I had a pang of regret stuck in traffic yesterday. In many ways, I am doing with Ben what I couldn't do with John. My inability to do it with John may be why we couldn't work. Why, oh why? I care about John much more than I think I will care about Ben, and even if Ben and I work on a sexual level, we would not have the emotional intimacy that John and I exuded in every interaction.
But I realized--John never dominated me. John would say "I'm going to whip you this week" and I'd say "Oh! Too fast" and then he'd pull away. He wouldn't talk me through my hesitation, he wouldn't guide or convince or insist. He suggested, and if I couldn't go along with the suggestion, he relented (although I think he resented it). No cajoling. No looking in my eyes and saying "baby--you know this is right. You need to give yourself to me." I wish I could have given John that without needing reassurance, without needing to be dominated, without needing, on some level, to not have a choice in the matter. I think, ultimately, John wasn't really into the D/s--just the SM, and I swim in the D/s waters. SM is just a way of exploring the D/s.
Ben, on the other hand, hasn't worked to have any intimacy on an emotional level. We haven't talked about our families, our hurts, our vulnerabilities. He doesn't know where my insecurities are, or where I've been hurt or what I want to be when I grow up, or that I still don't think of myself as grown up. None of that. But he looks in my eyes and says "you know you will give yourself to me" and I do. I so wish I could have it all, but maybe the universe doesn't work that way.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Ah... surrender
I layer my moods as carefully as I layer my makeup. We are meeting just after work--I'm in the field today so I go casual: jeans and a casual top, with a wonderbra. In the parking lot I slip into boots with 4" heels give me the sexy-but-casual-look I covet. (He is 6 feet, so that puts me a couple of inches shorter--I always check a man's height and aim for at least 3" shorter.) As I put on powder, I listen to "Here I am"--a pop song with an unusual beat that I always listen to before dates. (Am I the only one with a 'feel sexy' playlist on my podcast? Of course I don't call it that, in case someone starts browsing, but that's what my 'purchased' list is for.) "Here I Am" has an unusual beat and rhythms, and a message that is so apropos to me as a human, it is rather stunning really: "Something calling from deep inside me, voice I knew but I would not hear. For so long I have tried to hide me." And then the release: "Here I am; ready for your love...I'll never run away." So it builds confidence and reminds me that to be vulnerable you have to be strong. Real surrender can only come from a place of strength, where you are matched and respected and then dominated.
After "Here I am" comes "Because The Night." (I've actually practiced this enough so that if I'm ever doing karaoke, on a date, I wouldn't embarrass myself.) It seems almost like a cheesy love song, but the Patti Smith imprimatur gives it a little more darkness. And it is pure sex. "Take me now baby, here as I am. ... Desirous hunger is the fire I breathe. ... Come on now try to understand, the way I feel under your command."
He, we'll call this one Ben (yes names have been changed for anonymity--not fair to blog about people who could be identified without them knowing about it!), is understated. One of the banker types that hit Seattle during the dot.com boom and didn't leave, but the East Coast patina hasn't disappeared yet. His picture is smiling and more casual, so I don't quite recognize him on my way into the bar. He recognizes me and we passionately discuss politics for a good 45 minutes while the first of two very expensive drinks ($64 for 2 drinks each! Ouch! He paid and I was grateful) starts to relax my inhibitions.
My brain suddenly reels to an e-mail exchange we had. He understood my bifurcation where my body is totally turned on even as my soul rebels and I'm unaware that I'm even enjoying what is happening, and how I need someone to dance with both, to bring my soul along for the ride. And I started blushing, and lowered my gaze. He played with my hand, and noticed I got quiet. He commented on the look of total, beautiful weakness in my eyes. He suggested we meet in private next time and almost kissed me. I wasn't ready for sex--he said fine--"work out the limits you need, because you know darn well that I'll be the only one paying attention to them. There's no way you would keep limits in mind. You will completely surrender. I can see it in your eyes."
As we left he almost kissed me, came in for the kiss, felt my anticipation, knew he could have kissed me any way he wanted and then barely grazed my lips. And I went to the ladies room to 'freshen up,' which, in this case, was a euphemism for wringing out my panties.
