now which, while I've gotten used to it, leaves me little of the alone time I so desperately crave.
I submitted my resume in early May, through one of their managers.
I have multiple, shining references all over the field, within their own company, and companies that they partner with.
I have years of experience with their products. I speak their language easily.
It's almost mid-June.
This is taking forever.
The more days pass the more I wonder if this is just another one of my dreams. That I hoped too much.
I don't even vocalize my goals to people, for fear that even saying the words aloud will make them not come true, so often has this happened.
I pushed back my school schedule for an entire semester so I could potentially get this job.
Is this going to be the rest of my life? Too afraid to set goals, too afraid to acknowledge and pursue dreams because I've convinced myself over the years that I will fail immediately once they are spoken aloud?
All I've ever wanted to do was make enough money writing so I could travel all over the world and write.
I've always been addicted to stories, following around my grandparents and parents, cousins, aunts and uncles, in-laws and neighbors, harassing them for tales of their youth. I know so much about my family, about what they were like as children, what pets they had, their hare-brained adventures, their traumas, their high school life, their family issues, etc. Even now, I have an ability to somehow make people open their lives to me.
It was pointed out to me that this is because I am so honest and disclose so much of myself, that wakes up things in people that make them want to disclose as well. And then the floodgate bursts open.
My head is a mass of stories.
I wish I could take all the stories I've heard and put them together. I know so many random, interesting people with such colorful histories, and each of them has a tale or twenty that is a moment in time, this perfect snapshot of intense emotion, emotion so overwhelming that there is nothing but honesty, nothing by this pure experience.
I wonder, sometimes, what would happen if I took all my writing from over the years and somehow managed to consolidate it.
That would be converting notes, napkins scribbles, sketchbooks, journals, and class notebooks partially converted to the written word, into text files. That would be bringing together all my old work, scattered across the internet and hidden in various email inboxes, into one location.
My writing is, apparently, nomadic in nature.
We hunt wooly mammoths together, with keyboards for shields and pencils instead of spears.
I am such a dork.
Everyone is a story.
I love to people-watch. I love to find a corner in some horribly crowded area and sit and listen, sit and watch how people interact with each other, wonder about the story behind a well-used hat, faded tattoos, a scar running up someone's forearm. Accents and voice patterns, inside jokes that cause only a few people to laugh and the rest to stare on in confusion.
I approach strangers fairly often. If I can, I get information from them. About them. People like to talk about themselves and I like to listen.
I would rather write about myself, anyway.
The keys beneath my fingers open up more inside me than any conversation could.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
A mother's son has left me sheer
I've got this kinda backed-up feeling, like a blockage in my brain.
Makes me not want to write right now... but that's probably a sign of needing to.
Any excuse to write, I suppose.
The Artesia house, my Wednesday couch, home to my long-time friend, her husband, and their four-year-old girl, home to the long dark purple curtains, the white and beige long-haired cats and the huge flat-panel television that I love to spend time in front of surfing Netflix on Demand... well, that has come into this odd state of being.
She left him.
She finally left him.
After so many years of unhappiness and frustration, she ended it.
I was thrilled and scared for her. The upheaval of divorce, of child-custody, of dividing up belongings and bank accounts, it's going to be so much work.
But she has a shot at happiness again.
She told me this on the phone last night, when I was driving down to Long Beach. We were both on our way to individual evening activities, so it was kept brief, she told me that she would let me know the rest of the details at lunch the next day. Our offices are near each other, so we meet up every week and regale each other with our very different adventures.
We met up today, at the usual coffee shop, her with a coworker in tow. Dominant male, mid-thirties, ex-Army, divorcee. He's fun, though no where near my type.
They're there before me, as per usual. I come up from behind them and say my hellos, then given her a hug.
"Man," he says to me, "she's been holding out on us. She trumps both of our wild stories with what's been going on with her."
I look at her, "Motorcycle-Blond?"
She grins at me, ducks her head.
"How long?" I ask.
"Since January."
"January??"
She's been cheating on her husband since January. Six months. I had known she was interested in Motorcycle-Blond, had known he returned her interest, but I did not think either of them would be willing to carry on an affair. Neither of them seem the type to enjoy sneaking around.
The smile continues to tease at her lips, but it takes several more seconds for it to bloom.
She's happy. She's excited.
I express my happiness for her, for finally freeing herself of such a toxic relationship and finding another with a man who delights her, a man who supports her. I've met him, I like him... significantly more than I like her husband.
The lunch break is spent focusing on her, directing my body language into a subservient, listening stance, making sure she is always center. She needs this. I usually dominate our lunches, but she is going to be the dominant one this time.
I do not speak my mind.
What am I supposed to say?
That I find the idea of stepping outside of a monogamous relationship that you committed yourself into without your partner's consent extremely distasteful? That to sneak behind your partner's back, no matter how much of a bastard he is, for six months is so very weak. That if you want to end your marriage, you should do so in a direct manner. They both were not happy, they both treated each other with extreme disrespect and I saw this every time I crashed on their couch, and then some.
