Goddammit I hate memory sometimes.
And everything it leads to. Nostalgia. Reminiscence. A concrete sense of Self. Rambling, confessional blog posts about supposed childhood sexual traumas. And so forth.
After all that, after my whole humiliating confessional frenzy here in my last few posts (holy crap, was that all the way back in February??), I have to admit now that I'm not entirely sure my memory of these early experiences is even correct. And I've wanted to write and post this explanation for a good while now, because those posts are still sitting there on the front page, like a severed head at a dinner party; but I've been alternately too busy, or, mostly, too embarrassed by the whole ordeal to want to return to it. But I can't just leave that shit up there for anyone to read without any context or resolution. I have to put this to bed.
So here's how it all started. I was driving to work that February morning, and there was a discussion on the radio of how children respond to parental abuse. I don't remember what it was exactly, but something they said reminded me of this childhood friend (I'm going to start calling him "Bill" just so that I have a name to refer to him by). I hadn't thought about Bill in many, many years. I remembered some of our experiences together, and I remembered his big, angry father. And that's when I suddenly made the connection and realized, "Oh! Bill was abused by his father!" And everything else just followed from that.
I still believe that to be true; I believe Bill was abused (at least mentally and emotionally, if not physically or sexually) by his father. But the rest of it, I must admit now, I am significantly less sure about. I know that Bill and I "played doctor," but I don't remember all that we did. I don't actually remember how far our sexual play went. And, I am forced to admit to myself and all of you now, I don't actually remember who suggested what. I thought I did at the time, but I've since realized that's not true. It was just too long ago now for me to remember it clearly. It was so long ago that even the things I do remember clearly are suspect. And through my research I discovered that I would be forced to admit something else, something much worse: it is entirely possible that I am the one who abused him.
Reading through literature on the subject, I was surprised to find out that one of the more common, and yet least often discussed, forms of childhood sexual abuse is to simply educate a child about sex too much at too early an age. (It had never even occurred to me before my research that this could possibly be considered a form of abuse.) Sex is one of the most complicated and complex of all human interactions, and a 4 or 5 year-old child is simply too underdeveloped to be able to fully understand it (hell, a lot of adults are too underdeveloped to be able to fully understand it, for that matter); and so therefore giving a child that age too much information on the subject can often lead them to act out behaviors that they are not able to fully understand, process, or deal with in a meaningful way. That's the basic idea.
My mother's policy was that if I was old enough to ask the question, then I was old enough to hear the answer. And she was always very quick to let me know that if I ever had any questions at all, she would do her best to try to answer them truthfully and completely. And she lived by that statement. And I was a very curious boy. I had a lot of questions. And she answered every one she could. So I remember that throughout my childhood, basically until high school, I always knew more about sex (among many other things) than any of my friends or classmates seemed to. I was proud of that, actually. It made me feel grown-up. It made me feel strong. And superior. (Realizing now, as I type this, that this may have something to do with why I value intelligence so highly, in both myself and others.)
But in terms of my memories of my experiences with Bill, that throws everything into a new light. I only actually remember one thing we did that was definitely Bill's idea, and while that was a little dirty, it also wasn't exactly sexual, either (we were naked, but there was no touching); it would fall squarely in the category of "normative childhood sexual play." I don't actually remember what else we may have done, or who might've suggested any of it. But I know that in my memories of all the other boys (and some girls) who came after Bill, I was definitely the aggressor.
The hard part to admit, is that when I suddenly realized that morning that Bill had been abused by his father, I didn't then "realize" that he had actually been acting out his abuse on me, as I originally wrote. No, the truth was that I actually just assumed that was the case, and didn't recognize that I was making an assumption. "OMG, Bill was abused by his father! What do abused children do? They act out that same abuse on others. He must've been doing that to me when we played doctor! So that's why I then went on to do it others; I was acting out his abuse on me! That's where it all started! It makes perfect sense." And it does make perfect sense. But that doesn't automatically make it true, either.
I still don't know what happened back then, and I probably never will. But I have to admit that the much more likely scenario seems to be that I was actually a victim of childhood sexual abuse, but the abuser was my mother, not Bill. And it seems much more likely that I was acting out my abuse on him (and all the other boys and girls that came after him) rather than the other way around.
Bill moved away before we even hit puberty. I haven't seen or heard from him since I was a child. I have no idea what his life has been like.
If you're still out there, "Bill," I hope you're okay. And if you're not... all I can say is, I'm so, so sorry.
It wasn't my fault. I was only a child.
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Apparent Exaggerations...
Still need more time to write out the full story/explanation, but I did learn something that requires an immediate update.
I knew that the language I used yesterday didn't feel quite right. It seemed inflammatory, and loaded with a ton of connotations that were not actually part of the experience I was trying to communicate. But what other language was I supposed to use? How else was I supposed to describe it?
Well, finally getting around last night to doing some very preliminary research into the topic of child-on-child sexual abuse, revealed the rather obvious fact that I'm not the only person in the world who has ever had experiences like these, and that as such, there is already a whole lexicon available to me to describe it, if I had only bothered to look.
I learned right off the bat that I was not, in fact, molested. I was not abused. What happened to me would be characterized as "Normative Childhood Sexual Play," even if it was a little more advanced than most. The difference being, I was never coerced, or threatened, or manipulated, or made to do anything I didn't want to do. All this friend of mine did was suggest the ideas; I went along with them willingly, even excitedly. And I enjoyed them completely, to the point that I then went on to suggest them to all my other friends for the next 20 years.
What I went through was a normal part of growing up that pretty much everyone goes through at some point. The big difference for me, was that it happened to me about 10 years earlier than the average. I was regularly having sex in elementary school, and I was having the kind of sex that most other people don't even know about, much less start trying to engage in, until middle school or high school. (Oddly, I steadfastly maintained my virginity, however technical, until I was much older; I think having so much sex as a child made my virginity seem more precious to me somehow, and I was determined to save it until I found someone I really loved.)