And the conundrum enters. I've never been promiscuous. Ben says "it isn't just about sex, but you get only one chance to set the right tone in the beginning" and I believe that there is a 20% chance that would actually be true. But, would it kill me if it were just about sex? I've never really had a fling. Yes, I'll get hurt (again), but hell, I'm close to sleeping with the ex. I haven't kissed anyone since early September with "the man that smote me." My ex isn't satisfying sex and it is well-worn territory. I protected myself with John--we never kissed, and yet losing him (not that I should even count is as 'losing') hurt more than I could have ever imagined. Mike is so sweet, but he looks up to me. He needs my advice and my guidance. (He is going through a crisis at work very similar to one I went through after my first job after.) He wants validation. He needs to know that he can survive standing up to his parents. ]Occasionally he'll make suggestions but he hasn't kissed me after 3 dates and so much conversation--I like to talk more than most people, but after 7 hours of flirting in his apartment, the history of European economist systems starts to lose its pull! I just don't see him being able to match me, to challenge me, to open me. (The Portland guy bored me on the phone--there are blue collar guys with real intellectual interests and blue color guys who watch Faux news and he was in the latter category. Good man, but no chemistry for me.)
And frankly, my panties have never been so wet from a meet and a drink. I had to throw my jeans in the dirty clothes. And all from a little hand-footsie (handsie?) and a graze of the lips. I know his name (I saw his last name on his Amex) and I could figure out where he works. Chances are, we'd meet at a hotel room in the city (and I'd insist on the name and room number beforehand) and have a safecall worked out. But I don't see him doing anything to betray my trust. He gets off on that look in my eyes. He'd push me hard. Very hard. Harder than I think I could go. But not so hard as to snap me out of surrender mode and into flight mode.
I'm actually embarrassed by my 'number' because I've slept with so few men. (Of course, I'm a Clinton gal in more ways than one, which means I don't count oral in that number. I'm sure I've blown less than 20 guys, but I don't know the exact number. Real sex though? 4! Should be more like 10-14 given my age.) So what the hell? Maybe I just need to take sex a little less seriously and be a little less careful with my heart. It will die for lack of oxygen if it doesn't get out for some air soon!
Maybe we could celebrate my birthday a couple of weeks late. I could tell him "I don't need any more stuff. This isn't about a present or a cake. I got that already on my birthday. Just one thing was missing..." Yes--that seems right. But maybe I'll chicken out before he gets around to e-mailing...
After "Here I am" comes "Because The Night." (I've actually practiced this enough so that if I'm ever doing karaoke, on a date, I wouldn't embarrass myself.) It seems almost like a cheesy love song, but the Patti Smith imprimatur gives it a little more darkness. And it is pure sex. "Take me now baby, here as I am. ... Desirous hunger is the fire I breathe. ... Come on now try to understand, the way I feel under your command."
He, we'll call this one Ben (yes names have been changed for anonymity--not fair to blog about people who could be identified without them knowing about it!), is understated. One of the banker types that hit Seattle during the dot.com boom and didn't leave, but the East Coast patina hasn't disappeared yet. His picture is smiling and more casual, so I don't quite recognize him on my way into the bar. He recognizes me and we passionately discuss politics for a good 45 minutes while the first of two very expensive drinks ($64 for 2 drinks each! Ouch! He paid and I was grateful) starts to relax my inhibitions.
My brain suddenly reels to an e-mail exchange we had. He understood my bifurcation where my body is totally turned on even as my soul rebels and I'm unaware that I'm even enjoying what is happening, and how I need someone to dance with both, to bring my soul along for the ride. And I started blushing, and lowered my gaze. He played with my hand, and noticed I got quiet. He commented on the look of total, beautiful weakness in my eyes. He suggested we meet in private next time and almost kissed me. I wasn't ready for sex--he said fine--"work out the limits you need, because you know darn well that I'll be the only one paying attention to them. There's no way you would keep limits in mind. You will completely surrender. I can see it in your eyes."