Their marriage ended last weekend not because of a blow up, not because she sat down and talked to him about how miserable they both were, but because he has suspected her of cheating on him for the last several months (even though she continued to deny it), and, when she was knocked out on pain medications, he went through her cell phone and read her text messages, then called the guy (who was also a friend of his) and told him that he knew exactly what was going on.
Even though he didn't.
Smart man.
So Motorcycle-Blond confessed, my friend's husband confronted her, and she bailed.
There was more to it than that, obviously, but there's the general sum for you.
It bothers me more than I can describe at this moment.
I have a lot of friends through many different social groups. All of them are so very different from each other and from myself. But we all have similiar values. Not the same, but definitely alike enough to function, to get along.
I've been friends with this woman for almost a decade now. She was one of the only people there for me during my wild years, she was the one who helped center me when I became pregnant, hell, she was the one who took me to get the pregnancy test and it was in her bathroom that I learned I had, indeed, been knocked up.
She has always been accepting and encouraging of my lifestyle. She's always been there when I have needed support. When that car rammed into my driver's side going much too fast and I could hardly sit without experiencing pain, she was the one who filled out the insurance claim online while I laid on her bed and dictated to her the information.
She was the one who lent me her truck as often as I wanted so I could move out of my old apartment without the abusive ex noticing.
And when parties at my apartment got out of control and I had to retreat into the bedroom to fight off the anxiety attacks, she was there, talking to me, calming me down, and making sure that any and all vomit was cleaned up.
So I swallow the judgement down. I swallow my values because it is not my place to judge her. I want her to be happy and healthy and she is taking steps to get to that point. They may not be the steps I would've taken, but it isn't my life- it's hers.
Makes me not want to write right now... but that's probably a sign of needing to.
Any excuse to write, I suppose.
The Artesia house, my Wednesday couch, home to my long-time friend, her husband, and their four-year-old girl, home to the long dark purple curtains, the white and beige long-haired cats and the huge flat-panel television that I love to spend time in front of surfing Netflix on Demand... well, that has come into this odd state of being.
She left him.
She finally left him.
After so many years of unhappiness and frustration, she ended it.
I was thrilled and scared for her. The upheaval of divorce, of child-custody, of dividing up belongings and bank accounts, it's going to be so much work.
But she has a shot at happiness again.
She told me this on the phone last night, when I was driving down to Long Beach. We were both on our way to individual evening activities, so it was kept brief, she told me that she would let me know the rest of the details at lunch the next day. Our offices are near each other, so we meet up every week and regale each other with our very different adventures.
We met up today, at the usual coffee shop, her with a coworker in tow. Dominant male, mid-thirties, ex-Army, divorcee. He's fun, though no where near my type.
They're there before me, as per usual. I come up from behind them and say my hellos, then given her a hug.
"Man," he says to me, "she's been holding out on us. She trumps both of our wild stories with what's been going on with her."
I look at her, "Motorcycle-Blond?"
She grins at me, ducks her head.
"How long?" I ask.
"Since January."
"January??"
She's been cheating on her husband since January. Six months. I had known she was interested in Motorcycle-Blond, had known he returned her interest, but I did not think either of them would be willing to carry on an affair. Neither of them seem the type to enjoy sneaking around.
The smile continues to tease at her lips, but it takes several more seconds for it to bloom.
She's happy. She's excited.
I express my happiness for her, for finally freeing herself of such a toxic relationship and finding another with a man who delights her, a man who supports her. I've met him, I like him... significantly more than I like her husband.
The lunch break is spent focusing on her, directing my body language into a subservient, listening stance, making sure she is always center. She needs this. I usually dominate our lunches, but she is going to be the dominant one this time.
I do not speak my mind.
What am I supposed to say?
That I find the idea of stepping outside of a monogamous relationship that you committed yourself into without your partner's consent extremely distasteful? That to sneak behind your partner's back, no matter how much of a bastard he is, for six months is so very weak. That if you want to end your marriage, you should do so in a direct manner. They both were not happy, they both treated each other with extreme disrespect and I saw this every time I crashed on their couch, and then some.
Their marriage ended last weekend not because of a blow up, not because she sat down and talked to him about how miserable they both were, but because he has suspected her of cheating on him for the last several months (even though she continued to deny it), and, when she was knocked out on pain medications, he went through her cell phone and read her text messages, then called the guy (who was also a friend of his) and told him that he knew exactly what was going on.
Even though he didn't.
Smart man.
So Motorcycle-Blond confessed, my friend's husband confronted her, and she bailed.
There was more to it than that, obviously, but there's the general sum for you.
It bothers me more than I can describe at this moment.
I have a lot of friends through many different social groups. All of them are so very different from each other and from myself. But we all have similiar values. Not the same, but definitely alike enough to function, to get along.