I still think my friend was abused, though. It's the only explanation I have right now for how he could be so sexually aggressive, and adventurous, and knowledgeable, at such a young age. And so it's still possible that, from his point of view, he was acting out from his history of abuse. But whether he was attempting to abuse me or not (who knows how he would've responded if I'd said no), I wasn't abused. I went willingly, and loved every minute of it.
And while I feel a lot better now, knowing that I don't actually have to wear the "childhood sexual abuse victim" label for the rest of my life, there's still a lot left here that I need to unpack. I'm still not sure what all this means, or what I'm supposed to do with this new information.
I knew that the language I used yesterday didn't feel quite right. It seemed inflammatory, and loaded with a ton of connotations that were not actually part of the experience I was trying to communicate. But what other language was I supposed to use? How else was I supposed to describe it?
Well, finally getting around last night to doing some very preliminary research into the topic of child-on-child sexual abuse, revealed the rather obvious fact that I'm not the only person in the world who has ever had experiences like these, and that as such, there is already a whole lexicon available to me to describe it, if I had only bothered to look.
I learned right off the bat that I was not, in fact, molested. I was not abused. What happened to me would be characterized as "Normative Childhood Sexual Play," even if it was a little more advanced than most. The difference being, I was never coerced, or threatened, or manipulated, or made to do anything I didn't want to do. All this friend of mine did was suggest the ideas; I went along with them willingly, even excitedly. And I enjoyed them completely, to the point that I then went on to suggest them to all my other friends for the next 20 years.
What I went through was a normal part of growing up that pretty much everyone goes through at some point. The big difference for me, was that it happened to me about 10 years earlier than the average. I was regularly having sex in elementary school, and I was having the kind of sex that most other people don't even know about, much less start trying to engage in, until middle school or high school. (Oddly, I steadfastly maintained my virginity, however technical, until I was much older; I think having so much sex as a child made my virginity seem more precious to me somehow, and I was determined to save it until I found someone I really loved.)
I still think my friend was abused, though. It's the only explanation I have right now for how he could be so sexually aggressive, and adventurous, and knowledgeable, at such a young age. And so it's still possible that, from his point of view, he was acting out from his history of abuse. But whether he was attempting to abuse me or not (who knows how he would've responded if I'd said no), I wasn't abused. I went willingly, and loved every minute of it.
And while I feel a lot better now, knowing that I don't actually have to wear the "childhood sexual abuse victim" label for the rest of my life, there's still a lot left here that I need to unpack. I'm still not sure what all this means, or what I'm supposed to do with this new information.
Monday, February 9, 2015
We Are What We Remember We Are...
I realized this morning, that I was - rather technically, I must caveat - molested by one of my very first childhood friends. And that this series of events was directly responsible for shaping a very large portion of my personality; of who I still am today.
I'm honestly not sure how I feel about this. There's way too much story there to be able to tell it all right now. But I had to at least get this much, the realization of it, the acknowledgment of it, out of me and into existence, before I forgot it again, or subsumed it in some other way.
I feel like I'm supposed to be upset about this. But I don't think I feel particularly upset about it, at least not yet. (There is a small part of me, however, that is upset at myself for not being upset about it, for whatever that's worth.) I'd always remembered - and still remember - our "playing doctor" as being entirely consensual. (As much as it could be, at least. We were about the same age at the time, so technically, legally, neither of us could consent; but we were also the only ones involved. So how does that work?) So, I've never felt - and still don't feel - victimized in any way. I feel no enmity or ill-will towards this individual, and never have. And the parts of my Self that I can now suddenly attribute to my early friendship with this person (at least, the ones I know about) are not things that I've ever felt particularly bad about or wished to be different. Nor have I ever felt a need to investigate their root, or determine their origin.
Which I guess is part of why it feels so strange to suddenly know where they all come from. I received an answer to an absolutely massive question, before I had ever even asked it in the first place. There's an almost vertigo to it; the sensation of it makes you dizzy. A memory you've had for almost 40 years, and suddenly, from out of nowhere and apropos of nothing, one tiny little detail you'd left behind somewhere along the way comes back into focus; and it fits like a keystone into place with all the other memories it connects to: that time, that place, those people; filling in a hole you never knew was there; and now you see it all so clearly, understanding it all for the very first time, after 40 years; and that realization leads to another, which leads to another, cascading down through your history like a line of dominoes, until suddenly four decades of Self have been re-written. You understand yourself now in a new, better, more complete way, a more whole way, than you ever have before. But you also know now, that you're not who you thought you were; and you never have been. So, then, who are you?
That's kind of a lot to handle when it all hits you in a matter of seconds while you're driving down the highway late to work on a Monday morning.
So, yeah. This one's gonna take a while to unpack, I guess.
I'm honestly not sure how I feel about this. There's way too much story there to be able to tell it all right now. But I had to at least get this much, the realization of it, the acknowledgment of it, out of me and into existence, before I forgot it again, or subsumed it in some other way.
I feel like I'm supposed to be upset about this. But I don't think I feel particularly upset about it, at least not yet. (There is a small part of me, however, that is upset at myself for not being upset about it, for whatever that's worth.) I'd always remembered - and still remember - our "playing doctor" as being entirely consensual. (As much as it could be, at least. We were about the same age at the time, so technically, legally, neither of us could consent; but we were also the only ones involved. So how does that work?) So, I've never felt - and still don't feel - victimized in any way. I feel no enmity or ill-will towards this individual, and never have. And the parts of my Self that I can now suddenly attribute to my early friendship with this person (at least, the ones I know about) are not things that I've ever felt particularly bad about or wished to be different. Nor have I ever felt a need to investigate their root, or determine their origin.
Which I guess is part of why it feels so strange to suddenly know where they all come from. I received an answer to an absolutely massive question, before I had ever even asked it in the first place. There's an almost vertigo to it; the sensation of it makes you dizzy. A memory you've had for almost 40 years, and suddenly, from out of nowhere and apropos of nothing, one tiny little detail you'd left behind somewhere along the way comes back into focus; and it fits like a keystone into place with all the other memories it connects to: that time, that place, those people; filling in a hole you never knew was there; and now you see it all so clearly, understanding it all for the very first time, after 40 years; and that realization leads to another, which leads to another, cascading down through your history like a line of dominoes, until suddenly four decades of Self have been re-written. You understand yourself now in a new, better, more complete way, a more whole way, than you ever have before. But you also know now, that you're not who you thought you were; and you never have been. So, then, who are you?