As we left he almost kissed me, came in for the kiss, felt my anticipation, knew he could have kissed me any way he wanted and then barely grazed my lips. And I went to the ladies room to 'freshen up,' which, in this case, was a euphemism for wringing out my panties.
And the conundrum enters. I've never been promiscuous. Ben says "it isn't just about sex, but you get only one chance to set the right tone in the beginning" and I believe that there is a 20% chance that would actually be true. But, would it kill me if it were just about sex? I've never really had a fling. Yes, I'll get hurt (again), but hell, I'm close to sleeping with the ex. I haven't kissed anyone since early September with "the man that smote me." My ex isn't satisfying sex and it is well-worn territory. I protected myself with John--we never kissed, and yet losing him (not that I should even count is as 'losing') hurt more than I could have ever imagined. Mike is so sweet, but he looks up to me. He needs my advice and my guidance. (He is going through a crisis at work very similar to one I went through after my first job after.) He wants validation. He needs to know that he can survive standing up to his parents. ]Occasionally he'll make suggestions but he hasn't kissed me after 3 dates and so much conversation--I like to talk more than most people, but after 7 hours of flirting in his apartment, the history of European economist systems starts to lose its pull! I just don't see him being able to match me, to challenge me, to open me. (The Portland guy bored me on the phone--there are blue collar guys with real intellectual interests and blue color guys who watch Faux news and he was in the latter category. Good man, but no chemistry for me.)
And frankly, my panties have never been so wet from a meet and a drink. I had to throw my jeans in the dirty clothes. And all from a little hand-footsie (handsie?) and a graze of the lips. I know his name (I saw his last name on his Amex) and I could figure out where he works. Chances are, we'd meet at a hotel room in the city (and I'd insist on the name and room number beforehand) and have a safecall worked out. But I don't see him doing anything to betray my trust. He gets off on that look in my eyes. He'd push me hard. Very hard. Harder than I think I could go. But not so hard as to snap me out of surrender mode and into flight mode.
I'm actually embarrassed by my 'number' because I've slept with so few men. (Of course, I'm a Clinton gal in more ways than one, which means I don't count oral in that number. I'm sure I've blown less than 20 guys, but I don't know the exact number. Real sex though? 4! Should be more like 10-14 given my age.) So what the hell? Maybe I just need to take sex a little less seriously and be a little less careful with my heart. It will die for lack of oxygen if it doesn't get out for some air soon!
Maybe we could celebrate my birthday a couple of weeks late. I could tell him "I don't need any more stuff. This isn't about a present or a cake. I got that already on my birthday. Just one thing was missing..." Yes--that seems right. But maybe I'll chicken out before he gets around to e-mailing...
Monday, November 12, 2007
Tomorrow's Comedy
They say comedy is tragedy plus time. I need time and this will be hilarious. I went to see Dan in Real Life tonight, and I cried. It didn’t feel like a comedy to me—one of the clearest little tragedies, with a happy ending tacked on to make it commercial. In real life, it doesn’t matter if someone touches you so deeply and then they aren’t available. You have to move on and let go.
How can you know you love someone after a few days? How the hell, when it has been nearly a month and we never kissed, how can I still care? Even I have started to feel like I’m melodramatic. I won’t even bother my best friend with this anymore.
And the funny thing is, there are a couple of guys who are interested in me right now. One of them, the younger guy, let's call him Mike, is very sweet. However, he is new to the bdsm, and he doesn't dominate (at least not yet)--he suggests. "Would you like to"? Well, I would like him to make me. Just a look from the eyes that tells me he knows he is stronger than me.
He suggested spanking me and I flashed him a look at that said "I'd like to see you try"--but I did want to see him try. I wanted him to be stronger than me and take the reins. He is a lovely person, but even I can only talk for so much when I'm dying to have him grab my hair and kiss me. He wanted me to take my skirt off and we still hadn't kissed (and far worse, I had nylons on and they had gotten a run in them!) and I said "I'm not ready to do that" and so he stopped everything and we went back to a dynamite conversation. But three dates and we still haven't kissed!
We talked about it later. I told him I would resist a little and he was just the perfect gentleman. Problem is, I don't want to date a perfect gentleman.