I've been friends with this woman for almost a decade now. She was one of the only people there for me during my wild years, she was the one who helped center me when I became pregnant, hell, she was the one who took me to get the pregnancy test and it was in her bathroom that I learned I had, indeed, been knocked up.
She has always been accepting and encouraging of my lifestyle. She's always been there when I have needed support. When that car rammed into my driver's side going much too fast and I could hardly sit without experiencing pain, she was the one who filled out the insurance claim online while I laid on her bed and dictated to her the information.
She was the one who lent me her truck as often as I wanted so I could move out of my old apartment without the abusive ex noticing.
And when parties at my apartment got out of control and I had to retreat into the bedroom to fight off the anxiety attacks, she was there, talking to me, calming me down, and making sure that any and all vomit was cleaned up.
So I swallow the judgement down. I swallow my values because it is not my place to judge her. I want her to be happy and healthy and she is taking steps to get to that point. They may not be the steps I would've taken, but it isn't my life- it's hers.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Slave of sensation...
Yesterday, when I was working, my shoulder muscles were extremely tense and I could not understand what I had done to them, running through the various positions GV8 and I went through over the weekend, none of them required any strenuous shoulder activity. I chalked it up to the general physical exertion of having sex in various locations for hours on end and put it out of my mind, save for the occasional stretch.
I stripped down, that night, in the bathroom. I shower at night because I want to be able to be out of the house within fifteen minutes of waking. I'm not at my best in the morning, so I make sure that anything that requires time, effort, or being fully conscious gets done before bed.
Shoulders still sore, I stretched and rubbed the left while staring into space in front of the mirror. Turning sideways, I check out my tattoo. It's hard not to look at sometimes. It's so very in your face, and I love how it plays down the curves of my waist and hip.
Is that a dark spot on my shoulder?
Leaning forward and dropping my arm, I see perfect purple prints of GV8's teeth over my shoulderblade. I check the other, switching arms, and pull my hair up.
My upper back is covered in bite marks. If he had a smaller mouth, it'd look like I had purple leopard rosettas dancing over my shoulders.
Sunday morning, when I looked up at him braced over me, and told him that I wanted it rough, he shifted speeds so quickly.
Teeth in my back, separating my sore flesh so quickly, driving into me, my hair wrapped around his fist, thrusting his dick into my mouth with rapid repetitions and I have to fight to make sure I don't clip him with my teeth. Lying on my stomach in front of him, knees bent, ankles in the air with his hands wrapped around them as he uses them in anchor me for the right angle with my arms stretched out in front of me, fingers digging into the mattress to keep from letting the force of his thrusts slide me away from him. Light is leaking inside in lines from the living room, around the door's exterior. There's no sense of time. There never is, here.
The paneling of the walls fascinates me, the graffiti spread across them in neon greens, dull yellows, and muted purples.
I've shacked up with an ex-gangster, an ex-con. His history makes me feel safe.
It's hard for me to feel safe.
The headlights on the freeway, lighting the asphalt we tracked over, white dashed lines our companion at 4AM, non-existant stars covered by clouds and music hovering in the back of my brain, curled up in his passenger seat, my hand on his forearm, heat on my fingertips, in my palm, radiating from him as he drives us home.
Safe.
I never expected to feel that way again.
I stripped down, that night, in the bathroom. I shower at night because I want to be able to be out of the house within fifteen minutes of waking. I'm not at my best in the morning, so I make sure that anything that requires time, effort, or being fully conscious gets done before bed.
Shoulders still sore, I stretched and rubbed the left while staring into space in front of the mirror. Turning sideways, I check out my tattoo. It's hard not to look at sometimes. It's so very in your face, and I love how it plays down the curves of my waist and hip.
Is that a dark spot on my shoulder?
Leaning forward and dropping my arm, I see perfect purple prints of GV8's teeth over my shoulderblade. I check the other, switching arms, and pull my hair up.
My upper back is covered in bite marks. If he had a smaller mouth, it'd look like I had purple leopard rosettas dancing over my shoulders.
Sunday morning, when I looked up at him braced over me, and told him that I wanted it rough, he shifted speeds so quickly.
Teeth in my back, separating my sore flesh so quickly, driving into me, my hair wrapped around his fist, thrusting his dick into my mouth with rapid repetitions and I have to fight to make sure I don't clip him with my teeth. Lying on my stomach in front of him, knees bent, ankles in the air with his hands wrapped around them as he uses them in anchor me for the right angle with my arms stretched out in front of me, fingers digging into the mattress to keep from letting the force of his thrusts slide me away from him. Light is leaking inside in lines from the living room, around the door's exterior. There's no sense of time. There never is, here.
The paneling of the walls fascinates me, the graffiti spread across them in neon greens, dull yellows, and muted purples.
I've shacked up with an ex-gangster, an ex-con. His history makes me feel safe.
It's hard for me to feel safe.
