All for one

Pitting one against the other
never turns out right—
the surest way to kill joy is through comparison—

"I've loved Him longer...been there, been through..."

"Yes, but I love him newly, with new perspective..."

"Oh, but I love Him, unfulfilled, afar..."

"But I am His home."

"I am his desire."

"I am His frivolity."

"I am his fantasy."

"This I know..."

"But this, I know."

"Me...look here...see how I know?"

"I will spend..."

"I will make..."

"I will send..."


All of us trying to know more, show more, be more...
  for You, to You. To prove that we are capable of what no other could do for You, or with You, or through You...all to be chosen...all for One, one memory, one moment, one man.

Fool

  So, here I am again...reaching and reaching, knowing everything is pulling away, slowly, but with ever more efficiency. And so I try not to reach too much, or too fast, or for too long, trying to grab the snippets of affection you still show, hoping, hoping, hoping that they will stir in you renewed desire for me, however small, believing that small things grow. I do not expect the immediate return of your desire, as I know there are still old hurts and ideas that must be purged from the system, and so I try to keep my own system clear... I try to appreciate that you ask after me, taking it as a small sign of care, concern. comfort, but my response earns no response, and I cannot say whether it is a matter of business, or avoidance. I am not asking for much, just encouraging words, and an encouraging heart. I am seeking my courage, my personal power, but I need a boost to help me feel empowered—you ask me still, to admire you, look here, smell there, and again, I take it as reason for hope, that for you to ask me to come closer and observe, and feel for myself the pleasure of knowing you, means that for that moment you want me near, are inviting me in to the sensual...but, then, when my responses to your questions are met with silence, I am drawn back into a position of doubt. And some times I think that because I am having trouble keeping myself entirely lifted through these ins and outs and ups and downs and overs and unders and backs and forths that we are experiencing, that because I do still get depressed, in spite of my best efforts, that because you're mood and receptivity do, in fact, impact me greatly, that somehow you see me as not doing what needs to be done. I do not believe that I deserve "full credit", because I know that in many ways I am still ignorant about myself, about how to find the me that's me, the me that's best for me, and best for us, even best for the world; but I know also that my position has shifted, and I know that, even though, on some days, I fail at doing more, I am doing more. I don't know how long it takes to learn discipline, to be disciplined...I think discipline is what I need, mostly from myself (but, yes, I do want discipline from others, as well, because, let's face it, spankings are fun—as your bumper sticker may soon attest!) but I don't think I could ever be severe about it... I think you know what I mean. But then, maybe that in itself is a problem...like, I'm asking for it, but not too rough, not too hard...just enough to get me there, but not enough to sap the pleasure out of it... I have been trying to infuse my will with the will, not just the desire, to change into what I always wanted to be: a woman with subtle secrets, a woman who is desired and has desires, a woman who is and has accomplished, a woman who feels the universe moving, a woman who sees the best in people and brings it out, a woman who is respected, a woman who is intelligent, a woman who is sexually satisfied, liberated, and free, a woman who is witty and charming, a woman who is fulfilled...and sometimes I worry that is too much to ask for, when it has not been given me as birthright, because I, who wished so desperately to change her station and position in this world, still secretly believe that I don't deserve to be all those things, because those who deserve have already received their blessings, and that whatever it would take to sculpt me into such a woman would be far too costly, well beyond my reach. Is it worth the dying to try..? Is it worth the living to not? There are so many examples of people, men and women from all lands, that have risen beyond their circumstances, and I hope to discover the skill to do so too. And so, while I understand that there is no way, no logical, practical, way, for us to be everything and all to each other, even as Romance still appeals to a naive little girl in me, I also truly need from you acceptance, moral support, and the same understanding you always asked from me (especially as it pertains to the argument that you are not my father, so too, I am not your mother)as I seek out what else will satisfy. (I look out the window, and see that googly eyes and branches that signify your presence, and remember that this time it is not so) Whatever I will be, I will be different, and I want, most of all, to come through all of this, all of the things that hold me away from myself, all of the things I am afraid of, all of the things I held for so long that did not serve me, with an ego sufficiently stroked, a mind enlivened, a heart empowered, and a body that moves with it all, no longer, uncertain, no longer afraid, no longer waiting to be, no longer a fool too afraid to take herself seriously.  

Punishment, or TLDR: I should have shut the fuck up.