Several other men seem like real possiblities. I'm sure one of them will work out. One sent me his phone number today and said "I'm no fool--I want to grab you before someone else does," but he lives in Portland--that seems an awful long distance.
Until someone touches me as deeply as John did, I don't see myself not falling into tears over John. He told me, after we were discussing our family issues "nothing will be as powerful for you as the approval of a man" and he said it just totally accepting. No judgement, no questioning. Just a comment from someone who cared for me exactly as I was. And he's right. The approval of a man in my life is the absolute most powerful thing for me. I yearn for approval. I ache for it. I want to earn the right to be loved even as I also want unconditional love. I need to prove it for me, even as I also need for him to care without that.
How can you know you love someone after a few days? How the hell, when it has been nearly a month and we never kissed, how can I still care? Even I have started to feel like I’m melodramatic. I won’t even bother my best friend with this anymore.
And the funny thing is, there are a couple of guys who are interested in me right now. One of them, the younger guy, let's call him Mike, is very sweet. However, he is new to the bdsm, and he doesn't dominate (at least not yet)--he suggests. "Would you like to"? Well, I would like him to make me. Just a look from the eyes that tells me he knows he is stronger than me.
He suggested spanking me and I flashed him a look at that said "I'd like to see you try"--but I did want to see him try. I wanted him to be stronger than me and take the reins. He is a lovely person, but even I can only talk for so much when I'm dying to have him grab my hair and kiss me. He wanted me to take my skirt off and we still hadn't kissed (and far worse, I had nylons on and they had gotten a run in them!) and I said "I'm not ready to do that" and so he stopped everything and we went back to a dynamite conversation. But three dates and we still haven't kissed!
We talked about it later. I told him I would resist a little and he was just the perfect gentleman. Problem is, I don't want to date a perfect gentleman.
Several other men seem like real possiblities. I'm sure one of them will work out. One sent me his phone number today and said "I'm no fool--I want to grab you before someone else does," but he lives in Portland--that seems an awful long distance.
Until someone touches me as deeply as John did, I don't see myself not falling into tears over John. He told me, after we were discussing our family issues "nothing will be as powerful for you as the approval of a man" and he said it just totally accepting. No judgement, no questioning. Just a comment from someone who cared for me exactly as I was. And he's right. The approval of a man in my life is the absolute most powerful thing for me. I yearn for approval. I ache for it. I want to earn the right to be loved even as I also want unconditional love. I need to prove it for me, even as I also need for him to care without that.
Monday, November 5, 2007
The Storm Passes
I seem to have weathered the storm. It is amazing--when I'm in it, I know intellectually that it will pass, but I don't see how. I feel as if I'm lost at sea in a tiny little canoe in the middle of a lightening storm. I'm riding the swells, 30 or 40 feet high. Flashes of intense emotion keep hitting me and I avoid the direct hits. I know the direction of shore and aim that way, with no clue how far away it is. Eventually, I can see the shore, but getting there feels impossible. Each wave seems higher than the next. I try to avoid my emotions, knowing that I'll be crushed under the breaking waves. Then, finally, I catch one, convinced it will kill me, clinging to my canoe for dear life. And I finally hit the shore, the canoe in smithereens and I swear I'll never go back out there, not the same way, not without a paddle, not without a life jacket and a weather report and a GPS system and a cell phone and a private helicopter. But the next day, I'm back, checking out rafts. See a raft will be different. It was the canoe that was the problem.
Had a nice date tonight. For one thing, I'm looking really good! Tight jeans (not too tight, just tight enough), a push-up bra and 4" heels on my boots meant that 2 teenagers or 20-somethings said sexy things to me while I was walking to parking lot. Not bad for a woman being comforted by a client less than half her age earlier today.
Fabulous conversation. So smart, broad ranging and fun. No fireworks (although he had e-mailed me by the time I got home to ask me out again). He seems like a lovely human being, but he is over a decade younger than me. I was born in 69. Summer of love. Hell no, we won't go. The People! United! Can never be Defeated! One of my earliest memories is voting for Jimmy Carter. (OK--it was technically my father's vote, but I got to flip the little red thingies for all the Democrats as we talked about each one, then daddy helped me pull the big lever back.) He was born in 1980. Reagan revolution.
