Dying Truth

8.8.15

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A tarot reader in New Orleans once said to me:

“He will come.”

 

And I hold onto that dying truth

Like the last shards of a broken version of myself

When I cry myself to sleep.

 

I am sure I have put myself back together again

But there seems to have been a missing piece

Although I have searched

Through fog and dust and tears and blood

I can’t find it

I just keep looking

And I’ll keep waiting,

Until he shows up

On my doorstep

With ice cream and coloring books.

 

 

I used to color in the psych wards

Even though it was against the rules

They let me fingerpaint

That one time when I had escaped my reality

 

Even though images of my death

flashed

I felt somehow more at peace than ever

When I gave the best of my pictures

To the young girl who was going to Bryce–

At least I was somehow useful

though it was so sad:

“I have no one to take care of me.”

 

I realized that’s all I ever wanted

 

But can he find me?

Does he feel as hopeless

As I feel every now and then?

 

At least I’m free

Cause when I was in Gen Pop that time

A girl said:

“She’s a richy-rich girl, but she ‘aight.”

Which has basically been everyone’s assessment

Of me always….

Although, as Mr. Nice Nasty pointed out:

“That’s the best compliment you could get in jail.”

 

 

At least now

I can say I have lived

 

most people just do what they’re suppose to

 

I’ve let go of the life

I’m  “suppose” to have

 

never really setting out to get married,

I suppose I can’t complain I am still single

 

But I do feel a twinge of regret,

Like, well, what now?

Even though he fell off that train

He probably has more peace

Than I.

 

Although it’s not a bad life,

It’s just that I get lonely sometimes

Waiting for the man

That tarot reader spoke of.

 

 

Note: The tarot reading was indeed accurate—I was married 10.15.17.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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RISK

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My junky past
can’t keep up with me
punk rock leaks through
the trailer with no floors
an upside down flag
is wrapped around my body
while the cats run wild
Escaping through the cracked plywood.

it was like living
in a make-shift tent
we played an alcoholics
version of Risk
and danced on the edge of death-
the gravel sticking to my skin
down an endless dirt road,
the lavender isn’t real here, Bug.

the story stops abruptly

mostly cause he O.D’d

but he lived
so when he woke up

he said: “I just did a little too much.”

he was my heroin
I was not strong enough
to save him
I couldn’t even save myself

I wrote his eulogy before he left
The story did end abruptly, eventually, on that train.
They said: “he never got over you.”

i always wondered
if there was life
after the end of the story.

i will mourn him until I collapse

Running
Up Up Up

the downhill escalator

if you never take risks Then why bother living?

You Stood By Me

You stood by me.  You stood by me, when I didn’t know what was going on myself.  You stood by me, when I “kept you up with all my manic energy” (Song lyric by Waxahatchee).   You stood by me when I would suddenly burst into tears.  You stood by me, when I curled up on the floor in fear.  You stood by me when, shaking, I flipped from angry to happy to depressed.  You stood by me, stroked my hair, and rubbed my aching back.  You stood by me, even when I kept the light on while you were sleeping because of my intense insomnia.  You stood by me when I didn’t know if I could continue.  You stood by me, when panicking, my throat closed up.  You stood by me when I played the same album over and over again because it was calming.  You stood by me when electrical sensations pulsed through my body.   You stood by me when I thought I would have to be hospitalized.  You stood by me, telling me, “I know this isn’t who you are.”  Eyes filled with tears by seeing my pain and fear, you stood by me.  We haven’t made it through this yet, but I know you will continue to stand by me.

** Note: I am currently under medical supervision while getting off an anti-depressant.  This has caused me severe withdrawal symptoms, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. **

BDSM Lifestyle Submission

At first in my journey into the BDSM lifestyle, I did not consider myself a submissive. I liked submission in the bedroom; but outside of sex, I think I subconsciously viewed it as “weak.” Being a feminist, I struggled with being submissive to a man. For other women, it was fine, as long as it was of their choosing. But it was not for me. It was not until my fiance came along, did I change my mind. Also, it was not until after quite some time of being together did I realize that I wanted to be submissive to him outside of the bedroom. This is a huge change for me and signifies a lot of growth in the BDSM lifestyle for me. To some, perhaps submission comes easily and naturally; but for me, I had to develop a deep relationship with him before I could even consider submission outside of the bedroom.

I consider service to be a big part of my submission to him. I feel like it is my duty to keep the house clean, do our laundry, and have dinner ready by 6pm every weeknight (He likes to cook, so he is excited to cook for me on the weekends). I feel satisfied when Sir comes home and everything is in order and he compliments me. Especially when he tells me I am a good girl! I can be teasingly “bratty” in a fun way every now and then, but mostly I want to be a good girl.

Outside of service to Sir and submission in the bedroom, I am becoming more open to his influence. Sir tells me what he thinks about decisions that involve me, but most of the time gives me the choice of what to do. More and more, I feel compelled to follow his advice; however, he does not force me to do anything. I willingly give him my submission. This makes me feel lighter and happier, especially because I know it pleases him. And to see him happy and stress-free makes me happy and stress-free. Of course, we have a few rules that I am to follow and I do. Sir does not believe in tons of rules in a Dom/sub relationship (nor does he in polyamorous relationships, but that is another writing).

I feel like my submission is a giving of myself over to him, and that makes me feel closer and more connected to him than I have felt to anyone. But it is only him that I feel I could be this way with; he has earned my submission, truly. And for that I feel grateful. Because to change and grow and challenge yourself in this lifestyle is what makes it important.

