Probing the pieces

I've avoided dealing with this because I thought it would pass. But yet another night reading a dirty novella only to find ennui and tedium and this conundrum isn't beginning to unravel. I don't see the way out. I thought, perhaps, if I didn't look at it, maybe it would pass quicker. And, of course, it isn't exactly in line with my blogger persona. But it has been three months, and I'm committed to exploring the elements as they are, not as I wish they would be. So here goes.

Something inside me just broke, to steal a line from that magnificent and prescient Stephen Sondheim. When the Republican was an asshole. It wasn't that big a deal. I've been through worse. But it was the last straw. Something just broke.

I could feel part of me shattering, in slow motion, as it happened. I tried so hard to fix it at that moment. If I'd just been able to get his approval then, it would have been OK. But he withheld it. I think he knew what he was doing--he wanted me and was trying to pull me in closer, but he overplayed his hand and I rebelled.

Part of me has been willing to consider seeing him again because, as much as I intellectually know how dumb this sounds, emotionally I feel like he could find the pieces to put them back together. But only if he would do it my way. He hasn't been willing to do it my way, and I haven't been foolish enough to do it his.

But that leaves all the fragments on the ground. Just lying there in odd combinations.

The funny thing is, my life is going really well. I got this new job that I'm very excited about. My friends are joyous and fun. I've finished the first draft of the romance novel, and I think it is really darn good! All the energy I used to have for sex seemed to go into that manuscript. But now it is done, so it does feed that creative energy and I left slightly numb and slightly needy.

I go through the motions of my old self, but without my heart being in it. I tried reading some vanilla erotica, but it was as boring as always. I haven't changed my profiles. What would they say. "Damaged girl seeks someone to comfort her?" Intellectually, I'm fine. But "I'm fine" has always been a masque to hide vulnerability.

And it all sounds so melodramatic. I'm embarrassed. It wasn't that big a deal. I've been through much worse. I had to go to the police because of a borderline stalking. After I changed my number, I bounced back after a couple of weeks. I don't even try to comfort myself the way I initially did. I don't crave physical contact. My favorite nightie is washed and put away for another day.

I miss that part of me. I miss feeling erotic, orgasms, abandon, not thinking for flashes of moments. Surrender. And I miss that strength and that joy and that stillness. At the same time though, it is sort of like missing Europe. Much as I love Paris, London, Florence--you can't live there. I glance through my scrapbooks once a year to remember. Intellectually I'm scared my sex life will become like a long-ago trip to Europe.

Did you ever read The Golden Compass (books 2 and 3)? You know how he used the knife to cut between the worlds that were very similar but very different? In a way, that was almost an analogy for who I was. It really did feel like I had these 2 separate beings--public woman and private gal. And with a slap they collapsed into one. In a way, I'm much less bifurcated. Which, ironically, is something I have long wished for. Be careful what you wish for. But collapsing the two worlds leaves private gal's world vanquished. Kapish. No more. And it isn't like I've all of a sudden sprung a vanilla sexual orientation. I've just lost all sense of eroticism. Part of me is scared that with aging (I'm almost 40!), well women's sex drives do often diminish. But not, I think, overnight. The weeks before I met the Republican, I couldn't keep my hands off myself. 2 or 3 times a day. I probably would have masturbated even more frequently if I could have found the time. It was embarrassing. Now it is 2 or 3 times a month, and always with a 'well, I really should do this because hopefully I'll find my erotic self again with some looking.'

Or maybe I need to go back on eharmony and find a nice vanilla boy who doesn't care about sex either. But I still expect to bounce back some way or other. I just need to get out of the tribute to John Paul Sartre and, as the once again brilliant Sondheim would say: "Move On. Stop worrying where you're going. Move on. Just keep moving on. I chose and my world was shaken. So what. The choice may have been mistaken. But choosing was not. You have to move on. Look at what you want, not at where you are, where you'll be."