30 08 2011

Four years ago, I had only had sex with one person. This is no longer the case.

I think because of the guilt I carried around for having a high sex drive since I was young, and learning that it was offensive to god to really have those feelings towards any one who wasn’t your spouse , and then being raped by that spouse, and then a stranger, has led me to be very confused about my sexual desires.

Or maybe I never really learned how to properly say no. No to myself and no to others, but that failing isn’t reserved just for sexual experiences. I don’t really know how to say no in most situations.

I think I’m learning though. I’m finally learning to say no. Learning to trust my intuition. Learning to not just always go with the flow.

See the weird thing is, a lot of the time that I’m just going with the flow, I’m not even there. Its like my body is in a movie. Slow motion. I’m watching my life happen. I know I’m there. I know I’m not actually in a movie, but I don’t feel in control of my body is. Some times I just space out and focus on one object. Its like I zoom in, and nothing else exists or is in focus.

Stuck on Repeat

24 08 2011

I don’t hate men. I really don’t. I don’t hate my friends that are men. I love them. I love my father, my grandfather. Cousins. Uncles. Professors. Mentors.

But I have the one man that I do hate…is stuck in my head.

Any time I see some stupid facial expression that resembles one that he used to give me. Or some stupid impossible situation happens, I expect to be blamed. And its not that I intentionally put some huge wall up. But then once I see my ex’s face, that’s all I see.

I have such a long way to go.

I have to find a counselor up here.


And you know I also realized something else. I’m sooo not poly. I’m just a commitment phobe. Because really, in actuality I’m more okay with some one telling me straight up being up front about being poly amorous and wanting to be with multiple people, and me knowing where I stand with them. Just them. Than I am trying to even fathom getting to know and potentially trust, multiple people at once.

Fuck that.

There’s no way that’s happening. I’m more okay with telling strangers what happened to me than trying to actually have a romantic relationship with some one. Because the strangers just walk away. Like some strange living recording device that I never have to see again.

And for a while I forget what ever it was that I said to them.

I think for whatever reason there is still something in my head that says, ” You know what the sure sign of being okay is? Being in a relationship”

Which isn’t the case. It wasn’t the case when I was dating my ex, it wasn’t the case when I was married to my ex, and it certainly wasn’t and isn’t the case after divorcing my ex.

I feel like I haven’t really been single. I haven’t told myself, “I’m not seeing any one right now.”

I haven’t said to myself….”You really shouldn’t be having sex right now.”

I mean I have, but usually only after a terrible one night stand.

I really… really, need to give myself some time to heal. Just, that’s it.

I need to chill the fuck out and cool it with the sex for a minuet.

I’m going to need a new vibrator.

Reject much?

15 08 2011

One of the emotions or feelings that I can’t seem to shake is how rejected I feel. How unwanted I feel. I realize that it was good that I got divorced. That, that relationship wasn’t something that needed to continue. And I also understand that I was the one that really called for the divorce, so to speak. But I keep feeling like if he hadn’t not wanted me to be who I am then things could have worked out.

Of course I know this is a complete lie. I do.

But I think if there wasn’t such a reoccurring pattern in my life of me getting more attached to some one than they were to me….well, then I might be able to shake it.

I thought that I might be polyamorous. And I think I am still. But am I not allowed to have my favorites? My preferences?

The other thing I can’t seem to get outside of my head is the stupid Christian bullshit that I was fed at as a youth. I was taught that I would lose all of my allure as soon as I gave it up.

It would be like how Amon felt about Tamar after he raped her.

I’m usually the one that makes the first move. I need some one to make the first move.

No you know what I really need? I need a person who wants to fuck me more than once. A person who sees me stark naked, in carnal glory, watches me cum, makes me cum, and wants more. Not a person who sees all this, and walks away with out looking back.

Preferably more than one. To verify my polyamorous desires.

With the Weight of My Hand

10 08 2011

Here I am in Boston. Rain has been common this past week. And with it my mood and restlessness have shifted to reflect the storms.

When I was a kid I was mostly fearless. I think the only thing that really frightened me was my father, and ladders. My imagination ran wild freely, with out a care of who was laughing as I traipsed about acting out some glorious epic that not even I really knew of its end. I climbed trees and vines, raced through woods, stomped through silty creek beds, and caught a variety of insects and wild life.

I would pretend some times that I had found an ancient artifact, or an old Native American encampment. I remember the way the sunlight fell through the tree canopies and created a kind of natural kaleidoscope of the sky.

Ever so often I would have the urge to run away and I would get on my bike and ride out side of the neighborhood, something forbidden by my mother, at least in by myself. I would ride and ride, feeling my breath hasten and become short, feel that piercing stick of what some call a “stitch” in my side. It was always in my right lung that it would happen. At some point I would reach a relative dead end and turn around and go home.  I thought of living out in the half assed fort that some of the neighbor kids built in a clearing in the woods. But I would eventually enter the house go to my room, and climb up into the upper part of my bed, my own personal sanctuary.

I used to beat my cabbage patch doll. I don’t know why. I would be playing and I would pretend that it got into trouble and I would spank it, but then go ape shit and take it by the legs and slam it against my loft’s floor. I would grab its shirt, grit my teeth, and like in slow motion this rage would take over and I think the only thing I ever said, was “bad” over and over and over. Its blue eyed, blonde haired, blank staring face would never change, its head always remained intact even as it bounced off the post of my bed, the wall, the railing, but especially the floor. The way the face stayed the same only made my anger grow. Eventually I would always stop. My breathing would be heavy, tears often having formed with out my knowing.

I have no idea where this rage came from. But its still inside me. Only now I don’t have the doll to take it out on. I do know that it scares me that I have this amount of anger inside of me. So much angers me. Most of it isn’t even in my control, or I’ve had very little to do with.  I feel like I have been suppressing it for so long, I don’t know how much longer I can really handle doing that. But then I’m not really sure I have a healthy outlet to release it. Sure art helps, but I’m not sure that its enough.

Maybe I just need to keep up the stream of consciousness writing, even if it does always end up in illegible swearing with the paper tearing from the weight of my hand.