When words fail

i have wanted to come and write here but just haven’t found any words to say.  i’m beyond discouraged, unbalanced, sad, angry, scared, disgusted.

First, millions of Americans voted for a man who is a an abusive tyrant, and one who makes no effort to hide his cruel and divisive agenda of destruction.  The day started to bright and instead of a glass ceiling shattering, it was the collective hearts of Americans who believe that our strength is in our diversity.

Within 24 hours of that, on nearly no sleep, we had a very serious medical scare.

i kept bedside vigil, going home only when ordered to leave, basically to cook and clean and “sleep.”  It was the first time i had been alone in our apartment at night and when i finally went to lay down, i quite suddenly and strangely felt that i was far too little to be alone.

i was reeling from being an empath in an Emergency Room where the man in the next bed died.  i was focused on finding answers to Sir Raven’s long illness, and what the next steps might be for her to be on the mend.

To top it all off, this hospitalization came at the end of my classes, where work still had to be done.  i wrote a 16 page research paper on no sleep, half a dozen other last week assignments, and a project for the other class choking down worry, exhaustion, despair.

In the grocery store, i nearly had a meltdown.  The song, “She will be loved,” came on, it was the song Sir Raven had turned on after she kissed me the first time.  She has made it plain over the years that the music and long emails and passionate dreams she shared with me in the beginning meant nothing.  She said that.  Nothing.

Of course, i’m never sick at sea, so i came home dry eyed and made a pot roast to bring to her with fresh pjs first thing the next morning.  i’ve spent the last two weeks wondering what else i could have done to make her home life better, calmer, easier.  The only responsibility that she has and does is to work.  i try and remain cheerful, no matter what, even though her tone and energy and dismissiveness often hurts me.  i always have a pleasant demeanor.  i’m silent most of the time.  i follow the expectations and rules she has without any prompting or real worry of anything happening if i didn’t.

Clearly, all of this is not enough, or she would not have gotten sick.  That is what i think.

i signed up for a transparent relationship, accepting that there may be times i would be told that something would be discussed later, but never being lied to or withheld from without cause.  Now i am left out of the medical loop, as she has insisted on going to appointments alone.  It hurts and makes me feel angry, like it will just be another mess i have to figure out how to clean up without the information i need to do it.

i am trying to set those feelings aside, but its hard.

The whole crew did a panel together and i was asked how i am sure my needs are met.  i was honest and said that they aren’t, that they aren’t for years at a time, and that this is a chance you take in entering a CNC relationship.  The challenge is if you keep obeying and giving in the face of it-or not.

Today, i’m thankful for my crew.  They showed up for us when she was sick, i knew that i would have support if i needed it.  i appreciate that no one faulted me or felt i was saying anything against Sir Raven to answer the question i was asked honestly.  i’m thankful for hearing Sir Raven enjoy laughing and talking and playing cards as i tried to read my book and not forget myself.  It is hard when i have the rare chance to just talk to remember to not do that.  It shouldn’t be hard, i think, and it makes me feel like i’m bad because i should just be quiet like i am when we are home alone.

i’m trying to not numb out, focus on my studies, because the new classes start up in 7 more days and i need to get through as much reading as i can before it starts.  Sir Raven gave me a full day to rest and sleep so i feel like i need to work extra hard.  i made an A and a B on my last two classes, which is decent.  i am trying, always.

It’s okay-you are a baby.

I had a pretty busy day trying to make up for yesterday.  It was Sir Raven’s late day, and I had seen her for all of twenty minutes the day before.  Two long days being sick, being alone, waiting to shower.

By the time she got in, i was in a ball in the bed.  Too exhausted to think clearly.  Half out of it.  She made herself breakfast for dinner, sat in the living room for a bit, showered, and got into bed.  i got up at one point, to get my laptop charged and to fix the sheets, because i had everything all tangled up and she can’t sleep with the bed messy.  But she didn’t say anything and i just turned around and went back to bed with my messy pigtails and pjs i’d stayed in.

i got a shower today, put on make up, forced myself out to get the green tea and little juices she likes.  i got poweraid for me since its the only thing that fights the sick tummy.  i wrote up a case study that was reasonable for a mock client.  i did not invent my own DSM code for “Stop Being An Asshole.”  (Though, personally, i think there should be a code for that).  So, thats something.  i have two more papers to get done today.

The house is mopped and clean.  i made a grocery run for her favorite turkey and cheese, fresh bread, extra coffee, her chips, and some soup for me.  Because i am too weary to make soup.  i may even be too weary to dump the contents into a saucepan.  Food isn’t sounding good anyhow.