He is smart as hell, and wise beyond his years. Easily as wise as most men my age. But I don't think he could guide me. Maybe I'm wrong. But I caught myself giving him advice at a couple of points, and worse, he appreciated it! Oy. Not a good idea. But I couldn't have been authentic and not have done that. And even if it did work, I could just see me being 65 and him being 54, and what 54 year old man would want to stay with a 65 year old woman? But that is silly--I won't be 65 for a few years, so I should enjoy myself now. I enjoyed myself enough to see him again.
And I will survive this storm, like all the others. And I learned a great deal and I'm glad I knew John. I never had a clue I could fall for someone so hard without even a kiss. But maybe the next guy (whoever he turns out to be) will have John's depth without the cigarettes. Now that would be heaven!
Had a nice date tonight. For one thing, I'm looking really good! Tight jeans (not too tight, just tight enough), a push-up bra and 4" heels on my boots meant that 2 teenagers or 20-somethings said sexy things to me while I was walking to parking lot. Not bad for a woman being comforted by a client less than half her age earlier today.
Fabulous conversation. So smart, broad ranging and fun. No fireworks (although he had e-mailed me by the time I got home to ask me out again). He seems like a lovely human being, but he is over a decade younger than me. I was born in 69. Summer of love. Hell no, we won't go. The People! United! Can never be Defeated! One of my earliest memories is voting for Jimmy Carter. (OK--it was technically my father's vote, but I got to flip the little red thingies for all the Democrats as we talked about each one, then daddy helped me pull the big lever back.) He was born in 1980. Reagan revolution.
He is smart as hell, and wise beyond his years. Easily as wise as most men my age. But I don't think he could guide me. Maybe I'm wrong. But I caught myself giving him advice at a couple of points, and worse, he appreciated it! Oy. Not a good idea. But I couldn't have been authentic and not have done that. And even if it did work, I could just see me being 65 and him being 54, and what 54 year old man would want to stay with a 65 year old woman? But that is silly--I won't be 65 for a few years, so I should enjoy myself now. I enjoyed myself enough to see him again.
And I will survive this storm, like all the others. And I learned a great deal and I'm glad I knew John. I never had a clue I could fall for someone so hard without even a kiss. But maybe the next guy (whoever he turns out to be) will have John's depth without the cigarettes. Now that would be heaven!
Music to Manipulate the Soul
After blinking back the tears in a bathroom stall, I thought I had an OK persona on and ventured out. I bumped into a 17-year old client on the street, he put his arm around me and said "Miss--what's wrong?" Oy. Hopefully not a true breach of professional ethics, but not something that should become a precedent. I snapped out of it, blamed the sun in my eyes and put on a happy face. Even my blog seems melodramatic! But I need to do a better job with that happy face, and so I turned to music. So I've been reduced to listening to Bon Jovi.
Plato wanted to ban music in his ideal Republic because when the modes of music change, the laws of society must change to accommodate the underlying change of consciousness. "Shot in the heart and you're to blame. You give love a bad name." You'd think this would make me bitter. Angry. Instead, it tucks the hurt into a little manageable corner and let's me get on with my life.
Part of it is that when I listen to music, it seems to me, it takes me to who I was in the moment of my life that I first liked that music. Or, more accurately, each song starts with who I was then, but I can mature with songs I listen to regularly. Beethoven doesn't rush me back to my early 20s, when I first fell in love with him, because I've listened to him repeatedly. But Bon Jovi takes me back to my teens because I haven't listened to them consistently. Rock doesn't seem to do grief well. It does sexy very well. And it does a fake nonchalance, insouciance (I've never actually used that word before)--a 'fuck you, I don't need any of you, and I'll show you by being better than all of you." But it doesn't do grief. It doesn't do yearning. It keeps you more on the surface and avoids plumbing the depths of the soul.
Plato wanted to ban music in his ideal Republic because when the modes of music change, the laws of society must change to accommodate the underlying change of consciousness. "Shot in the heart and you're to blame. You give love a bad name." You'd think this would make me bitter. Angry. Instead, it tucks the hurt into a little manageable corner and let's me get on with my life.