That's kind of a lot to handle when it all hits you in a matter of seconds while you're driving down the highway late to work on a Monday morning.
So, yeah. This one's gonna take a while to unpack, I guess.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Subjugation For Spring...
it's all about sex
really
it's always about sex
no matter what else is between us
no matter what our hearts are telling us
what always brings me back
in the end
is the sex
we wrap it up in layers
of beautiful poetry
romantic ideals
but the heart is fickle
and fluid
it waxes and wanes and
wanders and wonders
while the body is constant
consistent
and so simple
the flesh Wants
nothing more
and so in the end
that is all that matters
we wrap it up in layers
of beautiful poetry
romantic ideals
but the heart is fickle
and fluid
it waxes and wanes and
wanders and wonders
while the body is constant
consistent
and so simple
the flesh Wants
nothing more
and so in the end
that is all that matters
that I see you every day
every night
can't escape it
even if I really wanted to
can't escape it
even if I really wanted to
maybe it's the curve
of a hip
suddenly exposed
when your pants slip a little too low
maybe it's the sway
of a heavy breast
unconstrained
beneath your loose top
maybe it's the conspicuous
delicious
surreptitious sighting
delicious
surreptitious sighting
of a hard nipple
or two
pressing through
your too-thin tee-shirt
maybe it's all your cute
underwear
hanging up to dry
maybe I glimpse you
getting out of the shower
or catch sight of you
getting changed
or you're sleeping nude
above the covers
in the warm still night
I try to avoid it
I try not to see
but you're all around me
I try not to notice
or let myself care
but I can feel your heat
next to me
in our bed
next to me
in our bed
and I want so badly
to warm myself in you
to bathe in you
to luxuriate in you
lingering everywhere
to bathe in you
to luxuriate in you
lingering everywhere
your every curve pulls at me
your body's gravity
drawing me in
ignoring my will
tying me around your waist
to dangle and sway
against your flesh
forever
yours
all ways
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Coming Home Again...
That sound
that instantly unforgettable sound
so alien in this setting
the garden in front of my home
but absolutely unmistakable
like hooks in my ears
pulling me toward it
no resistance
couldn't if I tried
half grunt
half moan
all hot need
rhythmic
repetitive
Uhh... uhh... uhhhh!
warm Spring day
one of the first of the season
her windows open
she doesn't care
or maybe she likes knowing
her naked lust echoes across the courtyard
for anyone to hear
oh, gods the things she is saying!
screaming out her climax
crying out for his
telling him where she wants it
telling him where to put it
I'm suddenly dizzy
losing my grip on the earth
heart racing too fast
palms beginning to sweat
mouth going dry
overwhelmed
overcome
pummeled by emotions from every direction at once
lust of the voyeur certainly
but also anxiety
this is wrong
and fear
what if someone sees me
and shame
and guilt
And jealousy
and sadness
I wish I could have what she has
I wish I could be him
and I know that will never happen
not for me
not anymore
those days are long dead
cold ash in the ground
As her hot screams
soften to moist sighs
and my lust sours into grief
the hooks evaporate
forgotten
and I turn my back to the strangers' intimate sounds
and crawl home
Monday, January 21, 2013
Here Come The Bastards...
I am burdened today by a most rare and unusual problem: an over-abundance of subjects to write about.
I want to write about a party I went to on Friday night. It was my friend's 40th birthday party, and it seemed that all of my oldest friends were there. These are the people I would consider my best friends, and yet this was the first time in three years or more that I was seeing most of them. Being surrounded by so many friends, and being confronted, viscerally, with just how long it had actually been since I'd last seen them, brought up a lot of different feelings. And for a lot of other reasons, as well, this party ended up being very overwhelming to me. I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about that evening, and the various things that happened there; almost too many to handle. So, as much as I know this is something I should write about, and as much as I want to write about it, I don't think I'm ready yet. I know that I thought and felt a lot about the experience, but I haven't been able to process it enough to know exactly what I thought or felt; to be able to say "I felt this" or "I thought that." So I think I need to give that some time to sink in and settle, and figure out exactly what it is that I need to say. It was just a lot to happen all at once, and I need to some time to figure out what to make of it.
So, instead, I'm going to write about something that happened to me at work today that pissed me off.
Our company's servers have a firewall that blocks access from the network to sites that are known to harbor potentially harmful code such as spyware or viruses. That seems like a completely reasonable business decision to me, and I completely understand. I always get a little twinge of guilt/shame/remorse whenever I click on a link and get the message from our server that the page I am trying to view is blocked by our firewall because it is a known malware site.
I have several webcomics that I read most days during my lunch break. Two of these webcomics sometimes show explicit sex. And today, when I went to read those comics, I received the message from our server saying that they were blocked. But not because they were malware sites. The message said that these sites had been blocked because they were pornographic.
This marks a significant change in the way our company monitors and polices our online behavior. Up to now, it has been solely about protecting our company's network infrastructure. But now, apparently, they have decided to start policing our morality, as well.
What pisses me off about this, is that I've never considered either of these sites to be pornographic. Yes, they both show explicit sex, but I don't think that automatically makes them porn. Porn is solely about explicit sex. Its one and only purpose is to sexually arouse. And clearly, these webcomics are not trying to do that. Or, at least, they are about more than that. One of them is a humor comic, making fun of nerd-culture, fantasy-tropes, and sexuality. I've never been aroused by it, nor have I ever read it because it is dirty; I read it because it is funny. (It is hilarious, in point of fact.) And the other comic is a love story; very sweet and romantic, and also strange and psychedelic. It publishes one page a week, and every once in a while (we're talking maybe every twenty pages or so) there will be a sex scene. And while the sex is definitely explicit, it is still portrayed in the sweet, romantic style, a world away from anything that could be considered "hardcore porn."