  You say You don't do it to punish me, but You know damn well that's how it feels, what it looks like, how it functions. When I walked in the door, I could tell something was off. You maintained a distance from me, and I had been gone all day, our last communication giving no evidence of any tension. There was, from what I could tell, nothing I had done to warrant the distance. But, not wanting to be invasive, not wanting to repeat the previous hug fiasco, I didn't draw in to You. I tried to tell You about the moon, the yoga, the night...when You said we should go lay in bed, I thought that perhaps now would be the time; but, no. You crawled into bed as I made us tea—tea You would not drink—, and covered Yourself, chin to toes, as if I were not even allowed to look at You. You were very clearly avoiding me, contact, touch...and perhaps it was not enough that I did not reach out to touch You. I tried to give You a space to talk, and instead of telling me that You did not want to, were too tired, You give me vague answers about speaker and audience, then seemingly fall asleep. I was frustrated, because I felt like You weren't acknowledging me, that You were edging around the subject, and then acting as if I have no reason to suspect that there is an issue. You asked me about normality, as if, from Your perspective, everything was as usual. It felt like You were being callous—knowing that every day I look forward most to coming home to You, eager, every day, every hour, for closeness. Something about, after being alone for a while You don't know how to be around people...

  I told You what my perception was, specifically, that You were upset about having to change the plans You had made, You were decided not to be close to me and to make me suffer as You were suffering. I admitted that I could be wrong, but that I couldn't see another reason for Your distance. I asked, nicely, for You to either confirm or deny what You call my "accusation." Because You didn't like what I said, or how I said it, or why I said it, You chose not to address it, and to let it fester in me. This is what I meant when I told you You had the power to alleviate my concern. You say that I make mistakes, when after years of observation I should know better. But, after years of observation, has it ever helped me to "see more clearly" or to "calm down" when You don't answer the questions I ask, when you walk away, when You get out of answering by condescending to me? That is the surest way to elevate my frustration and anger. I know that sometimes I walk away to smoke when we are arguing, to give myself a space to breathe and redirect, and I try to make that clear, and I think You know that when I get a clove, I'm calling time-out; but, when You walk away, it makes me feel like You are doing it to—I've already deleted this and started over because I can't get it right, and everything I write inspires images of Your disgust. What I'm trying to say, is that I feel like You can hurt me, so much more than I can hurt You. I know that I have, and it tears me up, because I love You more than anything. And, it feels like You know, as well as I do, that You have a power over me that I do not hold over You. You know, it hurts me when You leave the bed in anger. You know, it hurts me when You withdraw, physically or emotionally. You know, it hurts me when You don't speak to me. You know,starting or ending the day with stress, without affirmation, is painful to me. All of these little hurts that hurt so much—I don't have this effect on You, You don't feel the need for me that way. So, believing that You know these things, I can only believe that these wounds are intentional. 

  Maybe it's true, I am an abuser—I won't deny that in the past I have acted out against You—maybe, I abuse myself. mostly. I've told You, and it's true, that I have never gotten so riled by anyone as I am by You; I never hit anything or anyone until we started having really awful fights. I don't blame You, but I think, a long time ago, when I saw You handling Your anger by being destructive, I learned how to do it too—and now, we both have to break the habit. But simply voicing my observations, accusatory or not, isn't abuse. Bringing attention to the fact that we haven't had physical contact in 24 hours isn't abuse. Getting angry, feeling hurt and lonely, these are not abuse. I was trying to have an honest conversation last night, because something was obviously on Your mind. We could have avoided this whole fight, all of it, if You had just been honest with me. We are both guilty.

  You were still in avoidance mode this morning...else , why did You not kiss or caress me, as is the usual morning greeting? So, I waited as long as I could, lying awake, aching for touch, for connection, until finally, I had to get up. Usually, if You are not upset with me, You will say "Good Morning" as I come down the ladder; since You said nothing, I assumed, taken with the lack of physical touch, that You were still upset. You come to me, while I am at a disadvantage, and ask if I am still mad at You, I say I thought You were mad at me...shouldn't that have been the end of it? If neither of us was mad anymore, what happened? You thought I was being short-sighted, I wanted You to acknowledge my observations, concerns, as legitimate. I wanted a hug. A kiss. A pat on the head.

  You asked me if I ever look in a mirror. Of course I do. Every day. What do I see? A crooked face, a weakened and warped body, a twisted soul. What is the "double?" I'm not up on my Lacan. The self, and the other self, okay, fine...but I haven't figured out how to remove myself from myself to find something better. I fail every day. I was a little proud of myself yesterday, making it through the day even after a rough morning, doing three separate yoga sets, trying really hard not dwell on negativity, to connect with breath—but now it feels like a useless effort. Nothing changed, nothing got better—I didn't get better. I came home, was rejected anyway(regardless of malice), lost control of myself for a moment, slept unsatisfyingly, and managed to anger You while wanting not to. So now, I just feel like shit. Punished. By You, by It, and even by me. And now that I think about it, it really is my fault. 