Part of it is that when I listen to music, it seems to me, it takes me to who I was in the moment of my life that I first liked that music. Or, more accurately, each song starts with who I was then, but I can mature with songs I listen to regularly. Beethoven doesn't rush me back to my early 20s, when I first fell in love with him, because I've listened to him repeatedly. But Bon Jovi takes me back to my teens because I haven't listened to them consistently. Rock doesn't seem to do grief well. It does sexy very well. And it does a fake nonchalance, insouciance (I've never actually used that word before)--a 'fuck you, I don't need any of you, and I'll show you by being better than all of you." But it doesn't do grief. It doesn't do yearning. It keeps you more on the surface and avoids plumbing the depths of the soul.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Breaking apart
Well, crying myself to sleep isn't working; I'm crying too hard so my breathing messes up, unless I distract myself. Writing actually soothes. Sooner or later I'll break out the pity album and that will help me cry soft enough to breathe and yet also feel a little cathartic. Bizarre I actually know which album will have that affect on me. Sometimes I think I should just feel everything and get it out of my system--other times I wonder if that plays into my emotions and just makes them worse. And I a Victorian or a Romantic? Probably an outer Victorian and an inner-Romantic. Always keep the appearances up even when the world is crashing down inside you. But is that the best way to be? Could I better deal with my emotions? Or do I manipulate my emotions so much that I don't even know what I'm feeling half the time anyway?
When I was a kid my brother and I had a 'game.' He would hit me as hard as he could and I wouldn't show emotion. If he could see he hurt me, then I was weak, and I'd lost. If I managed to block out what was happening, then I was strong and I won. Most of the time, I won.
I've never let people see how badly they hurt me. I don't know if anyone knows.
My ex was the only one that ever knew a fraction of it and he couldn't believe it. I think he wanted to put it back together, just because he was almost in awe of how much I cared. He said no one had ever loved him that way except his mom. Not his wife of 14 years, not any ex. He really couldn't believe I cared that much. And I couldn't believe that a) he wasn't repelled by my weakness, b) didn't try to take advantage of it and c) that it was any different from anyone else.
Somehow, I've started to learn to be more vulnerable. A hell of a lot more vulnerable. I've consciously made the choice that I have to be vulnerable and gone about trying to do it. Maybe that's why I crave the Ds--the forced vulnerability and having someone to say "be vulnerable--I can handle it and I will protect you." But not with emotional pain linked to whether or not I'm actually loveable. Since I already suspect I'm not, it just destroys me. I shrivel or snap the armour back or numb out on media. I feel SO silly and immature and like I'm still in high school and everyone else is cool, and I can't believe I'm 38 and can't deal with this is a substantively better way than I did at 19. Hell--I can't believe I'm 38 at all! The big day went unremarked and uncelebrated and unspanked. I had SO hoped to have someone by then, but, alas, it is not to be. I mean, my friends are wonderful and spoiled me rotten, but it isn't the same.
I don't know if feel things more intensly than most people, I don't know if that is a good thing or just being melodramatic, don't know if everyone is hiding what they feel, don't know anything at all. Except I can't keep doing this. And I refuse to shut down and hide behind my so-called self defense. But if I keep having no defense and keep getting hurt, I won't survive it. I know the road to wisdom leads through the gate of excess, but need to find wisdom pretty damn soon now!
When I was a kid my brother and I had a 'game.' He would hit me as hard as he could and I wouldn't show emotion. If he could see he hurt me, then I was weak, and I'd lost. If I managed to block out what was happening, then I was strong and I won. Most of the time, I won.
I've never let people see how badly they hurt me. I don't know if anyone knows.
My ex was the only one that ever knew a fraction of it and he couldn't believe it. I think he wanted to put it back together, just because he was almost in awe of how much I cared. He said no one had ever loved him that way except his mom. Not his wife of 14 years, not any ex. He really couldn't believe I cared that much. And I couldn't believe that a) he wasn't repelled by my weakness, b) didn't try to take advantage of it and c) that it was any different from anyone else.