The headlights on the freeway, lighting the asphalt we tracked over, white dashed lines our companion at 4AM, non-existant stars covered by clouds and music hovering in the back of my brain, curled up in his passenger seat, my hand on his forearm, heat on my fingertips, in my palm, radiating from him as he drives us home.
Safe.
I never expected to feel that way again.
Monday, June 8, 2009
How can it feel this wrong?
I'm feeling a bit better.
The shower helped some. Dinner with one of my friends after finishing part one of my final, which did not go poorly at all, was also good.
I tend to keep girls away from me.
They don't get me, I don't get them. We just end up staring at each other, like two different species meeting in the savannah, trying to figure out what the other one is doing, what the other one plans on doing.
While the majority of my friends are male, I do have some female friends, other odd ducks. Odd in different ways, but still odd. I'm not sure what puts us in this outside "other" category, but there is almost a tangible wall there, at least for me.
C, she thinks my misogyny is amusingly offensive. And it is. I stereotype women horribly. It's a combination of insecurity from various sources and a lifelong frustration at having to deal with indirect communication being the only form of communication acceptable to women.
I get irritated when people are unable or unwilling to speak their minds.
And my own education as a white, American, upper-middle class female in southern California has been quite lacking, as I surrounded myself with boys my entire childhood, to the present.
Men are more fun, harder to offend, easier to understand. They get my sexuality, I get theirs, everyone's happy and enjoying themselves. I've always been one of the boys, work in a male-dominated industry in generally male-occupied positions.
I acted in a secretary-type role once, for a few months. It was a temporary job I was doing for a friend, setting up their company, taking care of the legal crap, setting up the accounting, pulling together a cutsomer database and moving the office into a larger location. Once I finished putting everything together, I got so bored that I ended up quitting for an incredibly fast-paced job at another office that I quickly took over.
I can't imagine being considered feminine in any regard. Yes, I have the curves, I have the body.
I just don't have the mind. Which translates to body language, so if I'm not purposefully acting feminine, I'm obviously not. Yes, it'd be nice to be able to switch back and forth easily, and I do... I'm just not as comfortable in the female role as I'd like to be. It's a goal. I know I can pull it off, and I do when necessary, but I don't have that polish that comes with the internal knowledge that I am feminine, that I belong in these dresses, these heels, this make-up.
Hm, reading over this, I'm getting to what I want to get to fast enough, it's not coming up.
And that's why I write.
I write constantly. It's become a compulsion over the last few months, but I've always written. I keep multiple blogs, as well as a paper journal for when I can't get to a computer. Sometimes, especially of late, I'll get into bed, snuggle into my pillow, and... get back up after ten minutes because I've thought of something that needs to be typed out and then I end up sitting in the office at 1AM on a worknight, trying to get everything taken care of so I can finally go back to bed.
It's been a bit weird.
Anyhow, I was surfing around various blogs and I found someone listing off... something. I don't remember what.
And, on that list, it said:
-Girls are boring.
I looked at that line, blinked, and found myself in this odd position of agreeing and wondering how much of that agreement was due to actual experience or insecurity born of never fitting in with "the girls". Mocking them because of disliking myself for never living up to their standards, never wearing the right clothes, owning the right purse, doing the right hairstyle, listening to the right bands, etc.
My relationships with women either go perfectly well or are abysmal failures. More the former, these days, as I expand my circles into female groups and try to get over this internal wall, built of insecurities and ignorance.
I'm working on it. It's getting there.
The shower helped some. Dinner with one of my friends after finishing part one of my final, which did not go poorly at all, was also good.
I tend to keep girls away from me.
They don't get me, I don't get them. We just end up staring at each other, like two different species meeting in the savannah, trying to figure out what the other one is doing, what the other one plans on doing.
While the majority of my friends are male, I do have some female friends, other odd ducks. Odd in different ways, but still odd. I'm not sure what puts us in this outside "other" category, but there is almost a tangible wall there, at least for me.
C, she thinks my misogyny is amusingly offensive. And it is. I stereotype women horribly. It's a combination of insecurity from various sources and a lifelong frustration at having to deal with indirect communication being the only form of communication acceptable to women.
I get irritated when people are unable or unwilling to speak their minds.
And my own education as a white, American, upper-middle class female in southern California has been quite lacking, as I surrounded myself with boys my entire childhood, to the present.
Men are more fun, harder to offend, easier to understand. They get my sexuality, I get theirs, everyone's happy and enjoying themselves. I've always been one of the boys, work in a male-dominated industry in generally male-occupied positions.
I acted in a secretary-type role once, for a few months. It was a temporary job I was doing for a friend, setting up their company, taking care of the legal crap, setting up the accounting, pulling together a cutsomer database and moving the office into a larger location. Once I finished putting everything together, I got so bored that I ended up quitting for an incredibly fast-paced job at another office that I quickly took over.
I can't imagine being considered feminine in any regard. Yes, I have the curves, I have the body.
