Personas and Vulnerability

John asked why it feels so much scarier to navigate the world without my persona. I needed first to clarify that many people feel the way I feel. But that doesn't answer the question, although I think it does validate that I’m not just a freak. There are various elements in our culture that help create that phenomenon, but I also need to decide which I want to continue and which I want to unravel.

So there are several issues I think are rolled up in this issue. The first is that my persona isn’t fake. I sometimes talk as if my persona is a lie, but she is actually a mix of the aspects of my personality I like the best along with the parts that are sturdiest and the parts that are the most socially acceptable. (In much of the art I love the persona is treated as a lie, so perhaps that has encouraged me to express it that way.) But it isn't just a mask that is fake--she is truly part of who I am and a part I relish. I totally get high off the performing elements of my work and volunteering. I love my engagement in the world. And I love that I can navigate that world competently and confidently.

So, what exactly is in my inner, hidden gal as opposed to my persona? Well, she seems younger and naïve to me. She doesn’t have the sophistication. She has little sense of perspective. She can’t take a joke. While she never wanted to be teased, she was an irresistible target when she got a lot of public time (which she only did when I was much younger--pre-high school). Her earnestness drew taunts and jeers. She is more vulnerable in part because she has had less experience in the world, but also because the more vulnerable parts of myself ended up there as a protection mechanism and because that side of me encountered less of the nitty gritty parts of life, and thus became even softer and more protected.

I don’t think it would be good to parade her to the world, even as I think I must become better about integrating her with a few select people. But I think of what happened at a volunteer gig a couple of months ago when two younger kids tried to lead a revolt against me. Had my private gal been on display, I would have been hurt, and the kids would have smelled blood and this entire group of several months would have been mostly lost (as well as a reputation that would take a couple of years to live down.) But public gal handled it beautifully. “I don’t care if you like me. I care if you make the changes you want to make in your life. You’ll never see me after Christmas.” I can’t imagine private gal ever being able to say such a thing. If she is seen, she wants to be liked.

It’s funny that John sees me as having very poor boundaries, because re-reading our early e-mails, one of the early things that stands out is how guarded I was with him. How fiercely I fought for ground rules, at a cost that seemed tremendous to me at the time. But I suppose that is a result of boundaries based on people, rather than behaviors. (I mean, of course, there are behavior-based boundaries as well--for example Republican face-slapper [although John can clearly take me to that place in a way that makes me bouncier the next day, even it I still don't like the action itself], but aside from the more extremes--just little comments, it really depends on who as much as what.) Perhaps is I had a better defense mechanism based on behaviors I wouldn’t have to screen people so carefully.

Inner gal needs protection from the scrapes and bumps of life. Public persona can laugh stuff off. She knows how to take a joke. Private gal, not so much. And when I protect private gal more carefully, I'm able to be softer with the people I trust the most. When private gal gets too much air-time, I end up trying to prove myself more, I want people to like me more. I can't relax, let go, let fly.

That said, Private Gal wants to come out more. She’s aching for people to be at home with. I have one best friend and John that are the only people she’s really at home with. She’s never been at home with my other best friend. She got to know the ex in an erotic context, but the ex never cared about her enough to want to know her outside of that context. Steven sensed her immediately and bounded with her and adored her and worked to protect her. I’d never really had that experience before. My dad would have loved to know her, but he’s part of the reason that public gal protects her so fiercely. Dad never really had boundaries for her, never let her exist on her own terms. As soon as he saw a sign she was like “I’ve been waiting for you, come, come, come.” Not necessarily in a bad way in a hypothetical world, but in a very, very intrusive way that made private gal feel that she couldn’t be known without spilling her secrets or fiercely defending them. Growing up, she couldn't just be in the moment. If she existed she had to bare all.

It is weird that as a grown-up, private gal is still so vulnerable. I think without the sense of perspective, she takes any criticism, no matter how minute, as an absolute proof she’s unlovable. So it’s damn good that is only a few things I over-react that way on. And being sheltered from the world, she is more able to feel joy, more able to grieve, more in touch with her emotions. Really, private gal is mostly my emotional side that isn’t anger and public gal is my intellectual side, my values, and the emotion of anger. Anger is safe to represent, because it is always focused outward. The rest of the emotions are inward focused.

Alcohol seems to break down my barriers with John, even though that is not the case with most others. But with John, the perceived cost of disclosure seems to recede with booze. It’s like, when I’m tipsy, I assume he already knows all this stuff. Or if he doesn’t, he has some inkling that might not be right. So why not say it so it isn’t like this big, unspoken wall between us. With John, I yearn for more disclosure and alcohol makes me say things the things I'd only type to my blog.