Let me illustrate my point. Imagine a movie - your typical, cliché of a sappy romantic-drama. Now imagine that when we get to the inevitable scene where the male and female leads finally make love, the sex is shown explicitly. There is vulva, erections, and penetration. In every other way, it's still the cliché sappy romantic-drama - soft lighting, bad soundtrack, etc.; the only difference is that instead of just seeing the female lead's breasts (and maybe the male lead's ass), we see all of both leads, and they are actually making love.
Now, imagine your typical hardcore porn movie.
They're both sexually explicit, but they are clearly, obviously, not the same thing.
And that's what bothers me about this whole situation with my company's firewall. I don't really care so much that I can't read these comics at work anymore. That's not really a big deal, and I can just read them at home from now on. What bothers me is that I have now been logged as someone who uses company resources to view porn. And I don't think that's fair, because I don' think that's what I did. Since they've labeled these two webcomics as "porn" there is no distinction between me and the person who tries to view hardcore pornographic videos in his office. And I think that's a very important distinction to make! It's hardly as if I was trying to log on to GangBangBitches.com, for crying out loud.
But our culture makes no distinction. If it displays certain things - vulva, erections, penetration, semen - even once, for any reason at all, then no matter what else it may do or say, and no matter how else it may say it, that media is porn, and that is all it is, and that is all it will ever be. And no matter what else it may do or say, and no matter how else it may say it, that media is exactly the same as Gang Bang Bitches vol. 8, and if you don't agree, then you are an immoral pervert.
For almost thirty-seven years now, I've managed to avoid getting caught in the hypocritical, puritan traps of this culture. But today, I got caught. And now I feel like I have a giant scarlet "P" on my chest. "P" for "Pervert." "P" for "Porn."
And now, for the first time in my adult life, I have to live in fear that any day now, the morality police are going to come knocking on my (office) door.
I want to write about a party I went to on Friday night. It was my friend's 40th birthday party, and it seemed that all of my oldest friends were there. These are the people I would consider my best friends, and yet this was the first time in three years or more that I was seeing most of them. Being surrounded by so many friends, and being confronted, viscerally, with just how long it had actually been since I'd last seen them, brought up a lot of different feelings. And for a lot of other reasons, as well, this party ended up being very overwhelming to me. I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about that evening, and the various things that happened there; almost too many to handle. So, as much as I know this is something I should write about, and as much as I want to write about it, I don't think I'm ready yet. I know that I thought and felt a lot about the experience, but I haven't been able to process it enough to know exactly what I thought or felt; to be able to say "I felt this" or "I thought that." So I think I need to give that some time to sink in and settle, and figure out exactly what it is that I need to say. It was just a lot to happen all at once, and I need to some time to figure out what to make of it.
So, instead, I'm going to write about something that happened to me at work today that pissed me off.
Our company's servers have a firewall that blocks access from the network to sites that are known to harbor potentially harmful code such as spyware or viruses. That seems like a completely reasonable business decision to me, and I completely understand. I always get a little twinge of guilt/shame/remorse whenever I click on a link and get the message from our server that the page I am trying to view is blocked by our firewall because it is a known malware site.
I have several webcomics that I read most days during my lunch break. Two of these webcomics sometimes show explicit sex. And today, when I went to read those comics, I received the message from our server saying that they were blocked. But not because they were malware sites. The message said that these sites had been blocked because they were pornographic.
This marks a significant change in the way our company monitors and polices our online behavior. Up to now, it has been solely about protecting our company's network infrastructure. But now, apparently, they have decided to start policing our morality, as well.
What pisses me off about this, is that I've never considered either of these sites to be pornographic. Yes, they both show explicit sex, but I don't think that automatically makes them porn. Porn is solely about explicit sex. Its one and only purpose is to sexually arouse. And clearly, these webcomics are not trying to do that. Or, at least, they are about more than that. One of them is a humor comic, making fun of nerd-culture, fantasy-tropes, and sexuality. I've never been aroused by it, nor have I ever read it because it is dirty; I read it because it is funny. (It is hilarious, in point of fact.) And the other comic is a love story; very sweet and romantic, and also strange and psychedelic. It publishes one page a week, and every once in a while (we're talking maybe every twenty pages or so) there will be a sex scene. And while the sex is definitely explicit, it is still portrayed in the sweet, romantic style, a world away from anything that could be considered "hardcore porn."
Let me illustrate my point. Imagine a movie - your typical, cliché of a sappy romantic-drama. Now imagine that when we get to the inevitable scene where the male and female leads finally make love, the sex is shown explicitly. There is vulva, erections, and penetration. In every other way, it's still the cliché sappy romantic-drama - soft lighting, bad soundtrack, etc.; the only difference is that instead of just seeing the female lead's breasts (and maybe the male lead's ass), we see all of both leads, and they are actually making love.
Now, imagine your typical hardcore porn movie.
They're both sexually explicit, but they are clearly, obviously, not the same thing.
And that's what bothers me about this whole situation with my company's firewall. I don't really care so much that I can't read these comics at work anymore. That's not really a big deal, and I can just read them at home from now on. What bothers me is that I have now been logged as someone who uses company resources to view porn. And I don't think that's fair, because I don' think that's what I did. Since they've labeled these two webcomics as "porn" there is no distinction between me and the person who tries to view hardcore pornographic videos in his office. And I think that's a very important distinction to make! It's hardly as if I was trying to log on to GangBangBitches.com, for crying out loud.
But our culture makes no distinction. If it displays certain things - vulva, erections, penetration, semen - even once, for any reason at all, then no matter what else it may do or say, and no matter how else it may say it, that media is porn, and that is all it is, and that is all it will ever be. And no matter what else it may do or say, and no matter how else it may say it, that media is exactly the same as Gang Bang Bitches vol. 8, and if you don't agree, then you are an immoral pervert.