Somehow, I've started to learn to be more vulnerable. A hell of a lot more vulnerable. I've consciously made the choice that I have to be vulnerable and gone about trying to do it. Maybe that's why I crave the Ds--the forced vulnerability and having someone to say "be vulnerable--I can handle it and I will protect you." But not with emotional pain linked to whether or not I'm actually loveable. Since I already suspect I'm not, it just destroys me. I shrivel or snap the armour back or numb out on media. I feel SO silly and immature and like I'm still in high school and everyone else is cool, and I can't believe I'm 38 and can't deal with this is a substantively better way than I did at 19. Hell--I can't believe I'm 38 at all! The big day went unremarked and uncelebrated and unspanked. I had SO hoped to have someone by then, but, alas, it is not to be. I mean, my friends are wonderful and spoiled me rotten, but it isn't the same.
I don't know if feel things more intensly than most people, I don't know if that is a good thing or just being melodramatic, don't know if everyone is hiding what they feel, don't know anything at all. Except I can't keep doing this. And I refuse to shut down and hide behind my so-called self defense. But if I keep having no defense and keep getting hurt, I won't survive it. I know the road to wisdom leads through the gate of excess, but need to find wisdom pretty damn soon now!
Three of Swords
I was given a tarot card by a fortune teller once. She said to pick the card out of the pack and that was my fortune. I picked the 3 of swords. A heart, pierced through with 3 separate swords. Getting hurt again and again. And my job is to endure and stay open and not try to protect myself because the protections only lead to more pain.
John is dating someone else, and I'm happy for both of them and absolutely anguished through my tears. Back to the music I've comforted myself with for going on 2 decades now. I feel like I'm back in high school, hiding my tears as I weep. It is amazing how certain recordings come in and calm and claim. And yet the tears don't stop. They are less convulsing and confusing, but my eyes burn and my heart. I just can't do this again. Three swords, this year. How the hell can anyone stay open and get hurt and stay open and get hurt and stay open and get hurt and stay open? And does the ex count as a sword or is there still one more out there waiting to pierce my heart? I'm not this strong. I put up a good a front ('I'm happy for you' I said, the words blurry through my tears). But I'm not strong anymore. I never was. And I'm exhausted from pretending to be.
Maybe now I can move on. Another date tomorrow night--2 dates on the last 2 Monday nights--all at Starbucks. Hopefully the third time will be a charm. But I mostly just want to cancel and cry myself to sleep in a little ball. I even thought about sleeping with the ex--I had coffee with him this week and he was totally looking to get laid. At least that would take my mind off the things I really wanted and put it back on what I tried to settle for. (Oh--ouch. I don't mean that to sound as harsh as it does. The ex is a good man, or at least trying to be. But he is unwilling to look at how his actions impact other people or compromise on anything.)
John is dating someone else, and I'm happy for both of them and absolutely anguished through my tears. Back to the music I've comforted myself with for going on 2 decades now. I feel like I'm back in high school, hiding my tears as I weep. It is amazing how certain recordings come in and calm and claim. And yet the tears don't stop. They are less convulsing and confusing, but my eyes burn and my heart. I just can't do this again. Three swords, this year. How the hell can anyone stay open and get hurt and stay open and get hurt and stay open and get hurt and stay open? And does the ex count as a sword or is there still one more out there waiting to pierce my heart? I'm not this strong. I put up a good a front ('I'm happy for you' I said, the words blurry through my tears). But I'm not strong anymore. I never was. And I'm exhausted from pretending to be.
Maybe now I can move on. Another date tomorrow night--2 dates on the last 2 Monday nights--all at Starbucks. Hopefully the third time will be a charm. But I mostly just want to cancel and cry myself to sleep in a little ball. I even thought about sleeping with the ex--I had coffee with him this week and he was totally looking to get laid. At least that would take my mind off the things I really wanted and put it back on what I tried to settle for. (Oh--ouch. I don't mean that to sound as harsh as it does. The ex is a good man, or at least trying to be. But he is unwilling to look at how his actions impact other people or compromise on anything.)
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