After last weekend, I SO wanted reassurance that I didn’t say or do anything wrong. I remember saying several things I’d never say sober, bordering on crassness and also I don’t remember everything with the clarity I usually have. But, I didn’t want to drive John crazy; more than that, however, I also felt in my bones that it was OK. Private gal knew that John appreciated her and public gal was mother-henning, saying “but, did he really like her? I don’t want to let her get hurt? Did he really?” And private gal said “he saw me and he accepts me.” There are times private gal is stronger than public gal realizes. Steven thought public gal was manipulative and controlling of private gal. Maybe. But maybe she's just a big sister and a little over-protective.

Steven commented (several times) that I had this weird split between being super-protective with my private side in real life, and then rather profligate with her with strangers (ala the blog). I can’t explain why the blog is an OK realm for her to play in, but it feels safe to me. John and Steven are the only two people who know who I am there, and I trust them both. And it is a safe place to claim and explore and own that side of myself. In fact, when I felt weird with the blog with not knowing if John was reading it or not, I really felt the lack of the outlet. Having a diary on my computer just isn’t the same. Private gal likes her moment in the sun.

In the future, I’d like to find a couple more places where private gal can come out. She needs non-erotic outlets (as well as a really fabulous erotic one). But I don’t want to be indiscriminate with her. I like her, and too much exposure would make her more sophisticated and less earnest. If anything, my public side needs a little more of the private gal's willingness to see the best in the world, happiness, joy.

Revisiting the Past

For some reason, I thought re-reading some of John's and my early correspondence was a good thing to do between Bridge, turkey and presents on Christmas day. I read the first two and a half weeks worth. That may not sound like much, but it is probably around (or over) 300 messages and is almost 100 pages, single spaced (in Word with 10 point font). Now, a page of that is some photos, and 2 pages are error messages, that happened at the most crazy-making time. I'd forgotten about those delivery delays. But mostly it is the two of us struggling to make sense, connection, and demand our own integrities as each of us experienced a searing (I believe) challenge. There are moments where I seem to be fighting for my sense of self, and wish like hell I didn't feel compelled to.

I think I was more into John than he was into me. He saw me as an interesting possibility, but one of many. If I couldn't meet his needs, he would look elsewhere--as he had to. This was a new world for him, and he needed to explore. I, on the other hand, had had my fill of that world and needed a reason to stay and trust in that world again. I knew there were no other possibilities (at least at that moment in that world). And I can't believe someone like John exists--so I compromised in ways that wouldn't necessarily have set us up well.

Reading it had a fraction of the charge that living it did. But it still made me weak in the knees and wet (several times) and sad and hopefully and excited.

The degree that we instantly recognized the other amazes me. By that, I think we saw in the other a true counterpart, with mutually simpatico intelligence, integrity and passions. We are amazingly trusting from the get go. I'm much less trusting of strangers on-line now that I used to be. I keep men at arms distance until they prove that I can trust them. Even my first name, or my phone number--I never give those out any more.

At first, I did not make it clear my fear of pain, and then I did, perhaps too much so. Or I let that define too much. I let the public persona define what is also true for the private gal. But I also don't think I made horrible mistakes. I clung to what I knew to be true--perhaps too much so. But, even knowing what I know now, I don't know how I could have been different and also been honest.

My fear and trepidation drove him crazy! Just crazy. And it has often driven me crazy. If I could wish away my fear, I would have long ago. I'm sure this blog would not exist without my angst.

I wish I had some profound conclusion. I don't. It seems like John and I have a depth that is amazing, and sooner or later, I'll do things that will drive him crazy. And, in my over-reacting to his frustration, I'll feel insecure, which may very well drive him more crazy. But I also see a willingness to sink in depth, explore and a joy in the other. I hope we can work through those better the next time.

A Reluctant Masochist

Pain makes me wet. It is a fact. And it is a fact I avoid. I'm not sure why this is a harder issue for me to accept than the submission thing, but I think perhaps it is because when someone says "do something" and I don't want to, I say "no." It is hard to abuse the submission thing. But when someone hits me and it feels wrong, but I'm already in a submissive space, I endure, and the cost of that endurance is very high. I feel worthless and abused.

I'm very clearly only a masochist is tightly defined ways. I'll never eroticize a blister or a sprain. It is easiest to embrace pain and surrender in liminal moments. Once I define a sensation as "pain" I say "ow." If it is the borders on the edges of pain, but not quite yet there, I soften.