For almost thirty-seven years now, I've managed to avoid getting caught in the hypocritical, puritan traps of this culture. But today, I got caught. And now I feel like I have a giant scarlet "P" on my chest. "P" for "Pervert." "P" for "Porn."
And now, for the first time in my adult life, I have to live in fear that any day now, the morality police are going to come knocking on my (office) door.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Give and Take...
I have a confession to make, my dear.
I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I want you.
I want you.
Still. And again. I want you.
How should I take you tonight, Pet?
Fiercely? Or tenderly?
With Lust? Or Love?
Do you want to be dressed as an eager, young strumpet? Or completely nude - naked and open?
Should I be naked and exposed with you, as well, so we can share in our mutual vulnerability? Or should I demonstrate my passionate need by not even taking the time to fully undress?
Do you want to be held down and ravaged? Or held up and adored?
Where, exactly, should I kiss you?
What will you give to me this time?
How should I take you tonight?
I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I want you.
I want you.
Still. And again. I want you.
How should I take you tonight, Pet?
Fiercely? Or tenderly?
With Lust? Or Love?
Do you want to be dressed as an eager, young strumpet? Or completely nude - naked and open?
Should I be naked and exposed with you, as well, so we can share in our mutual vulnerability? Or should I demonstrate my passionate need by not even taking the time to fully undress?
Do you want to be held down and ravaged? Or held up and adored?
Where, exactly, should I kiss you?
What will you give to me this time?
How should I take you tonight?
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
The Interzone...
I had a strange dream this morning. (Oh, what I wouldn't give for the ability to come up with something interesting to write about on my own, at will, and not have to rely on the random firings of comatose neurons in order to conjure my art from the void. But that's a worry for another day. For now, I'll take what I can get.)
+ + +
I let three birds fly into my home.
Then I laid down on my couch to watch them.
I was paralyzed as I lay there, unable to move.
One of the birds, the smallest one, kept turning into a young woman. She wore a t-shirt of alternating thick blue and yellow horizontal stripes, white shorts, and white canvas topsiders. She was sitting on my living room floor, using one of my laptops. She wasn't beautiful, but she was very attractive.
And while she wasn't quite masturbating, she seemed like she was building up to it.
She was rubbing her hands all over her body with sensuous intent, as she stared transfixed at the laptop screen, her face awash in bluegreen glow. Every once in a while she would lift her shirt up to run her hand across her belly, or up over one of her small breasts.
Unsurprisingly, I was completely entranced by her. I could not look away.
I knew she was really a bird, but that didn't seem to make any difference. Every once in a while she would turn back into a bird again, or I would see her as a bird again, just for a moment. And in those moments, I could see the other birds, too. They were poking holes all throughout the walls of my apartment. Burrowing into them, building nests.
I didn't care. Couldn't care. Couldn't even imagine caring. All I wanted was to keep watching this young woman enjoying herself at whatever it was she was doing.
But suddenly, all too soon, she was gone. The room had gone dark, like the sky outside was ready to storm. The walls were crumbling and full of holes. And I was staring at an image of myself on the floor in front of the laptop, where the birdgirl had been; a projection of my own unconscious creation, from myself to myself.
With this realization, I could move again.
As I started to rise from the couch, I heard a crunching noise behind me. I stood and turned, to see my living room in a fantastical state of decay, and crawling all over with the most enormous bugs I have ever seen. The walls and front door were wet, rotten planks of wood, layered with moss a foot thick, like a fallen tree that had been rotting on the forest floor for fifty years. Indeed, the advanced state of woodland decay displayed in my living room gave off a distinct Rip Van Winkle feel, and I found myself afraid that I might have been watching that girl for a hundred years without even knowing it. Dark stormlight poured in through the holes between the rotten planks of door and wall.
And the bugs! Oh gods, they were everywhere. And they were enormous. The size of guinea pigs. Long, beetle-like things, with pincers like serrated scissors on their heads. Thank the Sun they didn't seem capable of flying. But they were crawling all over everything. I could hear them chittering behind the walls. They crunched under my feet as a I walked. I discovered that a large portion of them appeared to have been torn apart, their carapaces left discarded about the floor like crushed, empty walnut shells.
I realized that the birds had been eating them.
I stooped to examine some of these remains. They were covered in this sticky brown goo, like a cross between molasses and motor oil. It was all over the place.
It was at this point that I began to have a freak-out.
I ran down the hall to the back of my apartment, screaming for help, and found a girl there that I know from the IOT in waking life. She was cleaning my apartment. It was completely spotless back there, in fact; no evidence at all of the chaos from the front rooms. She didn't live there, and we weren't lovers (either in or out of the dream), yet it didn't strike me as at all odd that she was cleaning my home.
I tried to describe the situation to her, screaming hysterically, but she was completely nonchalant about the whole thing. Very, "yeah, yeah, I'll be right there; let me just finish this first." Which only made me panic more, as if she didn't understand the gravity of the situation, or wasn't taking me seriously enough. So I started to freak out on her even more, to try and get across just how seriously fucked everything actually was. I held out my hands to show her as evidence. They were cut up and bleeding, apparently from the bugs. But she still didn't hurry.
Eventually, at my desperate pleading, she followed me out into the living room, to see the destruction I had been raving about. She was not impressed. Nor was she particularly concerned. It seemed as if she viewed it all as just one more mess to tidy up.
I began to run around the apartment, frantically closing all the doors and windows, of which there were suddenly way too many - more than was rational - and all of which were wide open. I crushed several of the giant beetlebugs in various window frames, as I closed the windows on them. I didn't actually want to kill them, surprisingly; I was just afraid to touch them to move them out of the way.
I flung open my front door to try and sweep the forest of decay and bugs outside, and in so doing let in warm Spring sunlight, and a life-scented breeze.
And the birds.
All three returned.
But whether to watch, or to help, or to hinder, or to take me away, or otherwise end me, I will never know.
Perhaps one day I'll remember.
+ + +
I let three birds fly into my home.
Then I laid down on my couch to watch them.
I was paralyzed as I lay there, unable to move.