  There I am, desperately wanting to be hugged, and I guess if I couldn't get that then I was going to get some kind of engagement. I mean, it makes sense, right? I am angry because Your body language, and even verbal language, indicated You didn't want to talk with me at all. I should have just shut the fuck up. I'm sorry. 



  

   

Moja droga, ja cię kocham

  You keep telling me how bad it is. It's like being in that "toilet bowl" water-slide—the one we went to in February, where we had such a good time, but things were already strained, me being cautious and restrained and insecure, you being attractive and attracted, riding a high not-quite-faded both of us wanting more and more and more—only without lights or handles and I've nearly been thrown out more than once, to bump and brace against walls slick and unforgiving, sluicing and spiraling down to an unknown end. 
  
  But then, for a moment, the light in Your eyes will change, and You will say You need me, to be brave and bear all, even braver to bare all, and this is what I desire, too. To stand proud and unashamed, wanted and wanting, both of us worshipping through the other, feasting and feeding and feeling united with the outer other inner lover, making magic together. That is what I miss, the hard-won belief, that I was magical, too, that all my life, it was in there, thrumming just below, wanting only the right catalyst to send forth the surge, in ecstasy, rapture, exaltation in life itself, in love at last, flying astride, higher than any pill, powder or potion can imitate.  

  So, I find myself , yes, wistful, and wantful, and aching to make love to You, through You, to me, to delight in the scents and sounds we craft from one another. To say to You, and even more to myself: Moya droga, ja cie kocham. Listen

Hospital Cure: Part Two

    It's been entirely too long, and I should have done this long ago; but , confusion and mixed feelings, distance and dreams, life and You, all of it has served to remove from me the feelings of excitement and wonder, the possibilities that I began to see are now bitterly retracted. But, I will try to remember.

  Two days, sixteen hours was all we had. Even less than that. And  what happened? I was turned on, fondled, flirted with and excited. But none of that lasted. In the moments we were together there was a pulling at me, a desire to give and receive. In the moments between it seemed unreal, and unlikely.

  He came back in the next morning; I thought it was all over already, but he smiled at me just the way he had before and came over to the bed. "How was your night?" Quiet, boring, lonely. You hadn't been there, You had to stay home so You could sleep and be rested for work the next day. "How are you feeling today?" "Sore, and thirsty." "I'll tell you what. After I make rounds I'll come back and give you a massage. What would you like to drink?" "Could I have a cup of ice, and a Sprite Zero?" He laughed a little, "Sure." About an hour later he was back again. I had drifted off to sleep again, and I woke to find him leaning over me a bit, a banana and red jello in hand. "What's this?" "They call it a banana; I though you might like some breakfast, and if you eat this I won't have to give you a potassium pill." "Those are the big fuckers, right?" "Yeah, they're really big." He said he had to take care of some things, but that he hadn't forgotten the promised massage. I ate the banana and jello in the relative silence of the room, wondering about You, and relieved to be eating something. You were at work by now. What were You doing? What did You think I was doing? Do you imagine me there there alone, sleeping or reading or watching tv or talking to nurses when You are gone. Usually I am alone and asleep, letting the medications seep in and steal away the hours until it's time to go.

  And then he was there again—another shot of morphine ready— hands rubbing together to warm them before he touched me. I turned sideways on the bed again, waiting for the pain relief, and perhaps more. His hands were strong and the pressure he exerted was intoxicating. I leaned my head back a little, and he leaned in to my neck, breathing and whispering in my ear, perhaps discerning my weaknesses—my weakness. Why was I letting him do this? I couldn't tell myself that it was just a friendly massage. I wanted it, wanted more, wanted him, but at the same time I felt deceitful and wrong. He was married; neither You nor his wife had any idea about what was happening, and that made me feel terrible, but the touch was so good, and this had never happened to me before— I gave in to my weakness for just a little bit more, but still fearing that it was all too far, and too much, and unforgivable. His hands massaged lower on my back, and around my hips, then made their way back up to my shoulders and arms and chest, just barely touching my breasts. I swayed with the movements and moaned with the ministrations, and then I heard him say something like "I'm getting my dick sucked." Wait, what?