I think my ex's mixture of pain with sternness really undercut my acceptance of pain. When we were living together, it was all about disapproval. About him demanding of me my surrender as his right. I never felt like it was 'fair' I was a submissive because I got so little out of it, and he took so much. Always pushing farther and harder and rarely giving the elements I craved.

With my ex, I could only handle more when either we were playing a scene (which we rarely, rarely did--he didn't like the 'drama' portions), or on very rare occasions when I had free reign and could be bratty. The fact of being bratty meant that I knew he didn't disapprove of me--he disapproved of a character I was playing, making it much easier to handle.

I've actually been known to crave it on several occasions, even once with my ex. When I first moved back to Seattle, before I had fully accepted that, at least on some level, I swim in darker waters, I ended up with a man from a local activists group, who claimed I 'smelled kinky.' (And the man with the good sniffer got me into the kinky waters for a few years.) Anyway, after dropping about 10,000 hints that all his friends were kinky, but of course, he wasn't into that, I finally said "are you really as vanilla as you're claiming to be?" and, of course, he wasn't.

The first time he spanked me, I said I didn't want any permanent marks. But his fingerprints remained on my psyche. Wondrous. Gentle, tender yet firm and demanding. And then he'd intermingle it with ice and clothespins, and to this day, those vie with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

The only time I ever got there with with my ex happened this fall when we were lovers, but denying it. He, for the first time, stopped because he didn't want to push me too far and I wanted to scream "More!" He had his hand on my back and tenderly rubbed my back while he spanked me hard. But he had a tenderness then that was unusual for him. I think it shocked both of us--a glimpse of how we might have been in an alternative coupling. Loving and lovely. And we tried to recreate that moment, but we never did. It felt like I was melting and yearning and relaxing into his arms. I didn't even realize it would register as 'pain' if I were in a different mindset.

It is almost like the process of surrender moves the world from the crisp, sharp edges of HDTV to the soft melding of a Renoir painting. I can feel the muscles in my face soften. I imagine if you looked at me, my features would be muddy. Then, when it works well, pain comes in and inscribes the bright lines of a Jackson Pollack onto a Monet landscape. But when it doesn't work well, instead of opening new landscapes it just shuts me down and I'm back to play sudoku in my head, trying to endure and feeling worthless and unlovable.

My ex, who dated self-identified "slaves," said I was the most submissive woman he'd ever dated, and I was far, far more masochistic than I ever admitted to myself. I don't know how stable that observation is. But I wish I could clearly mark the switch, or at least know what triggers it more precisely.

John seems to know his way around my triggers very well. A couple of times, I've been able to melt my defenses a smidgen, meeting his gaze and graze. It feels like, if things worked out, I might be able to learn to relish it, instead of feeling like 'this isn't fair."

Liminal moments

John and I had a wonderful time this weekend. Lots of alcohol so much (I couldn't believe how much I drank!) that it lowered enough inhibitions that we talked openly and honestly! What a weird concept. We talked openly and honestly over a year ago, and then, when things fell apart, we've e-mailed openly and honestly, but never talked openly and honestly.

One time--I don't remember exactly when--he read a whole bunch of past postings from my blog. I woke up to a number of e-mail responding to blog entries of previous months, and felt hopeless because I could do nothing.

And then, the blog remained unspoken. But I also think we'd never be exploring in this direction if the blog hadn't been there. It seems to me that time and again, my insecurities have demarcated boundaries with him. And occasionally things I have said have been interpreted through his insecurities. (It amazes me that he has any--he seems to me to have his life together so well. But I suppose we mirror each other, in that we seem, on the exterior, to be operating really well, but underneath feel less together.)

So for the first time in over a year, we blurred the boundaries between the intimacies of our e-mails, the friendliness of our face-to-face conversations and even a little bit of my insecurities of the blog.

He started it! ;) I seem to have this belief that men want what they can't have, and since John knows I'm interested in him, that makes me less interesting. I think he went off with that chick from Texas last spring because she was new and shiny. But once he broached the topic, we sort of let everything come out.

My fear is that he isn't attracted to me. That he wishes he were because I have my life relatively together, and it would be easier (no, not easier--he knows me well enough to know that nothing is easy with me--vital, engaged, exciting, but not easy), but I'm not some damsel in distress. And intellectually he might like to be with someone that isn't looking for someone to 'save' her. But he said that isn't the case: "Patience isn't rejection."