I just don't have the mind. Which translates to body language, so if I'm not purposefully acting feminine, I'm obviously not. Yes, it'd be nice to be able to switch back and forth easily, and I do... I'm just not as comfortable in the female role as I'd like to be. It's a goal. I know I can pull it off, and I do when necessary, but I don't have that polish that comes with the internal knowledge that I am feminine, that I belong in these dresses, these heels, this make-up.
Hm, reading over this, I'm getting to what I want to get to fast enough, it's not coming up.
And that's why I write.
I write constantly. It's become a compulsion over the last few months, but I've always written. I keep multiple blogs, as well as a paper journal for when I can't get to a computer. Sometimes, especially of late, I'll get into bed, snuggle into my pillow, and... get back up after ten minutes because I've thought of something that needs to be typed out and then I end up sitting in the office at 1AM on a worknight, trying to get everything taken care of so I can finally go back to bed.
It's been a bit weird.
Anyhow, I was surfing around various blogs and I found someone listing off... something. I don't remember what.
And, on that list, it said:
-Girls are boring.
I looked at that line, blinked, and found myself in this odd position of agreeing and wondering how much of that agreement was due to actual experience or insecurity born of never fitting in with "the girls". Mocking them because of disliking myself for never living up to their standards, never wearing the right clothes, owning the right purse, doing the right hairstyle, listening to the right bands, etc.
My relationships with women either go perfectly well or are abysmal failures. More the former, these days, as I expand my circles into female groups and try to get over this internal wall, built of insecurities and ignorance.
I'm working on it. It's getting there.
Free as a bird, in a cage...
Writing that last post... I now just want to go to the beach and scream into the wind and waves until I exhaust myself.
I have so many screams trapped in me.
I have so many screams trapped in me.
And it all comes back to you...
Like most young girls, I idolized my father. He was my hero. He could kick anyone's ass. He was smarter than everyone, better than everyone, funnier than everyone. He could protect me from anything.
But he had a temper. A major temper.
It wasn't that he was angry all the time.
It was that, sometimes, he'd get on edge. And the littlest thing that would not have bothered him an hour before would send him into an explosive rage that he could not contain, that he had no control over, and he would not hold himself back, no matter who he was laying into.
When I was younger, it was my mom, and occasionally, myself.
I realized what he was doing when I was about 9 or 10.
I love my mother.
So, whenever he would get near to blowing up, I would provoke him.
I remember too well, huddling in a bathtub with my sister in some hotel out in the desert, listening to him scream at her in the other room, ripping into her before leaving her sobbing while he drove off into the night with no word as to where he was going.
It had been my fault because I wanted to eat off of the adult menu at the restaurant we went to for dinner because I was really hungry and none of the kids meals looked good. He told me that last time I tried to eat off of the adult menu, I didn't finish my meal, so I would not be allowed to waste money again by ordering more food than I could eat.
My mother stood up for me, saying that we were on vacation and that I'd eaten off of the adult menu a lot and it was only that one time I did not finish my meal.
For some reason, this sent him over the edge.
We did not get dinner.
He flipped out and dragged us out of the restaurant, my little sister totally distraught.
Back to the hotel room, where the only thing I could do was hide with my sister in the bathroom and attempt to keep her calm, entertain her with stories and make a bed in the tub out of towels so she could sleep (if the yelling didn't keep her up) if they went on through the night.
I might have been nine or ten, placing her at four or five.
She still remembers me making us that bed in the tub out of the hotel towels.
After that, I took the attacks for my mother. I never wanted to see her hurt like that again.
Throw yourself on top of the bomb.
And he was a bomb.
Sometimes, a year would go by with no incident.
Sometimes, he'd explode every few months.
Sometimes, there would be build up, we'd know and walk around the house like silent ghosts when he came home, making sure everything was clean and nothing was in his way, bolting off the couch when he opened the front door so he would not see us in his spot.
Sometimes, we'd be having a family meal, laughing and joking like normal, and someone would make another joke about nothing in particular and he would attack. Wild dog.
But he was still my father, still my hero, still protector, still would stop anything from harming me.
Aside from himself.
When I hit fifth grade, it became apparent that I had inherited my family's chronic depression. This is something I've had to battle with my entire life and have coped with it better than any of my other extended family members. Unlike everyone else, it came with a healthy dose of social anxiety, though I'm begining to think that was nutured into me, rather than a genetic predisposition.
Therapy ensued, but nothing was truly helping.
Junior high came and went, me coming home in tears constantly.
I do not remember if it was my freshman year of high school or my last year in junior high, but my mother encouraged me to talk to my father about his experiences with depression, about how it affected his life, about how he dealt with it, and about how it made me feel.
We went on a father-daughter day. Minature golfing and arcade games with pizza, then to Fry's for a quick errand. I remember walking towards the store, finally able to open up and pour out how miserable I was, how everything made me feel so bad all the time, how numb I felt the rest of the time, my tendencies towards self-destructive actions in order to combat the internal numbness and disconnect.