One of the birds, the smallest one, kept turning into a young woman. She wore a t-shirt of alternating thick blue and yellow horizontal stripes, white shorts, and white canvas topsiders. She was sitting on my living room floor, using one of my laptops. She wasn't beautiful, but she was very attractive.
And while she wasn't quite masturbating, she seemed like she was building up to it.
She was rubbing her hands all over her body with sensuous intent, as she stared transfixed at the laptop screen, her face awash in bluegreen glow. Every once in a while she would lift her shirt up to run her hand across her belly, or up over one of her small breasts.
Unsurprisingly, I was completely entranced by her. I could not look away.
I knew she was really a bird, but that didn't seem to make any difference. Every once in a while she would turn back into a bird again, or I would see her as a bird again, just for a moment. And in those moments, I could see the other birds, too. They were poking holes all throughout the walls of my apartment. Burrowing into them, building nests.
I didn't care. Couldn't care. Couldn't even imagine caring. All I wanted was to keep watching this young woman enjoying herself at whatever it was she was doing.
But suddenly, all too soon, she was gone. The room had gone dark, like the sky outside was ready to storm. The walls were crumbling and full of holes. And I was staring at an image of myself on the floor in front of the laptop, where the birdgirl had been; a projection of my own unconscious creation, from myself to myself.
With this realization, I could move again.
As I started to rise from the couch, I heard a crunching noise behind me. I stood and turned, to see my living room in a fantastical state of decay, and crawling all over with the most enormous bugs I have ever seen. The walls and front door were wet, rotten planks of wood, layered with moss a foot thick, like a fallen tree that had been rotting on the forest floor for fifty years. Indeed, the advanced state of woodland decay displayed in my living room gave off a distinct Rip Van Winkle feel, and I found myself afraid that I might have been watching that girl for a hundred years without even knowing it. Dark stormlight poured in through the holes between the rotten planks of door and wall.
And the bugs! Oh gods, they were everywhere. And they were enormous. The size of guinea pigs. Long, beetle-like things, with pincers like serrated scissors on their heads. Thank the Sun they didn't seem capable of flying. But they were crawling all over everything. I could hear them chittering behind the walls. They crunched under my feet as a I walked. I discovered that a large portion of them appeared to have been torn apart, their carapaces left discarded about the floor like crushed, empty walnut shells.
I realized that the birds had been eating them.
I stooped to examine some of these remains. They were covered in this sticky brown goo, like a cross between molasses and motor oil. It was all over the place.
It was at this point that I began to have a freak-out.
I ran down the hall to the back of my apartment, screaming for help, and found a girl there that I know from the IOT in waking life. She was cleaning my apartment. It was completely spotless back there, in fact; no evidence at all of the chaos from the front rooms. She didn't live there, and we weren't lovers (either in or out of the dream), yet it didn't strike me as at all odd that she was cleaning my home.
I tried to describe the situation to her, screaming hysterically, but she was completely nonchalant about the whole thing. Very, "yeah, yeah, I'll be right there; let me just finish this first." Which only made me panic more, as if she didn't understand the gravity of the situation, or wasn't taking me seriously enough. So I started to freak out on her even more, to try and get across just how seriously fucked everything actually was. I held out my hands to show her as evidence. They were cut up and bleeding, apparently from the bugs. But she still didn't hurry.
Eventually, at my desperate pleading, she followed me out into the living room, to see the destruction I had been raving about. She was not impressed. Nor was she particularly concerned. It seemed as if she viewed it all as just one more mess to tidy up.
I began to run around the apartment, frantically closing all the doors and windows, of which there were suddenly way too many - more than was rational - and all of which were wide open. I crushed several of the giant beetlebugs in various window frames, as I closed the windows on them. I didn't actually want to kill them, surprisingly; I was just afraid to touch them to move them out of the way.
I flung open my front door to try and sweep the forest of decay and bugs outside, and in so doing let in warm Spring sunlight, and a life-scented breeze.
And the birds.
All three returned.
But whether to watch, or to help, or to hinder, or to take me away, or otherwise end me, I will never know.
Perhaps one day I'll remember.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Disappointments & Failures...
How's that for a title, huh?
I was in a pretty good place the last time I wrote here, almost a week ago. But the past week hasn't gone well for me, and I've swung myself over to the opposite end of the scale since then.
It started when my weekend vacation in the woods didn't work out as anticipated. I got some writing done (expect to be reading my crappy work off and on for the next week or so), but nowhere near as much as I had wanted. The mosquitoes and other bugs were simply relentless, so I couldn't do any meditating out in the peaceful forest setting, either, which I'd been looking forward to a great deal. (We are both covered in itchy, red bites from head to toe now.) And the hot tub out on the back deck, which is one of my favorite features of this cabin-in-the-woods, and which might've provided some needed respite from the bugs, was broken. So, while the weather was beautiful, and the setting serene, I couldn't really spend any time outside to enjoy it. Oh, and somehow, we only managed to have sex once all weekend. So pathetic. What a waste.
And to top it all off, after all of these disappointments, combined with all of the stress of getting everything ready for the vacation, and then not being able to find any way to relax once we got there, I ended up succumbing to my addictive desires, and relapsed again. So much for "looking forward to spending this weekend sober." I somehow managed to justify it with the fact that I was using a drug I'd never used before, and not one of the ones that I'm currently trying to resist because I've had problems with them in the past. (Basically, I told myself it was okay to use this drug, because it wasn't alcohol or pot or painkillers, and because I'd never used it before. Which is such complete bullshit. Same old pattern I'm trying to break: avoid using one drug by using another instead.) I'm not going to name the drug here, but it's legal (or maybe it'd be better to say that it's not yet illegal), and while not actually a painkiller, one of the active chemicals in the plant bonds to the opiod-receptors in the brain, producing the same physical sensation, without most (if not all) of the harmful side-effects of true opiates (liver damage, chemical dependency, respiratory failure, withdrawl, etc.)