I said something along the lines of "you could have gotten me in bed a year ago. And I tend to think men go after what they want."

He replied: "I've had fast-food, and either of us could go out for a quarter-pounder. But this is too chefs planning a gourmet meal."

And he also made it really clear that if we ended up together (and neither of us knows if we would--we still haven't kissed--what if I hate the way he kisses?), he would not push me in the S&M area. Nothing is required of me. I actually said (and I don't remember all the details of the evening--it has the hazy fog of a 1920s filtered film) but I'm not usually this blunt: "If it makes me wet and you hard--we'd have to find ways to include it."

I believe (and I think he knows I meant well, whether or not he agrees) that he had to have a chance to play and explore the kinky world when he finally found it. I was the first person he talked to. And I, at the time, felt like an abused puppy. I needed tenderness and gentleness before I could get in touch with the masochistic side of me, which is absolutely there, even if I almost never admit it. I couldn't enthusiastically play with him. And now, when I'm in a much better place than I was, I still wouldn't be able to go to the depths that he would probably enjoy exploring. But then I absolutely couldn't.

So I told him something along those lines. And I said "After the Republican slapped me." I didn't tell him this, but when my ex and I got back together, I said flat out--"I never want to be slapped on the face again as long as I live." And the ex said "OK." And a couple of times he psyched me out, but didn't slap me, was tender, but the psych out was enough and I numbed out and he stopped even playing in that direction. Only ever tender with my face. And it started to heal that part of me.

And Saturday, John tapped me ever so lightly on my cheek, and then left his hand there, and I nuzzled it greedily, like a kitten. I think that is the first moment I've actually surrendered for him on a kinetic rather than an intellectual level. And then he looked me straight in the eyes and did it again, and I didn't flinch. "It's the person, not the action" he said. I don't love that and I doubt seriously I'd ever ask for it. But somehow I was a little stronger for it.

Looks and Personality

So OKCupid (the only on-line dating site I currently do) has this thing called "Quickmatch" where you give each person 1-5 stars based on pics and a truncated profile.

I generally, if I like someone enough that I think I might have coffee, give at least 4, even if I don't think their looks really are a '4' because it doesn't matter if they're a 2 or a 3 if I think we'd click. (To me, a "1" is "someone I couldn't really think I could date for whatever reason".) If both people give the other one at least a 4 in any category, the site e-mails both to tell them.

The vast majority of the time, you get 2 e-mails--one for looks and one for personality both being 4 or 5 stars. And, honestly, nothing more ever happens than that. I never e-mail 'cause I figure if he were interested, he'd e-mail me. And that's that.

So the really weird thing is, I've been getting a few of these where the guy likes my looks and not my personality! And even weirder--younger, cuter guys like my looks and older guys who aren't as cute like personality. Tonight, a 30 year old, very handsome Indian man liked my looks. And honestly, if he'd liked my personality too, I might have dropped him a note. He has a lively, light-filled, vibrant face and an engaged, grounded profile. Meanwhile a not-nearly-as-handsome 41 year old liked my personality. They were both the same height. The 41 year old has a lot less hair than the 30 year old and a look from the 70s. All of which might have been OK, except I'm not cute enough for him!

And I'm like--what the heck is going on? On two levels. The first is, I'd say I'm totally in the 41 year old's league, but there are a lot of older men out there who are far more picky about looks than the men in their 30s. Weird. And I wouldn't think I'd be in the 30 year old's league (not just based on age--I tend to prefer men my own age or a little older--the 30 year old is much more handsome).

Now, I expect men to reject me for my looks. That doesn't surprise me. But to like my looks and not like what I've written, that actually really surprises me. It doesn't surprise me that someone would not like my personality once we've met. I can be pretty intense. Say, just as a hypothetical example, if someone was a Republican and voted for McCain and started explaining that Sarah Palin was qualified, in some way, and I starting laughing and got some mimosa in my nose, and it burnt a little and tickled a little and, with the alcohol, I just couldn't stop laughing and then tried to stop, but then was like stifling a laugh at the whole Palin=qualified thing. And he actually thought she was qualified. Yeah, I could see why someone might not like it.

But my personality in my profile is, like, really damn good! Like a few people e-mailing me to say it's the best profile they've ever read good. I mean, I know how to occasionally use the keyboard.

So the whole thing just startles me.