  He went to the door and checked the hall, then he came back to the bedside and pulled his scrubs down a little, and there, behold, was his cock. Brown and erect, with a scent of fabric softener and musk, and just inches away from my face...this was all too fast for me. I couldn't let myself go that far, even with the drowsiness and medications, I knew, I knew, but still I could almost feel my tongue stretching forward to lick and kiss and feel the tumescent flesh filling my small mouth...no, no. "I'm sorry, I can't." "Come on, I'll be quick..."  His hand came down to my shorts, searching for the warmest secret spot. I backed away, "I'm sorry. I just can't. It's not that I'm not very tempted by you, and your cock is beautiful, but I can't do this like this." "What do you mean, like this?" I took a deep breath and tried to formulate what I wanted to say. "Have you heard of polyamory?"   

  He cocked his head a little, and his eyebrows and his pants went up. "What does that mean?" "Well, it means that my fiancee and I have an agreement. It means that we are open to seeing other people, and that under the right circumstances we might develop other, interests. Maybe, I don't know, maybe we could get together for coffee, or something, and discuss the possibility of this happening another way?" "My relationship doesn't work that way. I can't develop feelings for you." By this time the cock had disappeared back into his pants. "Oh, well..." He took a deep breath and let it out in an explosive expletive. He stretched his arms up over his head, his shirt raising to reveal his stomach, and then he brought this arms down and around in circle-stretches. "I'd better go. I'll come check on you in a little while."  "Ok."

  So there it, mostly, is. What I remember. I saw him two more times, briefly, as he administered my medications, but there was no more flirting. He still looked me in the eyes, and maybe, maybe there was a sort of regret there, but what sort I can't say. He didn't say good-bye when his shift ended; he just walked out and away. And now, as I've told You over and over, I don't know what it meant for him. For me, the two weeks after, I could still think about him and smile and wonder if maybe, somewhere, somebody, would be right—but, then, You are right, and so I don't know how to be, or feel, or think, or do.

   A few days after being released I wrote him a letter, as well as writing to one of the other nurses who was very kind (but that is another story). I don't know if he got it. But I wanted to tell him at least that for a little while he made me feel something I hadn't experienced in a very long time, and I thanked him for that—and the red jello. That I hoped everything went well for him, and if ever found his way back to the college, he should stop by and say hello.

  I don't think I'll ever see him again, and indeed, even in my mind, his face and voice fade. One day he won't be there at all.

  

Hospital Cure: part one

  
  I  had a very profound experience in the hospital—an experience with another man. The situation I believed impossible occurring at the most unlikely time. Granted, had it not been for the meds, I would never have been so bold, so open—sitting in that hospital bed, once more attached to tubes and wires and poles I felt I was in my own surreal adventure, exotic Persian prince included. 

  It was my eyes he first saw, the rest of me was burrowed down in to a pile of six blankets (one is never enough in the hospital; if you're lucky they bring you a heated blanket; putting the heated blanket next to your cold limbs and feet can be close to divine). His initial remarks about my blue eyes sort of slid right by me. All I could fathom was that it was shift change, and here was the newest stranger that would be poking, measuring, asking, checking me every two hours. A male nurse, what a rare treat; some of these men are incredibly compassionate—Mike, in the ER, for example; years ago, a man named Brian—some are just efficient. But this one, was attracted to me, and I'm still trying to figure what it was. Hair pinned up, no makeup, dehydrated and nauseated—amidst all that he saw something he liked. His hands lingered on mine when passing medication, or beverages, or the red jello he brought me because he knew I was tired of green. 

  He offered to give me a shoulder massage—I can never resist a massage from a pair of strong hands. "You're so hot." "Well," innocently, not understanding, "I have been under six blankets all day." "Oh is that what you thought I meant?" Embarrassingly, yes, I thought he meant that my body was literally hot. That was the first moment when it occurred to me that this man was attracted to me, not just attracted, but that he wanted me, however briefly. He was standing behind me as I sat sideways on the bed, so close I barely had to lean back to be against his abdomen. He leaned over and whispered into my ear "You smell fantastic." Again, shock reeled me. Granted, I had taken a shower just before going in to the hospital, but I would have thought all the saline and plastic and latex would have overwhelmed any scent I might carry. Thank the goddess I had refused to wear that awful hospital gown, instead I was wearing a black spaghetti strap tank with a shelf-bra and a pair of purple jammie shorts, allowing at least a modicum of comfort and, I suppose, a more pleasing view. I began to make the small noises I do when pain and tension are being rubbed away. "Oh my god, do you always make those sounds? I can't believe this is happening. I've got you all day tomorrow, too."