The exterminator came and i told him i saw mice.  He asked if my vision was better and i dryly informed it the damn thing jumped out at me while i was cooking.  So no.  He asked if i ran out.  Yes. Yes, i did.  He crooned at me, in his Spanish accent, “Awww, it’s okay little baby.  I know you are a baby anyhow.  I see you around and you are always baby.”

i applied for the Residency for school so the gatekeepers can see me.  It makes me think of the movie Ghostbusters and laugh.  i’m tense about it but it has to get done.  i can survive a week of anything.  Mainly, i’m worried bc i can’t sit through classes at events and know i am not going to be magically cured for this week.  So, its stressful.  So is having to walk in with a visible disability and have people project stuff onto that, when i just want to be any other grown up person trying to be taken seriously for a week.

i should maybe not bring my kitty ears.  Heh.

 

 

 

Sitting with fear

i’m trying to do for myself what i would do for anyone else right now.  Namely, just sit with the apprehension, huge feelings, and exhaustion without judgement.  i notice how tired i am, remind myself that some of this really is just the meds adjustment and having a  fever and bad cold at the same time.

Of course, this all comes in the biggest pressure part of the term, two weeks left, two giant projects to get done.  So i have to keep pushing toward the end goal right now, no matter what.

i try and focus all of my strength left on getting semi coherent papers together, keeping the routines that keep my little world feeling stable, try and be kind to Sir Raven, and push the feelings of hate and uncertainty away.

i’m tired of being strong all of the time.  Really, really, really tired.

If i do my best and fail, how can that feel good?  Sure, i have pride, i know i’m doing my best and giving my best-even when it isn’t enough.  To have it fail, to face that, is enormous.  It hurts.  It should hurt.

i’m watching my A slip into a high B.  i’m pissed that there were problems inside of Blackboard, that the instructors take forever to grade anything in both classes, and that i have to work ten times harder than everyone else all of the time.  i’m mad that i’m sick, that the fever has dragged on for almost two weeks, that i just want to go to bed and sleep for a week, that i have nightmares.

i’m even mad that my grandmother can’t be bothered to show up for me on Halloween.  Like ever.  What is she doing that is so damn important?

Sir Raven took the broom down for me to clean and sweeten with oils.  After five years of being up over the door, it desperately needs it.  That might help.  i just need to find the energy to work on that.

She brought home a turkey burger for me yesterday, which i devoured, and had no idea i was even hungry.  That was nice.

i need to go to the farmers market for her bread, the pharmacy, write up a case study which doesn’t say, “Get your head out of your ass,” and a ton of other assignments looming closer to due dates with chapters and chapters to read.  And then the massive projects to get done.  One of them is autobiographical in nature, which is where it should get interesting.

My fever just won’t stay down.

i’m exhausted, longing for comfort.  i keep thinking of my Grandmother, dying of dementia, who kept telling me she wanted to go home but had no idea what home meant anymore.

How are you feeling?

The question made me stop and think, because my first thought was, “I don’t know,” and that is never, ever good.

So, i’m here, writing to figure out how i’m feeling.

First, the physical:

Cymbals withdrawals are fairly terrorizing.  The speeding heartbeat, followed by the sluggish heart beat.  Anxiety.  Insomnia.  Exhaustion. Flares. Suicidal thoughts.

It took all i had to stay in my body, not give into the physical sensation of the start of a panic attack, and definitely not entertain the fleeting suicidal thoughts.  i checked in with my fibro group and was repeatedly assured that this was all the “normal” constellation of symptoms associated with cymbalta withdrawal.  It made me pretty angry, for one, because this is why i had refused the drug for years.  Secondly, what in the fuck is big pharma doing with us?  What kind of poison withdrawal results in erratic heartbeat that can do on for months?

Then there was the normal misery associated with not having pain meds.

Five days of hell was more than enough.  My body is still adjusting back.  Unfortunately, to top it all off, i woke up Saturday with a head and chest cold.  So, i’m trying to choose between working with medicine head and more pain-or less pain and a head that feels like a bowling ball and yucky green lungs.  Fun times.  i don’t want to accidentally kill myself or something by taking cold meds and vicodin together.

i slept on the playpen again so Sir Raven could get good sleep, because i went for the cold meds last night, and had very big very sharp needle stabbing pains that jolted me awake every couple of hours.

It has to get better.  It will.  i just have to keep chugging along, keep the house clean, and keep working on school.