Meanwhile, on the "John" front, we resolved our heated argument. I wish I could say we 'kissed and made up" but the kiss part didn't happen. I'm really proud of myself for telling him what I needed. A couple of other times similar things happened and I didn't because I didn't want to be demanding. But, if any friend I hadn't been romantically interested had done something similar, I'd be like "Hey--I need this." But he stuck through it with me. And I care about him more than ever. I just keep feeling like, well, why would he be willing to process an argument if he doesn't care. At least on some level? Why would he waste his time with me, if he doesn't care?

And I have this absolute fear that I'll finally meet someone I sort of like, and start going out with this other person, and then, just as I start to get emotionally sticky with this new guy, John will read my old blog postings at two the morning and it will turn out there was some misunderstanding and he and I will have missed each other again. And I will have to live with wondering what might have been for the rest of my life.

Round and round and round in the circle game

So "John" and I had a fight. Sort of. For me it qualified. I even cried. Stupid as it was. For him, I have a feeling it wasn't a big deal--a few cranky e-mails. But it does make me realize, at least for a moment, that he is right and we can't really be together.

For background, we were having a REALLY fun, smart argument, like in the legal sense of the word, about the economy. Each of us argued our side, which disagreed with the other. And then I cut and paste a couple of articles and it insulted him.

I tend to do that sort of thing--assume I have no credibility and I need other people to back up my arguments. It was part and parcel of my post-graduate education and I do it without thinking about it. He thought I meant that I didn't think he was as well informed. And he got mad at me. I over-react, SO much, to that sort of thing. (Although I think maybe we each pushed each other's buttons and each over-reacted.)

And I can see myself and John repeating the exact same dynamic my mother and father have.

Or maybe that is a lens I use to try and understand what is going on.

Either way--my dad thinks my mom is perfect and life is perfect and everything is perfect, until suddenly, life sucks and nothing my mom does is at all acceptable and she is a horrible, controlling, evil woman, the female equivalent of Dick Cheney water-boarding all the men in her life and then all of a sudden she's perfect. (Now, I should say, my parents are aware of this cycle and are working actively to change it. But it informed their relationship when I was growing up, and my dad, to a lesser extent, had that 'perfect/dreadful' dichotomy towards me as well.)

But for me it means that I really over-react to criticism. Criticism of just about any kind means "I always thought there was something wrong with you and now I know that you are inherently unlovable." My mom says when I was born she told me "You don't have to be perfect to be loved." Unfortunately, she felt the need to say it because everything else in my life told me "be perfect, or you'll never be loved."

I used to be surprised when a man would stay with a woman who, like, got cancer and lost her hair. It didn't really occur to me that a man would do something like that. Why wouldn't they just go get someone healthy, with hair? Woman are, deep-down, interchangeable, aren't they? Intellectually, I don't believe it. But emotionally, it is something that has affected me.

And then, you add all my fucked-up-ness. John got mad at me for throwing too many articles at him. And I've always known I was too engaged in issues. Way too opinionated! Cared too much. Talk too fast. Talk too loud. All those things that make me unfeminine. Why do I have to care about ideas? Why can't I just giggle and say "I hadn't thought of it that way? Thank you for taking the time to explain it to me." And smile. Then I'd be lovable. Not for who I really am, but the fake me might be loved.

It's odd. My ex used to have knock-down, drag-out fights with his ex-wife. But he and I NEVER fought like that because the second he'd get mad at me, I'd cower and apologize, and it would totally neutralize the situation. Then we could talk about it rationally and solve the problem. Like something out of a textbook. We were kind of amazing that way. All these "I feel _____" statements. But we weren't in love with each other. Textbook communication is a lot easier when there isn't as much at stake.

Stasis continues

Finally met Zachary. What a waste of energy. But I'm trying to figure out if I weren't still stuck on John if I'd be interested in Zachary. I don't think so, but it is possible.

He didn't remember stuff I'd told him 3 times. Important stuff. Like when I took a pill for pain, he asked what it was for and I was like "My ankle" and he was like "You hurt your ankle?" But I know I've told him that at least 2 and probably 4 times. And frankly, I didn't notice anything he had remembered from our conversations. Nothing built off the other conversations.

He believes in the 9-11 conspiracy theories with no evidence more than 'what I read on the internet.' I can't stand this sort of generalized paranoia that thinks Bush planned 9-11 (because he was just so competent he could pull something like that off?) and Cheney murders babies and drinks their blood. Anyone that makes me defend Bush makes me hate the person that forced me to do it. What is SO hard about having facts and evidence to back up your paranoia? He heard on the radio that there was a bomb the morning of 9-11 at the WTC so it must be true? Because no one reported wrong news that day?

It didn't help that his pictures were 10 years old. And I get paranoid if I don't have something less than 6 months up.

