Thanks for those that left nice comments. I am touched, honestly. Thanks, guys.
So my very stressful event has happened. I survived it. And it was the longest night of my life, survived only with the help of a tranquilizer (hey-I have anger control issues, remember. If you have that, doctors tend to prescribe the things like a Redi-Remedy) and a crazy sleeping tablet.
And if I see that little bastard Roland the Mental Health Fairy I am going to rip his goddamn wings off.
I still feel I cannot talk about what really happened, but suffice to say what has occurred has made me crumble in places that I didn't even know had chinks in them. I am a hollow, empty shell today. I can see my emotions, all wrapped-up in a snug and tidy little box, high up on a shelf with "Do Not Remove" written on it, and cannot actually reach them. I cannot stop crying. I cannot stop shaking. I have to write this blog post in Word for this first fucking time since I cannot seem to even be able to spell. Is that possible? When you experience trauma you forget how to spell? So like, if I had some other kind of emotional trauma, I wouldn't be able to tie my shoes? Or suddenly forget how I have been shaping my eyebrow arches and just go after them with a Weed Whacker?
I wish this pain would just go away. I don’t remember the last time things felt this badly before. Not even with one of the greatest loves of my life died. Believe it or not, this is worse.´
"Pity! Pity, Party of 1! Your table is now available!"
Sometimes I look at my life in wonder. Last night, walking back to the building from my boxing class, my hair wet, tendrils curling around my pinked cheeks, the smell of lavender soap, sweat, and deodorant on my skin, as I badged back into Company X’s building I thought of how lucky I was to have my job. Then when I drove home, to the perfect house, I thought about how much I love that house. I had a large glass of pear cider as I watched the frost settle on the panes of glass. Everything I have in my life is there because I try to be brave, to not be afraid of life. People think I am tough and invincible. To those people, I have just one thing to say:
Perhaps you don't know me.
Because I am afraid. A lot. I just never tell anyone. There are many hallmarks of people who are afraid to live. They make sure they use up the milk before it expires. They take a promotion on a job they don’t really want in order to make sure they have a job. They leave the house way too early for an appointment only to wind up arriving thirty minutes too early. They don't get up to pee during the movie since they don't want people noticing them as they make their way out of the aisle. And they settle for a partner that is good company and a good friend, but not the fiery passionate love of their lives.
And on that last point, I am a scaredy-cat, as are most of the people around me. We’re all so worried that we will fall off the carousel that we never try for the brass ring, even when it is right in front of us. We are all destined to live lives with people that we love…but are not in love with. Partners that do not make us yearn, long, and lust after them with a desire so hot it could be called a chemical dependency.
As you may have discerned, I am actually incredibly cavalier about sex. I have had multiple partners (ok, we’re not talking huge numbers, here) that are construed of men, women, and...ahem...more than one person in a bed at one time. More than two, even. OK, more than that, but I am not saying anything more for now. I had an affair years ago. God knows I love spending a good weekend with my Maestrobater. And I have had an open relationship.
Actually, I have been thinking about that open relationship recently, since I wrote about it a few days ago.
When you have an open relationship someone has to go first. That’s just the way of it. Until someone actually takes that step, an open relationship is really just a game of bedroom-fantasy Chicken. Someone has to be the first one to step into a new ring and say: “Right. Here I am. Let’s have a round of boxing with someone other than my partner. Let’s put our money where our mouths are.” And your official boxing partner, the defending champion, is left guarding the spit bucket and Gatorade, mortified, nervous, wounded, outraged, devastated. The first person who steps out of the boxing match called The Relationship sets the benchmark. Every email, text message, or phone call swapped between that partner and the challenger becomes the mark to which the defending champion must prevail against.
And then, when it’s time for the defending champion to step into their own ring…well, then it becomes a grudge match. The defending champ has the right to battle a new contender. Their own partner did, after all. And since their partner did it, whatever combinations and fancy footwork their partner had, they can as well. Since their partner went 3 rounds and 4 orgasms, they can too. The defending champ can deliver a one-two combo punch that breaks their official partner’s jaw (and their heart), since they had that blow themselves.
The official partner is, at once, sympathetic of the damaged, demolished pain that their champion faced previously. They understand then the horrific pain that first occurred, the very first time they placed their booted foot outside of the ring. And after that, they have to try to figure out how to manouver in their shared ring, or if their boxing rules need some adaptations. And both of them are very, very brusied and tender. So does misery really love company, or is a heavyweight belt really better suited for solo work?
If two rights don’t make a wrong, what do two wrongs do?
I am still shaking pretty badly from the other issue in my life and so will go home soon. Like any crisis, I hope it passes soon. Not only because I cannot handle feeling like this, but because I miss my sex drive, too.
-H.
Posted by Everydaystranger at September 24, 2003 12:39 PM | TrackBack