I’m in crunch time, in the last two weeks of these classes, doggedly hanging on to an A and a B.  I’m stressed, as to be expected.  i have regular work plus two giant projects.  What i’m also a bit worried about is how i will do with the two weeks off, when i have less to ground and force me to focus.

Right now, i’d love to have a few days to just sleep, but it is not to be.  i have far too much to do.

i’m a bit terrorized in the house, with two mice and one rat sighting in the last few days.  Damn it.  Again.  i was only smoking in the kitchen, by the open window, blasting music.  Now i don’t even want to go in there.  i bought some very expensive peppermint rodent spray to try and end the rein of terror.  i’m not afraid of spider, roaches, garden snakes, bugs.  But rats and mice?  Yes. Phobic.

Okay, now emotionally-

That is far trickier.  Sir Raven and i finally started talking about some ways our relationship will change, and her acknowledgement that i’m serious is a bit of a relief.  It’s also nerve wracking.  Strange. The word scary comes to mind.

Beyond that-

i was watching something on television the other day and then a program came on about three women who had been kidnapped and kept in a house on chains for ten years.  They had the same thick chain i was bound with-as it turns out, its a logging chain.  The therapist that jumped in to explain what happened to them mentally during the ordeal was really helpful.  He wasn’t an ass about it.  At one point, he said that their brains literally had to create changes to accept the reality in order for them to survive.

The women talked about things that were familiar to me:

trying fruitlessly and ridiculously to remove the chain, thinking that somehow no one would believe me, finding comfort in being locked away, being unable to conceive of an outside world, being thankful for small allowances like being able to draw and paint, keeping a diary, forming a few bizarre rationalizations as a result of the kidnapping, feeling that love would keep me from being murdered.

i thought-again-that i have to forgive myself for doing what i had to do to survive.

There are some things, such as conflating love with not letting me leave, that don’t go away.  Nor does the fear that i’m just the whore of a rapist.

Every time i take migraine meds i think about Barbara doing what she did, and how my mother was ice cold when i was hysterically sobbing, and being unable to keep her out because my mother just kept letting her come back in the house.  Barb was buying groceries when my mother refused to leave the house for months, so she was literally the only way i had to feed my nephews.  It just was another way that i could not form an escape.

i also think of all of the odds i have beat in life.  So damn many.  And i can still love, have hopes, and dreams, and am still fighting back.

i push back against the odds against me and i always win in the end.

This is a messy time, a bit, but that is okay.  This too shall pass.  i know what i’m moving forward into, what i deserve, need, want, and what i have to give in return.

In a funny irony, i had to complete a survey and write up my results-which said that i’m quite securely attached.  i rank high in turning into my relationships for comfort during times to stress and i rank high in not expecting the other person to want to leave me.  When i had to examine the results and explain myself, i wanted to laugh, because i tend to think a partner won’t want to leave me because i provided consistently high service and speak every love language daily.

i want to be the best thing that ever happened to you.

In many ways, i don’t feel its a comment on me that i can’t be that here.  i don’t know what is wanted other than to sit quietly on my playpen, do nothing, and wait.

It’s becoming harder and harder for me to write here, which i suppose is an indication that i need to be here writing.  i’m gonna try and be more consistent about that.  i really wish i could go spend a month at Disney with people who want to be there with me.  i know my inner five year old is showing up inside, because i want to sniffle, pout, and scream, “And you don’t care!” which is proof positive that my lil girl is stomping her feet.  It isn’t true, of course, that no one cares and i absolutely know that.  Five year olds are exempt from rational thinking.  Heh.

 

Bit of light

So, there is finally a bit of light through the darkness and fatalistic thoughts.

Sir Raven is evidently feeling well enough that she went back to work today.  i slept out on my playpen last night to make sure she got a good night sleep and wasn’t preoccupied with me talking in my sleep or moaning in pain when she’d roll and the bed would bounce.  She didn’t ask me to or anything, but it was the only helpful thing i could really do.

The meds are en route, finally at fucking last.

Sir Raven made an amazing meal last night and felt well enough to sit in the living room for a while.  She gently rebuked me for my angst and frustration that i can’t get my endless lists done right now, saying she does not understand how i am feeling angsty about something i cannot do, and furthermore am ordered to not do.

She is right.  My ability to feel joy about obedience is non existent.  i’m shuffling through the chores i can do, trying to not get a panic attack from my heart racing and otherwise beating strangely, and trying to rest and not have fatalistic fantasies.  The cool and logical part of my brain is well versed, calmly reminding me this is just the meds problems, nothing more.

i had a momentary flashback the other day, of when my mother would insist upon taking us to a (in)famous Mega Church in Orlando, where we spent at least two days a week, 8 hours at a time.  My mere desire to NOT be there with people emoting all over the place, speaking in tongues, and passing out on the floor was proof that demons were possessing me and i was forced into therapy at the same church for that reason.