I smoke cigarettes & I don’t eat & I lament.

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I smoke cigarettes and I don’t eat and I lament.  I started smoking again because in a strange way it is something I can control, a decision I made, in a life that feels out of control.  It is the last night before my mother comes into town and my fiancé is not home, is late, from work.  For every sound of a car, the dog goes to the gate, expecting it to be him.

It is too hot to sit outside, but I sit outside anyway because I can smoke.

Today I told Fiancé I hated him-very politely-because he “likes” someone else.  (See previous post: “I lost a piece of him”).

He is the only person I know to take that in stride.

Today I thought about breaking up with him,

Today he got scared.  That I would leave him.

We talk and we talk and we talk and we come to no conclusions.  Neither side wants to give up anything, so we are at an impasse.

Therefore, I shove my feelings deep down inside and hope they will go away.

This creates a river of distance between us, with everything in between poisoned.

I read Lena Dunham’s book “Not That Kind of Girl” and feel that we have similar writing voice.  Or, maybe, I just hope we do.  I can relate to it because I have fucked a lot of guys I wish I hadn’t and because I have dated a lot of jerks.  This seems to be what the book is about so far, that, and being raped.  Which I don’t feel I can relate to, but I know that every other girl I know can.  Maybe I have just been too slutty in the past, I think.  I do like sex and lots of it, and also (In the past) with lots of people.  Now, however, I do not think I can even date someone else besides fiancé, even if he can.  I message the OKC guy I am talking to (the main one) and tell him “I am not built for poly, but would love to be friends.”  And that I am shutting down my profile for this reason, but give him my phone number in case he wants to contact me.  He doesn’t.  So far.  This is too bad, I think.  He was a nice guy.

Fiancé keeps bringing up Bladerunner (the original, as the sequel isn’t out until October), and the scene where Rachel makes a comment about someone (maybe Decker) having a picture of another woman hanging on the wall, “That’s not right,” she says, “She should be enough for him.”  Fiancé comments about how “dated” this ideology is and I partially agree with this.  I mean, I don’’t want to be someone’s whole world in which they have no one or nothing else, but I also think my love should be enough for him.  Poly theory has never spoken to me in the way it has to him, the idea that love is infinite and you shouldn’t just have to love one person romantically.  I disagree in the sense that something is lost, a specialness, when you romantically love more than one person.  Not that fiancé loves the other girl, but you get my point. 

I go to the psychiatrist and she seem to rely on my own self-knowledge, so I prescribe to up my Wellbutrin to 450 mg, which I think is the max dose. And to see her again in a month.  We were supposed to be lowering the meds today, as planned previously, in preparation for me to try to get pregnant.  But I do not have a job, or money, therefore, no trying to get pregnant yet.  The idea of having a child feels so far away from me, now.

Losing a Piece of Him

I am a wreck.

“I don’t want you to be broken,” He says, crying.

Too late for that, I think, I was broken to begin with.

Polyamory (Poly) (from Greek πολύ poly, “many, several”, and Latin amor, “love“) is the practice of or desire for intimate relationships with more than one partner, with the knowledge of all partners.  It has been described as “consensual, ethical, and responsible non-monogamy.”

I feel numb as I try on my wedding dress, after the alterations. 

Is it all meaningless?, I think.

I feel physically ill, but I smile at the seamstress and say “its perfect.”

The dress does look perfect, that’s true.

But how I feel is less-than-perfect, not-good-enough.

He likes another girl.

True, I agreed to poly, but it’s not what I would choose.

I am not saying you can’t play or sometimes fuck other people.  I am not crazy or unrealistic.

Emotional monogamy, however is another story.

When we fuck, I think, does he touch her like this? Does she like it?  Is she better than me?

I am a wreck.

“I don’t want you to be broken,” He says, crying.

Too late for that, I think, I was broken to begin with.

I am already lost in this world, no job, no prospects, little family.  I have never lived in a city that feels like home.

Anxiety in one area of life bleeds over to the other.

I do not want another person, another guy, to touch me, to play, to fuck, to love me.

All I need is him.

Why am I not enough?

My best friend, Mr. NN says,what are you afraid of losing?”

I say, “I have already lost a piece of him.”

He says, “she’s already married”

I say, “I don’t care.”

He says “If you can’t do poly, that’s a big deal.  It will blow up sooner or later.”

It is blowing up.  It’s blowing up now.

He has negated our love.

He has drained the joy from me.

I vacillate between hate and love.

She thanks for me for letting her be with him.

I say, “You’re welcome” and I think, Like I have a choice in all of this.

I sink deeper into my depression.

He calls.  He says, “you sound better.”

Sure.  I am thinking, what am I even alive for?

I mean, really, what I am doing that’s worthwhile?

Nothing.

I am broken.

It is my fault, I should have broken up with him when I tried to the first time, for this very reason.

This thought creates a hole in my chest so large that I can’t breathe anymore.

I call him and cry, sobbing, he doesn’t answer and I try to leave a message, but I can’t talk.

I think about messaging all the guys I am talking to on OKCupid and say: “I am sorry, but I can’t do this.  This is a lie.”  This would be the real truth.

For the moment, I decide I would rather live in pain (in poly) with him, than without him, which makes me feel better than earlier, with the prospect of losing him entirely.  I would rather lose a piece than the whole of him.