He listened and talked, and I felt so much better afterwards, that I finally had a confidant that would understand me, someone I loved so dearly, who I thought so well of.
It was a wonderful day. We became closer than ever.
A month later, something set him off.
I took the bullet, as was habit, leaping in front of my mother, distraction. Because I fight back. I argue, I become cheeky and sarcastic. I make sure that no one else is going to catch the schrapnel. Focus on me.
He did.
Everything my naive and trusting twelve-year-old self had told him the month prior was ripped apart in front of my mother. Every weakness exposed, every flaw in my character laid open as he tore me to shreds like a rabid animal.
Heh, I'm almost crying right now.
It was a defining moment for me, as much as I would like it not to be.
I remember us, standing the the entry way by the stairs, chandelier above us, my mother following just a few steps behind, but too scared to stop him.
She didn't start standing up to him until very recently. She has always been too afraid.
I try not to hold it against her. I voluntarily took the position of shield and punching bag after all.
It was a devasting day. We were split from each other and, thirteen years later, that rift has yet to heal.
And it's hard to think of all of the ways this has echoed through my life. Overwhelming, almost, in how many areas I have been impacted.
But part of this blog is for accounting.
I was twelve, maybe thirteen. Maybe.
Transitioning from junior high to high school. Hitting puberty. Going from one hell to another. Therapy, eventually my parents giving up on that ever solving the problem and trying a few different prescriptions until my brain chemistry meshed with one enough to pull me out of the pit and get to functionality, to stop being in this sad pit all the time.
I did not get along with my classmates. Through high school, I can honestly say that while I occasionally hung out on the outskirts of social groups as the whipping dog and scapegoat, I only had one actual friend. Sexual harassment became the norm. I did not realize my figure at the time, wishing so much to be one of those whippet thin beauties that reigned over the school, instead of being all curves.
I'm sidetracking myself.
Pull it back.
My relationship with my father was never the same. I never trusted him again. We no longer did father-daughter days, or went on walks in the morning. I spent all of my free time at home on the computer, writing or playing video games. I would write and write and write, up all the time, listening to the few CDs I had over and over, creating so many stories. I did not switch into non-fiction accounts of my life and mind until several years later.
I lived in my room. During summers, I would walk down to Borders, less than a mile away from my house, in the blazing heat, and read comics and fantasy novels all day, occasionally getting ice cream at a Rite Aid that has since shut down.
I started walking the neighborhood dogs during my sophmore year. I'd be all over the community we lived in, dragging or being dragged by anywhere from one to seven dogs at a time. And when I got home, if my father was there, I would retreat back into my room.
I was never lonely.
My parents found it so very odd that I was constantly going off by myself, never cared if I was with other people.
Again, more distraction, more sidetracking.
When he did that, I think he created a fear that never left me. Not just of him, but of people in general. That the most kind, loving, protective and intelligent people could, without provocation, turn into thoughtless and uncontrolled rampaging beasts. That no matter how well I thought of a person, no matter how controlled they were, they could be become nothing but a being of rage and any relationship we might have shared would be reduced to less than nothing in their eyes as they set out to destroy me because of a perceived slight.
Which, quite possibly, is why I am so focused on control, and so desiring of it in a partner, and why I look down on people who are lacking in control over their emotions, who are unaware of themselves, their needs, their issues, the things that push them over the edge.
If you can't monitor yourself, if you can't realize when you're about to break... it scares me. People like that frighten the hell of out me.
When I was about 19, I was at a party. Two people went out to the front of the place and, as a silly gag, I sat behind the door so they could not get back in. One of the two guys that went outside was a man who had been interested in me, who was slowly trying to convince me to be his lover. When he found that he could not get back inside, even though there was no rush, and I did not move immediately, he completely lost it. Screaming and yelling, he threw himself against the door repeatedly. I thought he was joking, because who flips out about not being able to get inside someone else's house?
He wasn't. He continued to ram the door until the force he was exerting swung it open and crushed me against the wall. I tried to escape from behind it, but so great was his rage he decided to continuously slam the door into me, not letting me out.
Once he calmed down, and I retreated as far away from him as I could, he proceeded to blame me for his reaction, and then inquired if I was still coming over to his place after the party.
I left.
I never went back to that social group. I never spoke to him again.
He had shown no hint of temper before then. He was always quiet and polite, always gentle and courteous.
That event left me freaked out for months, though I never showed it.
I don't show any "weak" emotions if I can help it. And, again, it probably relates back to showing weakness to my father and then having it used like that against me.
You have to be strong. When a 6'5" man is tearing into you throughout the course of your life, venting his rage that you had no actual source in, you have to learn how to shut off and you have to learn how to protect yourself and the people around you. You have to manage and maintain because if you don't you will be a puddle on the floor.
No freak outs.
No tears of anything but anger.
No weakness.
Fight back.
Show balls.
Draw him in so he doesn't go after your mother and sister.
Adapt to his rage, learn what to do in order to keep control of yourself and him.
Don't rock the boat, just take the blow.