Instead of taking time with make-up this morning (I actually forgot to wear earrings!), I wrote John a long e-mail, saying something along the lines of 'look--I don't want you to read my blog in 4 months and find out we both wanted the same thing and we just messed it up again.' The secrets of a girl's 'drafts' folder. I broke up with my ex almost a month before he broke up with me, and never sent it. There are several e-mails to John there that, for better or worse, were never sent.

Funny things is, though, we went to a restaurant with lots of mirrors, and I looked really cute! I mean, really, really cute! My self image of myself is one of Renoir women. Plump, but beautiful and vulnerable. And I didn't really recognize myself. I wouldn't have called myself plump--just pretty cute!

A guy I'm nominally flirting with (if he lived less than 1,000 miles away, I wouldn't bother because he isn't my type--I eat meat and he doesn't think people should) said yesterday that I was 'totally doable' and it was a nice compliment. Not if he lived within dating distance, but outside of dating distance, it is.

So it is back to the status quo of adoring John and finding no one that can compare to him. Something will have to break the stasis. It always does. Life is not a Chekhov play.

Compromises and Disclosure

So I'm really enjoying getting to know Zachary. He reminds me of John in that we connect over the stuff that matters.

But. He has said bluntly he had no intention of every having kids. And I just don't know if I want kids, but I also know I don't want to say never. I guess that means I'm sort of leaning towards wanting them.

Should I just say "eh--I don't want to waste your time?" Later, when talking about apartments, I said "well, my current place is big enough unless I end up having kids" so I guess that let's him know that it is an open issue for me.

Oh, and we've never discussed kink of any kind. My add says "GGG" and he looked it up and said "absolutely." But he's clearly less kinky than me. And there are times I've had to dance around it. Like when we talked about my relationship with feminism and how I'm a 'bad' feminist. I never really explained the most obvious way I'm a bad feminist. I didn't lie, per se. But it did feel like I dissembled.


I just don't want to go there right now. I don't want to define and limit. Especially when I don't even know who I am.

Finally, and this troubles me, he isn't remember some of the details I've told him. We're having amazing conversations, but then he'll forget really simple stuff (like what neighborhood I live in). I have to think, if he were really 'that into me,' he'd remember where I live. Especially since I had reluctance in pinning down a neighborhood.

Getting Older

I listened to a talk by the chancellor of the state university that I attended and he seemed so... reasonable. Intelligent. Well-meaning. Balancing many different issues and doing the best he could.

Then, one of my friends started criticizing Obama and I said something like "he's balancing a lot of things--I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt. I trust him."

WTF? When did I get to be so old? Is youth more than rebelling against authority, whatever that authority may be? Intellectually, I'd say yes, but emotionally, it feels like I'm turning a new chapter and have to find new definitions of myself.

Meanwhile--back in my melodrama land. The last commenter was right. John just isn't that into me. And it is unfair of me to be pulling at him emotionally. I have to let the idea go of being with him. And I'm trying!!! It is hard. Really hard. I so wish I could go back in time and not have been scared when we first meant. Of course, that would mean not have been being me. But I don't understand why that fear I had has to define everything. Why he can't forgive me for that. Or maybe that isn't the issue; I have tried to give him his privacy and not be an insane stalker chick. But he was into me then and he isn't into me now. And I guess that's just that.

(And, I suppose the fact that I'm blogging more means that I'm taking a baby step towards moving on.)

My ex called and left me a meandering voice mail today. He finally acknowledged that we broke up twice, which sort of confirmed my view of things. He also said something like "you always said you were damaged when we were together this last time. You aren't. I realized I like fucked-up chicks and you just aren't fucked up enough for me."

Two things:
I said damaged, but I think perhaps "wounded" more aptly described how I felt. I feel like, on some level, I've been deeply hurt on a number of levels, and I had been hurt by my ex. I do feel like I need some healing before I can go back to the primal, submissive, slightly masochistic, playful, intense and erotically voracious gal. I sort of have a sense of how I would get there, but it seems like it starts vanilla and then turns into kink, but I don't know if I'd ever find anyone willing to just support me with lots of cuddling and gentle warmth, and then turn around, grab my hair and take me however he wanted, and taking me by my favorite places along the way.

Second:
Isn't it funny--my was trying to be kind. And yet, all I hear is yet another something I've done wrong. "You aren't _____________ enough" has been a mantra of criticism I've heard, so even when "fucked up" goes in the blank, it is still criticism. Yet another reason that I'm essentially unlovable. Intellectually, I know he never intended that. And frankly, I wouldn't want to be so wounded that I would have stayed with my ex. But I still feel like "Oh--that's what's wrong with me!"