So, basically, it's a safe, cheap, legal way to get an opiate-like high. How the fuck am I supposed to say no to that?! The horrible, deadly, sickness-inducing side-effects of opiates are what I use to convince myself not to do them in the first place! Without them, I'm reduced to telling myself, "Well, you shouldn't use it because... well, because you've committed to a year sober and you don't want to feel like a failure. Oh, and don't forget that if you get high, on anything, at all, you'll end up feeling depressed and lazy and unmotivated and emotionally unbalanced for a week, remember?"
All of which is true, but I couldn't bring myself to give a shit at the time. And now I'm paying the price. I just wanted to enjoy my vacation, and I had run out of other options that I could find. Somehow, sitting around the cabin watching DVDs (two of the three movies we watched ended up being really awful) and snacking (which just made me feel fat - I could feel all of my workouts being undone with every bite) just weren't going to do it for me. And that's my problem in a nutshell. I couldn't bring myself to stay sober, knowing that it meant not enjoying myself on my vacation. Because when I get in a situation where I feel like I need to have a good time, and I try and fail to find any other way to do it, I always know that I've got this sure-fire method right in my back pocket. And, sure, that shortcut comes with a heavy price to pay, but I can never seem to bring myself to care about that in the moment. I'm always willing to pay almost any price later to enjoy myself now.
Like I said last week, a lot of what I'm trying to work on right now is learning how to suffer; how to allow myself to be okay with something like having a shitty, sober vacation, rather than feeling like I have to get high in order to avoid it (which only ends up making for a shittier vacation anyways). And this was put to the test this weekend, hard. And I failed that test, completely and utterly.
Anyways, then I got home and found out that my wireless had broken, again. So I had to take the laptop back to the shop and have them fix it, again, less than a week after I got it back from them and spent two days frantically trying to restore all my files and programs. But before I took it back to the shop I wanted to make another back up, since my previous one is corrupted. I decided to back-up to disk this time, since every other method I've tried has failed. After three hours, and three failed attempts, I had to give up on that method, as well. (I have never, not once in my entire life, successfully backed-up a computer. Every single attempt I have ever made using any method has failed. Either it crashes while creating the back-up, or it doesn't restore from the back-up properly. Why the fuck do I even bother?)
Then the depression from a weekend spent getting high kicked in full-force, and (combined with all of the other things I was already legitimately depressed about) totally knocked me on my ass, and I ended up calling out sick and spending two days on my couch playing video games. (I am such a fucking child!) I'm chemically exhausted from the coming-down, and so it takes me hours to get up and out the door in the morning. As such, I haven't worked out in almost a week, and I know I've managed to completely undo most of the gains I've made with all that hard work in the last month. I finally managed to make it into work today, but an hour late, only to find out that I missed an important assignment while I was out, and my boss had to take care of it for me. (I didn't know about it, because I couldn't check my work email, because my computer is still fucking broken!) Then my boss had a "talk" with me about the fact that I never seem to have any internet at home. (For years, this was because our building's internet sucked. And now that we have finally managed to fix that, my computer has been broken for a month!) And my story of why I never seem to have internet at home sounds ridiculous (even to me, and I know it's true!) so she didn't believe me, and I can hardly blame her.
I skipped SMART last night, because I'm too depressed, and too much of a coward to face all those assholes and admit what a stupid fucking failure I am. And I skipped my therapist appointment today (which I should be at right now, actually) because I couldn't bring myself to leave work early to go to my appointment, after missing two days and then coming in late today.
So, basically, my vacation sucked, I relapsed, I'm chemically depressed and exhausted, my computer is still broken and back in the shop again, I haven't worked out in a week, I'm way behind and in trouble at work, and I feel like a miserable, worthless, piece-of-shit excuse for a person right now.
And it is ALL. My. Fault.
I was in a pretty good place the last time I wrote here, almost a week ago. But the past week hasn't gone well for me, and I've swung myself over to the opposite end of the scale since then.
It started when my weekend vacation in the woods didn't work out as anticipated. I got some writing done (expect to be reading my crappy work off and on for the next week or so), but nowhere near as much as I had wanted. The mosquitoes and other bugs were simply relentless, so I couldn't do any meditating out in the peaceful forest setting, either, which I'd been looking forward to a great deal. (We are both covered in itchy, red bites from head to toe now.) And the hot tub out on the back deck, which is one of my favorite features of this cabin-in-the-woods, and which might've provided some needed respite from the bugs, was broken. So, while the weather was beautiful, and the setting serene, I couldn't really spend any time outside to enjoy it. Oh, and somehow, we only managed to have sex once all weekend. So pathetic. What a waste.
And to top it all off, after all of these disappointments, combined with all of the stress of getting everything ready for the vacation, and then not being able to find any way to relax once we got there, I ended up succumbing to my addictive desires, and relapsed again. So much for "looking forward to spending this weekend sober." I somehow managed to justify it with the fact that I was using a drug I'd never used before, and not one of the ones that I'm currently trying to resist because I've had problems with them in the past. (Basically, I told myself it was okay to use this drug, because it wasn't alcohol or pot or painkillers, and because I'd never used it before. Which is such complete bullshit. Same old pattern I'm trying to break: avoid using one drug by using another instead.) I'm not going to name the drug here, but it's legal (or maybe it'd be better to say that it's not yet illegal), and while not actually a painkiller, one of the active chemicals in the plant bonds to the opiod-receptors in the brain, producing the same physical sensation, without most (if not all) of the harmful side-effects of true opiates (liver damage, chemical dependency, respiratory failure, withdrawl, etc.)
So, basically, it's a safe, cheap, legal way to get an opiate-like high. How the fuck am I supposed to say no to that?! The horrible, deadly, sickness-inducing side-effects of opiates are what I use to convince myself not to do them in the first place! Without them, I'm reduced to telling myself, "Well, you shouldn't use it because... well, because you've committed to a year sober and you don't want to feel like a failure. Oh, and don't forget that if you get high, on anything, at all, you'll end up feeling depressed and lazy and unmotivated and emotionally unbalanced for a week, remember?"