After a particularly grueling Sunday of it, where in the middle my mother was praying at the car and i didn’t know and had asked her something and she hit me, i was totally drained.  It was around 9 at night by this point, and we had been there since 8am, with a break for a meal that never took place.  i didn’t want to go to school the next day and was busily sulking in a 12 year old silent fury.  She decided to respond by stopping the car in the middle of Orange Blossom Trail, in a section of secluded highway with nothing for miles in any direction, and shoved me out of the car before driving off.

i remember screaming after the lights, and for the first time i felt the steely rod of determination go down my spine for me.

i got into the next car that came down the highway, some fifteen minutes to half hour later.  He told me he had children in college, and somehow the instantly disarmed me, along with him saying he would not hurt me, and that if i stayed out there alone someone else wood.  He had a nice car, was dressed well, and ironically had the last name Knight.

What more could you ask for, right?

Wrong.

When i said that this part of me that had always walked alone, this is the part i mean.  The 12 year old kid, abandoned in the dark on the side of the road, living a life where no one seemed to see that i was very obviously abused.  My mother had always told us that strangers were not what we had to worry about in life; it’s the people you know who will get you in the end.

This was not the first time she had pulled a dramatic stunt of negligence and abuse in the name of “tough love,” or “discipline,” or because she was an “abused parent.”

This is the part of me that when you expect me to fall apart in the middle of the road i will show you that i won’t-come what may.

It’s also the part of me that still feels like what i do when i run away is somehow manage to get myself raped and injured.

And so its a twisty game that goes back and forth between feeling pride that i won’t fall apart and feeling shame because there is some kind of sign over my head that reads “Rape me.”

The fact that i have many times dealt with, and sometimes perversely enjoyed, rape in intimate relationships is no accident.

i was reading last week a text book which pointed out that shame is a collectivist emotion, in the sense that you don’t experience shame as a singular event.  That is guilt-something you feel about yourself alone.  Shame is connected to others, a deep sense that you are bad, and that this badness will effect other people.  So it makes sense why i have bouts of shame but not guilt.  i’m very collectivist bent, thinking about the whole first, more interested generally in group harmony than individual harmony.

i don’t know.  i know it’s the meds and read the delightful withdraw symptoms, which i quit doing years ago because there is just no point anymore.  i swallow what i’m told to swallow.

Inside i feel like i’m back on that highway in the dark, the one kids used to make fun of girls with.  The “queen of OBT” is slang for a prostitute in parts of Florida.  So, it lends a bit of irony that this is where my mother shoved me out of the car.

It’s amazing i can fuck at all or that i’m not a walking panic attack.

It’s just the meds.

It’s just the meds.

It’s just the meds.

 

i’m imploding

i’m off my meds, which mean a wide array of fucked up withdraw symptoms ranging from anxiety to moments of intense rage to racing thought to insomnia to feeling like my skin is on fire.

Meanwhile, Sir Raven is sick and went to the doctor without me, because i was literally awake until almost 7am without sleeping at all and i didn’t know she was going.

i was trying to be supportive and all but quit smoking for almost four days, adding another layer of withdraw.

And i’ve been sitting in Limbo for a full week, waiting to see what the fuck is going on with Sir Raven and i.

i feel like i’m backed into a dark alley, with a knife at my heart, and all i want to do is rip open my blouse and hiss, “Go ahead, Motherfucker. Make my day.”

i had forgotten this thing inside of me, buried for so long.  The part of me that has always walked alone, isn’t afraid of shit, and will always figure out how to get back up.  i’m not losing one more time, one more thing.  i won’t back down.

i’m not looking for a fight, not at all.  There isn’t anything left to fight about for me.  It’s just the simple realization of what i need to have and give, and these things are for me alone.  My cunt and heart and skin can’t be in a prison.  It’s liberation day.

There is just too much spinning on inside me.  Fortunately, i know how to stay in my body and how to deal with this anxiety, this spitting and cursing animal inside.  i know how to manage it and i know a huge piece of this is the god damned meds i swallow and blow up inside every day and then having the mail order shit get messed up.  i’ve been out of two kinds of meds for days.

i’m also worried about Sir Raven, and i want to fix it, but i can’t.  Of course i can’t.  She is taking meds and will hopefully be better soon.  This is no time to talk, figure anything out, be rational or loving human beings to each other.