Wow! Whoah! Wow!

In college I met the only man I regret not slipping with ;we'll call him "Zachary!" And we'll put the exclamation point at the end of his name, because he always did.

So Zachary! was married to a lesbian, in an open relationship (I think for financial reasons), and he pursued me for 3 years. And for a couple of months I flirted with him because, well, he was very seductive. One day he put a pencil up to my face as if to put on eyeliner under my eye, and I looked away from the pencil as he ran it along under my eye and managed to not blink. And then he ran his hand along my cheek and every cell in my body melted. One of the most intensely erotic, 'surrender' moments in my life.

And I kissed him once, and it was an amazing kiss. And then I freaked out. For two reasons, one is that I've never wanted an open relationship and two is that I thought I would get clingy and couldn't handle an open relationship. He is the only man I clearly had the opportunity to sleep with that I ever think about, that part of me regrets. Intellectually I think I probably made the right choice (for the second reason), but he appeared in my dreams repeatedly for a decade.

And this week, I've met another Zachary. Same name, same hair. Different man (who does believe that Monogamy is more than a Parker's Brothers' Board Game). We're having dinner on Monday. And this man has the depth of John. We've talked about things that matter. Hopes, vulnerabilities, successes and insecurities. (We're both shameless show-offs on our personal ads--we both have a photo with one of the top 100 celebrities in the world--although he actually worked with his celebrity and I just got a 5 minute conversation with mine. Oh, and I should say, I respect and admire my celebrity--I believe s/he's really important--it isn't just cynical star-fucking, but I just say 'celebrity' because otherwise it is too easy to figure out who she is.)

Zachary seems more vanilla than I am, but then I think maybe I'm more vanilla than I thought I was. And he totally agreed with the GGG label on my ad, so who knows?

And I'm like "What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fucking, fucking fuck" to quote Jerry Spring, the opera (not my celebrity). Damn damn damn damn. Now, chances are, it won't work. Chances are we'll meet and something will be off (he's a decade older than I am, but that seems OK). But it is SO confusing. It's the first time I've been excited to go on a date with someone since, well, John.

I adore John. I miss him. We haven't talked or e-mailed since Saturday, aside from a couple of little things, and I feel like life is a little less bubbly. If he and I have a chance to be together, ... I don't want to go off with some guy based on a few good e-mail and phone conversations. But I don't know what John wants. But I think he doesn't either, but it isn't me. If he wanted me, he'd know it.

Part of me thinks John wishes he could be attracted to me, but he's just not. That is the best rational explanation for his behaviour that I can deduce. Part of me feels like I'm cheating on him because emotionally I haven't been seeing other people, even when I've gone through the motions of like going on dates. I wish I could just sit him down and say "what's up?" but I think if I did that, it would destroy any chance we might have because emotionally, I feel like we might have a chance, even though my intellect screams "He's just not that into you."

Part of me, a cynical parts, says--play the field. Men are always more interested in someone that is harder to get. But there is a human toll, not just to me, but also to someone who seems like a good man. I wouldn't want to do that. I feel like I owe it to him to figure out exactly what is going on with John before I agree to see him, although I know that is silly. Dinner is not a commitment.

And, of course, if I did get involved with someone else, it might give John what I think he might want, which is me as a truly platonic friend with no pressures for a romantic relationship. If I were in a relationship with someone else, and I felt like John and I could be friends without flirting or hurting that relationship, I'd relish it. I just don't know if I can be attracted to other men if I'm seeing John at all.

It seems good to actually be mildly interested in someone. It is the first man since the Republican (aside from John), that I've been interested in. But what a mess!

Pain and Power, Hospitals v. wiitwd

So I sprained my ankle last night. Badly. I've sprained it before, but in the past I always knew it was sprained. Last night, the pain just kept getting worse, to the point that I thought I'd broken something. I finally went to the E.R.

There is an excellent hospital not far from my house, but in a shitty part of town. The next time, unless it is something life-threatening, I'm going to the shitty hospital in the rich part of town. Of the 50 or so people I waited with, I was one of the only ones with health insurance, and one of the only actual emergencies. And I waited. And waited and waited.