Let him reduce you to rubble because you no that no one else can take it as well as you can.
And when you leave, be prepared for the phone calls. Be prepared because, by protecting them for so many years, you've left them defenseless against him because one never had to learn how to deal and one is out of practice.
When your mother or sister phones you at 11PM, sobbing and needing a place to stay, you shelter them.
And when they just need to cry, you listen and feel frustratingly impotent because there is nothing you can do anymore.
And when your sister finally breaks and you know the boat is about to tip over, that the status quo is going to no longer be maintained, and your mother will be devasted and everyone's lives can change in one evening depending on how you handle the situation and you try so very hard to make sure you do it right, so you can maintain the balance your family has kept for years because the fear of the alternative is so much worse, you drive, you listen, and you betray your sister in the way that you were betrayed so many times as a child.
And then you live with the regret of the fear and the love for your mother and keeping her world together for her.
Because it's what you do.
But he had a temper. A major temper.
It wasn't that he was angry all the time.
It was that, sometimes, he'd get on edge. And the littlest thing that would not have bothered him an hour before would send him into an explosive rage that he could not contain, that he had no control over, and he would not hold himself back, no matter who he was laying into.
When I was younger, it was my mom, and occasionally, myself.
I realized what he was doing when I was about 9 or 10.
I love my mother.
So, whenever he would get near to blowing up, I would provoke him.
I remember too well, huddling in a bathtub with my sister in some hotel out in the desert, listening to him scream at her in the other room, ripping into her before leaving her sobbing while he drove off into the night with no word as to where he was going.
It had been my fault because I wanted to eat off of the adult menu at the restaurant we went to for dinner because I was really hungry and none of the kids meals looked good. He told me that last time I tried to eat off of the adult menu, I didn't finish my meal, so I would not be allowed to waste money again by ordering more food than I could eat.
My mother stood up for me, saying that we were on vacation and that I'd eaten off of the adult menu a lot and it was only that one time I did not finish my meal.
For some reason, this sent him over the edge.
We did not get dinner.
He flipped out and dragged us out of the restaurant, my little sister totally distraught.
Back to the hotel room, where the only thing I could do was hide with my sister in the bathroom and attempt to keep her calm, entertain her with stories and make a bed in the tub out of towels so she could sleep (if the yelling didn't keep her up) if they went on through the night.
I might have been nine or ten, placing her at four or five.
She still remembers me making us that bed in the tub out of the hotel towels.
After that, I took the attacks for my mother. I never wanted to see her hurt like that again.
Throw yourself on top of the bomb.
And he was a bomb.
Sometimes, a year would go by with no incident.
Sometimes, he'd explode every few months.
Sometimes, there would be build up, we'd know and walk around the house like silent ghosts when he came home, making sure everything was clean and nothing was in his way, bolting off the couch when he opened the front door so he would not see us in his spot.
Sometimes, we'd be having a family meal, laughing and joking like normal, and someone would make another joke about nothing in particular and he would attack. Wild dog.
But he was still my father, still my hero, still protector, still would stop anything from harming me.
Aside from himself.
When I hit fifth grade, it became apparent that I had inherited my family's chronic depression. This is something I've had to battle with my entire life and have coped with it better than any of my other extended family members. Unlike everyone else, it came with a healthy dose of social anxiety, though I'm begining to think that was nutured into me, rather than a genetic predisposition.
Therapy ensued, but nothing was truly helping.
Junior high came and went, me coming home in tears constantly.
I do not remember if it was my freshman year of high school or my last year in junior high, but my mother encouraged me to talk to my father about his experiences with depression, about how it affected his life, about how he dealt with it, and about how it made me feel.
We went on a father-daughter day. Minature golfing and arcade games with pizza, then to Fry's for a quick errand. I remember walking towards the store, finally able to open up and pour out how miserable I was, how everything made me feel so bad all the time, how numb I felt the rest of the time, my tendencies towards self-destructive actions in order to combat the internal numbness and disconnect.
He listened and talked, and I felt so much better afterwards, that I finally had a confidant that would understand me, someone I loved so dearly, who I thought so well of.
It was a wonderful day. We became closer than ever.
A month later, something set him off.
I took the bullet, as was habit, leaping in front of my mother, distraction. Because I fight back. I argue, I become cheeky and sarcastic. I make sure that no one else is going to catch the schrapnel. Focus on me.
He did.
Everything my naive and trusting twelve-year-old self had told him the month prior was ripped apart in front of my mother. Every weakness exposed, every flaw in my character laid open as he tore me to shreds like a rabid animal.
Heh, I'm almost crying right now.
It was a defining moment for me, as much as I would like it not to be.
I remember us, standing the the entry way by the stairs, chandelier above us, my mother following just a few steps behind, but too scared to stop him.
She didn't start standing up to him until very recently. She has always been too afraid.
I try not to hold it against her. I voluntarily took the position of shield and punching bag after all.