All of which is true, but I couldn't bring myself to give a shit at the time. And now I'm paying the price. I just wanted to enjoy my vacation, and I had run out of other options that I could find. Somehow, sitting around the cabin watching DVDs (two of the three movies we watched ended up being really awful) and snacking (which just made me feel fat - I could feel all of my workouts being undone with every bite) just weren't going to do it for me. And that's my problem in a nutshell. I couldn't bring myself to stay sober, knowing that it meant not enjoying myself on my vacation. Because when I get in a situation where I feel like I need to have a good time, and I try and fail to find any other way to do it, I always know that I've got this sure-fire method right in my back pocket. And, sure, that shortcut comes with a heavy price to pay, but I can never seem to bring myself to care about that in the moment. I'm always willing to pay almost any price later to enjoy myself now.
Like I said last week, a lot of what I'm trying to work on right now is learning how to suffer; how to allow myself to be okay with something like having a shitty, sober vacation, rather than feeling like I have to get high in order to avoid it (which only ends up making for a shittier vacation anyways). And this was put to the test this weekend, hard. And I failed that test, completely and utterly.
Anyways, then I got home and found out that my wireless had broken, again. So I had to take the laptop back to the shop and have them fix it, again, less than a week after I got it back from them and spent two days frantically trying to restore all my files and programs. But before I took it back to the shop I wanted to make another back up, since my previous one is corrupted. I decided to back-up to disk this time, since every other method I've tried has failed. After three hours, and three failed attempts, I had to give up on that method, as well. (I have never, not once in my entire life, successfully backed-up a computer. Every single attempt I have ever made using any method has failed. Either it crashes while creating the back-up, or it doesn't restore from the back-up properly. Why the fuck do I even bother?)
Then the depression from a weekend spent getting high kicked in full-force, and (combined with all of the other things I was already legitimately depressed about) totally knocked me on my ass, and I ended up calling out sick and spending two days on my couch playing video games. (I am such a fucking child!) I'm chemically exhausted from the coming-down, and so it takes me hours to get up and out the door in the morning. As such, I haven't worked out in almost a week, and I know I've managed to completely undo most of the gains I've made with all that hard work in the last month. I finally managed to make it into work today, but an hour late, only to find out that I missed an important assignment while I was out, and my boss had to take care of it for me. (I didn't know about it, because I couldn't check my work email, because my computer is still fucking broken!) Then my boss had a "talk" with me about the fact that I never seem to have any internet at home. (For years, this was because our building's internet sucked. And now that we have finally managed to fix that, my computer has been broken for a month!) And my story of why I never seem to have internet at home sounds ridiculous (even to me, and I know it's true!) so she didn't believe me, and I can hardly blame her.
I skipped SMART last night, because I'm too depressed, and too much of a coward to face all those assholes and admit what a stupid fucking failure I am. And I skipped my therapist appointment today (which I should be at right now, actually) because I couldn't bring myself to leave work early to go to my appointment, after missing two days and then coming in late today.
So, basically, my vacation sucked, I relapsed, I'm chemically depressed and exhausted, my computer is still broken and back in the shop again, I haven't worked out in a week, I'm way behind and in trouble at work, and I feel like a miserable, worthless, piece-of-shit excuse for a person right now.
And it is ALL. My. Fault.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Attack Of The Blurble...
Ok, so, got my computer back, and spent all night setting it up. Naturally, the System Restore crashed. (I used Microsoft's built-in Backup/Restore this time. This is the 3rd backup/restore method I have tried over the years, and not one of them has ever worked correctly.) About 65-70% of my settings/files/programs restored correctly. So, still some work to do, but nowhere near as much as there could've been. Thankful for even the small victories right now.
Speaking of small victories, I'd been prepared for playing kickball tonight in the middle of the brutal heat wave we're having right now, but then this morning they canceled the game. Apparently, a whole lot of people weren't going to bother playing in this heat. So, hurray for that. Not only because I won't have to play - or play in this heat - but also because I have a ton of other work to do tonight to get ready for our vacation this weekend, and I wasn't relishing the idea of having to do all of that around nine o'clock tonight when I finally got home from playing a game out in near-110 degree temps all evening.
And speaking of our vacation at our mountain forest cabin this weekend, I'm so happy to have my laptop back! Means we'll be able to listen to our music, and, most importantly, I'll be able to get a bunch of writing done. My plans are to spend as much of the weekend as possible writing, meditating, eating, and having sex. Those are my only priorities for the next three days. Definitely not going to suck to be me this weekend.
No wifi at the cabin, though, so don't expect to hear anything from me until at least Sunday.
And I keep forgetting about the fact that this will be my first ever trip to the cabin spent entirely sober. I never would've even considered going up there before without at least something to drink or smoke. Now I'm actually looking forward to it, and the fact that I'll be sober is an almost-overlooked afterthought. Is that progress?
I hope you all enjoy your weekends half as much as I'm planning to enjoy mine.
Speaking of small victories, I'd been prepared for playing kickball tonight in the middle of the brutal heat wave we're having right now, but then this morning they canceled the game. Apparently, a whole lot of people weren't going to bother playing in this heat. So, hurray for that. Not only because I won't have to play - or play in this heat - but also because I have a ton of other work to do tonight to get ready for our vacation this weekend, and I wasn't relishing the idea of having to do all of that around nine o'clock tonight when I finally got home from playing a game out in near-110 degree temps all evening.
And speaking of our vacation at our mountain forest cabin this weekend, I'm so happy to have my laptop back! Means we'll be able to listen to our music, and, most importantly, I'll be able to get a bunch of writing done. My plans are to spend as much of the weekend as possible writing, meditating, eating, and having sex. Those are my only priorities for the next three days. Definitely not going to suck to be me this weekend.
No wifi at the cabin, though, so don't expect to hear anything from me until at least Sunday.
And I keep forgetting about the fact that this will be my first ever trip to the cabin spent entirely sober. I never would've even considered going up there before without at least something to drink or smoke. Now I'm actually looking forward to it, and the fact that I'll be sober is an almost-overlooked afterthought. Is that progress?
I hope you all enjoy your weekends half as much as I'm planning to enjoy mine.
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