In the meantime, Limbo lingers on.  Waiting.  i was actually really calm, peaceful inside, ready for anything.  i’ll circle back to that soon.  In the meantime, i’m actually jonsing for the first time in a long while, wanting anything to bring me down, let me sleep, let me dream.  Instead, i’m blasting Staind in my ears.  i haven’t played this album in years, and its a familiar landscape infused with memories and love.  i wrap it around me like a veil and wait.

 

Fantasy?

Karida and i talked about fantasies over dinner.  i had remarked that i don’t really fantasize, that i’ve been told that what i actually do-replaying memories and dreams-isn’t actually fantasizing.

i think of fantasizing as something closer to what Oliva or Nilla do, weaving stories, plots, people together and using their innermost driving forces to snare them.

So, Karida probed a bit deeper, wanting to know what i think about while cumming alone.

What i think about is pretty random, i think.

The only man i had amazing sex with in my life, because the first time we were in bed, i only had the language to say, “Forget that you love me, forget you even know my name.  Force pleasure for yourself from my body.  Use me.”  His eyes suddenly turned dark, his demon came forth like a dark secret, and he asked me if i was sure.  Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed me by the hair, slammed me down with his hands around my throat, and fucked me until i was bruised, bleeding, pleading, crying for it to stop, pleading for him to hurry-but he wouldn’t-he would just reply-very calmly-“You can take it, and you will,” and fuck me harder.

About a year into our relationship, where i would spend the weekends with him, he had a little pissy fit about how he was tired from work and didn’t want to fuck.  i had acknowledged his complaint, my energy cool and aloof, inviting no further conversation-but i told him that was fine, that i could give him a massage instead, and he went for a shower.

When he came out, his dick was already hard, and i was betting it was so hard that there was pre cum.  i smiled, Victorious.

Because, truly, i didn’t really give a shit if he was tired.  What i cared about was that he could not control his dick from getting hard around me, that he had to face that my cunt had power, and i like it that way.  Even knowing in the next hour or two, i’d live to regret his hard dick, the sheets would have blood, i wouldn’t know what my name was or care, it still felt genuinely victorious.

i suppose that explains how i like my sex.  Something neither of us can fully control.  Something just beyond our mutual ability to say, “no” and make it stick for long.

i knew a woman who was a pure masochist, that any form of pain made her become arroused, to the point of being able to orgasm from it.  She had burned herself accidentally, in a place i had become accustomed to touching, a place i thought of as mine.  i had inadvertently touched her on the burn two or three times, beneath her jeans, and there is a Queer Sex second sense that tells you when a female-identified body has a hard dick.  i felt my familiar victory smile-and then her eyes turned Demon, and very quietly, very calmly, she said, “If you touch me there again, girl, I’m going to rape you.”

i felt a heady sense, a rush of joy, and excitement and adrenaline, because i wanted to make her do it with just the look in my eyes, the cruel smile on my lips.

 

Once, someone i am madly in love with, told me she wanted to take me to a Harley Davidson shop, where they had a fine selection of belts.  She knew the shop keepers enough to ask if they would mind her trying out the merchandise on me before buying for her collection, and when she told me this, i demured.  Not because i objected to being objectified.  i don’t.  But because the joy for me was in not being able to say no, to stop it, to not decide anything about how far it will go.  The simple fact is, she is wired exactly the same way, in reverse.  Sure, she loves belts.  She also loves that she fucked with my wiring enough that i will crave the thing i hate.  That when i’m screaming, “I hate you!” it’s just getting good.  And that, just like me, her “No,” doesn’t mean a whole lot.

It might mean, “not now.” But it can’t mean a whole hell of a lot more than that because i can ping her psychically and there is a line between that and her cunt, just like mine.

The joy is in riding the razor thin area between You not being able to control your dick….and me not being able to control you raping me.

Force. Rape. Desire. Need. Rage. Demons. Something-near-hate-and-love, mixed together.

Left to my own devices, i am my own kind of primal.  i bite, i kick, i suck, my nails dig in, i want to hurt you, want to fight you and loose, and want to give you every fucking thing inside of me at the same time.

i am totally comfortable shoving a Top down, going down on them, and not asking in any way first.  i don’t have a problem with that.  i don’t mind doing all the work after a long day.

So this is where my mind goes, rather than fantasies.  It is a compilation of real life, dreams that are more real than life, and memories that haven’t happened yet.

i am awake inside again, growling, hungry, sweaty need.

i am awake.