It was a devasting day. We were split from each other and, thirteen years later, that rift has yet to heal.
And it's hard to think of all of the ways this has echoed through my life. Overwhelming, almost, in how many areas I have been impacted.
But part of this blog is for accounting.
I was twelve, maybe thirteen. Maybe.
Transitioning from junior high to high school. Hitting puberty. Going from one hell to another. Therapy, eventually my parents giving up on that ever solving the problem and trying a few different prescriptions until my brain chemistry meshed with one enough to pull me out of the pit and get to functionality, to stop being in this sad pit all the time.
I did not get along with my classmates. Through high school, I can honestly say that while I occasionally hung out on the outskirts of social groups as the whipping dog and scapegoat, I only had one actual friend. Sexual harassment became the norm. I did not realize my figure at the time, wishing so much to be one of those whippet thin beauties that reigned over the school, instead of being all curves.
I'm sidetracking myself.
Pull it back.
My relationship with my father was never the same. I never trusted him again. We no longer did father-daughter days, or went on walks in the morning. I spent all of my free time at home on the computer, writing or playing video games. I would write and write and write, up all the time, listening to the few CDs I had over and over, creating so many stories. I did not switch into non-fiction accounts of my life and mind until several years later.
I lived in my room. During summers, I would walk down to Borders, less than a mile away from my house, in the blazing heat, and read comics and fantasy novels all day, occasionally getting ice cream at a Rite Aid that has since shut down.
I started walking the neighborhood dogs during my sophmore year. I'd be all over the community we lived in, dragging or being dragged by anywhere from one to seven dogs at a time. And when I got home, if my father was there, I would retreat back into my room.
I was never lonely.
My parents found it so very odd that I was constantly going off by myself, never cared if I was with other people.
Again, more distraction, more sidetracking.
When he did that, I think he created a fear that never left me. Not just of him, but of people in general. That the most kind, loving, protective and intelligent people could, without provocation, turn into thoughtless and uncontrolled rampaging beasts. That no matter how well I thought of a person, no matter how controlled they were, they could be become nothing but a being of rage and any relationship we might have shared would be reduced to less than nothing in their eyes as they set out to destroy me because of a perceived slight.
Which, quite possibly, is why I am so focused on control, and so desiring of it in a partner, and why I look down on people who are lacking in control over their emotions, who are unaware of themselves, their needs, their issues, the things that push them over the edge.
If you can't monitor yourself, if you can't realize when you're about to break... it scares me. People like that frighten the hell of out me.
When I was about 19, I was at a party. Two people went out to the front of the place and, as a silly gag, I sat behind the door so they could not get back in. One of the two guys that went outside was a man who had been interested in me, who was slowly trying to convince me to be his lover. When he found that he could not get back inside, even though there was no rush, and I did not move immediately, he completely lost it. Screaming and yelling, he threw himself against the door repeatedly. I thought he was joking, because who flips out about not being able to get inside someone else's house?
He wasn't. He continued to ram the door until the force he was exerting swung it open and crushed me against the wall. I tried to escape from behind it, but so great was his rage he decided to continuously slam the door into me, not letting me out.
Once he calmed down, and I retreated as far away from him as I could, he proceeded to blame me for his reaction, and then inquired if I was still coming over to his place after the party.
I left.
I never went back to that social group. I never spoke to him again.
He had shown no hint of temper before then. He was always quiet and polite, always gentle and courteous.
That event left me freaked out for months, though I never showed it.
I don't show any "weak" emotions if I can help it. And, again, it probably relates back to showing weakness to my father and then having it used like that against me.
You have to be strong. When a 6'5" man is tearing into you throughout the course of your life, venting his rage that you had no actual source in, you have to learn how to shut off and you have to learn how to protect yourself and the people around you. You have to manage and maintain because if you don't you will be a puddle on the floor.
No freak outs.
No tears of anything but anger.
No weakness.
Fight back.
Show balls.
Draw him in so he doesn't go after your mother and sister.
Adapt to his rage, learn what to do in order to keep control of yourself and him.
Don't rock the boat, just take the blow.
Let him reduce you to rubble because you no that no one else can take it as well as you can.
And when you leave, be prepared for the phone calls. Be prepared because, by protecting them for so many years, you've left them defenseless against him because one never had to learn how to deal and one is out of practice.
When your mother or sister phones you at 11PM, sobbing and needing a place to stay, you shelter them.
And when they just need to cry, you listen and feel frustratingly impotent because there is nothing you can do anymore.
And when your sister finally breaks and you know the boat is about to tip over, that the status quo is going to no longer be maintained, and your mother will be devasted and everyone's lives can change in one evening depending on how you handle the situation and you try so very hard to make sure you do it right, so you can maintain the balance your family has kept for years because the fear of the alternative is so much worse, you drive, you listen, and you betray your sister in the way that you were betrayed so many times as a child.
And then you live with the regret of the fear and the love for your mother and keeping her world together for her.
Because it's what you do.
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