Four and half hours after I got there, and six hours after it happened, I'm in some of the most intense pain in my life. So intense, I'm blubbering in the hallway, nearly hysterical for the last two hours or so. Part of me wonders if I was faking--no, not faking--giving myself permission to let go--because it might get me through the system quicker. I've never seen myself lose control like that. Other patients starting complaining about my crying and moving away from me so they didn't have to listen to it. But I'm sitting in a hallway--I've told people several times that I'm in a lot of pain, and they won't even give me an ibuprofen. Meanwhile, there are people all around me who are not in pain, but have been there longer, who don't have health insurance and, thanks to our dear leader, had no other options. I kept having to remind myself that it is Bush's fault because I didn't want to be annoyed with people in a bad situation, but I had to fight that frustration. Especially when people just told me to be quiet.

I kept looking at my reaction to pain (partly as a mind-trick to try and distract from the pain). For about 14 minutes I tried to pretend it could be eroticized. No way in hell. Why the difference? Partly, I'm sure, is the intensity. But also, the dynamic is totally different. With wiitwd, I want someone to appreciate it. I want to be the center of attention, to know what I'm going through, to feel with me. To gauge what makes sense and push me, but just a little. Not to ignore me in a hallway as I cry hysterically.

Then I kept trying to distract myself. I actually saw myself using some of the techniques I used with my ex to try and endure. Solitaire (with my ex it was Sudoku in my head), singing to myself, repeatedly tapping my foot. Focusing on how much longer.

Unfortunately, the TVs are on the most gruesome forensics show I've ever seen. A flight attendant was microwaved to death in the plane and they are showing close-ups of the body. another woman burnt to death after being doused in gasoline. More close-ups. Who, exactly, thought "people in an emergency room--they'll want to see this?" I can't bear to look at it, but I have to listen to it because I can't listen to music or I'll miss it when they call me name. If.

I finally lost it when a nurse said there were 2 people in front of me. Then they let 5 people in. Then the nurse said there were still 7 people in front of me and I lost it. Panic attack! That always ended it with my ex when he was too rough. After a panic attack, there was cuddling, there was giggling and intimacy. But here, just more panic and more and more and more.

It turned from crying to coughing and crying. I kept trying to calm myself down because I began to hyperventilate. Quick breath in. Count to four (by hitting my palm against my thigh), a gulpy exhalation and another gulp of air. Now hold it till six. My ankle is tingling from having it up for so long, but so is my face. Much too much air. I know this intellectually. Count to eight. I can't anymore, I just want more air. And so on.

Finally, one of those people who really needed better options for a primary care physician went and told the nurse they had to see me, and I got to wait in a different area for another hour and a half before they gave me vicodin. Here I'm in a central hallway. There are 3 cops who get preferential treatement because one slipped on the job. They are clearly enjoying each other, talking on the phone to their girlfriends and goofing around. They watch me for a while, in a way that is invasive of my privacy. I put my hood over my face to have just a smidgen. I can't tell if they're watching me for entertainment purposes or to assess whether I'm a genuine threat. Finally, they move away from me because they don't want to watch. I think the guy who slipped feels guilty for getting to go before me. Better to move away.

Then, magically, a woman in a white coat comes and asks my name. She knows I'm not next, but she knows I'm in pain. And she says "we'll take care of you." And, amazingly, the pain recedes. What part of it is pain from my ankle, and what part of it is the helplessness, I don't know. Maybe all those times with my ex encourages me to be more melodramatic. Maybe it would be easier to bear other pain if I hadn't been able to end they days my ex was too rough by expressing that it was too much. (My ex and I always had a safeword. I just rarely used it.) Now I'm a little better. I can handle this, and half an hour later, I get a pill for the pain.

There is also a power dynamic. In wiitwd, I supposedly release power. But not really. I can stop a scene. What I wouldn't have given for a safeword last night!

There is nothing erotic about just being helpless, with no one to care, no one to support. Alone in the world. So alone. It happened at 6 pm. Finally at midnight (only half an hour and a half before they finally gave me pain pills!) I text messaged my ex, just to ask if he was up, and if he had been up, and if he had volunteered to come down, I probably would have gone home with him and all would have been forgiven. Or at least not talked about. And we would have slept together for a couple of weeks before something else broke any attempt at being lovers or friends.

Even though I would have been in no mood for sex and he would have had sex with me anyway (he loved seeing me so vulnerable I lost all composure), and I would have resented it incredibly. And it would have made me feel shitty about myself. Like I didn't deserve someone to just support me for an evening without having to pay for that support with really crummy sex that I just wasn't up for emotionally. I'm glad he was already asleep. Sometimes, I can't understand why this force for surrender is so powerful that I go through with it.