  I said I was certain he showed this attention to all his pitiful patients. He told me to walk through the halls and look in the rooms and find someone else that looked like me. "What about all those cute little nurses and nurse techs?" "No way, not those snobs." Now, I was convinced that I was not the first patient he had ever thought was cute, nor would I be the last that received extra attention; but, at this time, in this moment, I needed, wanted, to experience seeing lust in a man's eyes. He leaned against the wall with his computer kiosk, clicking all the appropriate boxes,entering all the data that was required, all the while looking up at me and smiling, maybe even somewhat sheepishly. The ring on his finger hadn't gone unnoticed. I just kept my gaze on him, so that every time he looked up our eyes met. "I think you are trouble." "Me? I'm the one bound to this bed right now. How can I cause any trouble?"

  In between the administration of medicine and Sprite Zero, weaving around the looks and fingertips, we asked innocent questions. "Where do you live/" "Flowery Branch." "That's a nice area." "I like it."
"Where do you work?" At the College a few towns over. "I graduated from there!" small coincidences that add up to a fated meeting. Of course, there are things I think I said, responses I think he made, but the memory is now dulled by time and a different kind of insobriety. I confessed to him that I thought my face fucked up everything for me—I think he said "Your face doesn't fuck up anything." But I can't remember exactly, or for certain. 

  He asked if I was married. "Not yet, but in October I will be (hopefully). What about you? I see a ring on your finger." Married for seven months. Then what is he doing with me? What am I letting myself do, or letting him do? He offers another massage. "Let me know if I go too far." "It would be hard to go too far in this room; you never know who will pop in wanting to extract or insert more fluids into and out of me." His hands moved down to my biceps and squeezed, then they slipped into my shirt, and squeezed my breasts. "I think that might be too far..." I started to protest, but it came out a wordless breath. I brought my hands over his and removed them from my breasts. "We can't," I whispered, "we'll get caught." Caught by whom was the question. I certainly didn't want another staff member to walk in; but even more so there was You, beneath all of the flirting, I wondered about You and what You would say or do if You were to walk in while I was being fondled by another man, trying to understand the duality of my feelings—for the first time since being with You I was in the presence of another man I wanted fuck. 

  He grabbed my face in one hand and kissed me, once, twice. "I've got to go; but I'll be back later. can I bring you anything?" He looked down at his crotch and shook his head, "How can I go back to work like this?" The erection underneath his dark blue pants was unmistakable and flattering. As he wheeled his kiosk out of the doorway he said "Behave yourself in here," and winked at me. "Of course I'll behave, I'm all alone in here."

Perfection Ruins

  We fought and loved and battled in waves, and finally, the unrelenting struggle grew tired and began to flag, to flag for truce and truth. You said things I wanted to hear, and things that I didn't. I lashed and howled and tried to fight the both of us at once, and urged the both of us on to terrible acts, committed. I rent myself and You so deeply, the tears began to seep out of the floor...and now, now we both have a hand in destroying the home. We both have fault in destroying ourselves.

  Time slips away from me.

  I got into the car, and a man, a pastor Rick Something was speaking about how perfection ruins our lives. I'll be damned if he wasn't speaking to me. He said that a perfectionist doesn't always come in the form of someone who is "perfect," but too often it is the most imperfect person, one who uses perfection as a standard for themselves, measuring constantly their imperfectness against either their imagined ideal self, or against what their imagined form of perfection is. This gives the poor perfectionist a perpetual armory of pikes and powders and projectiles with which to pummel and punish themselves for not reaching perfection. In this way, the perfectionist is a slave, always believing that it is the measure and account of performance that pleases their Master. Every day the slave must wake and worry about the sheer number of  tasks perfectly performed, deeds needed to obtain and retain favour of the Master. Thus, the slave can never be certain of his station, and the list of failures and insufficiencies—sometimes real, sometimes unsubstantiated— and the feelings of dysmorphia replenish the armory of perfect pain.

  Of course, the perfectionist—believing that there is such a thing as "the" perfect—also holds others to this imagined standard. In doing so, they are allowing themselves to pronounce judgments and values as though they were foundational to the situation, as though they were righteous; but, that doesn't mean right. The perfectionist becomes disappointed —unwilling to become dis-illusioned—when the object of their perfection proves to be ineffective in fulfilling the fantasy, and then the pitiful begins to criticize and pick apart the imperfect performance of the partner, casting the same blame and guilt upon the other as they do upon themselves. The perfectionist drives both themselves and others into frustration, annoyance, anger, and it is and perpetual cycle as long as Perfect is a goal, a desire, an idea.

  In this way, a perfectionist can end up driving away the very one they respect the most. In this way, the perfectionist can distance themselves from the masses. In this way, the perfectionist can lose the very means of improvement. In this way, the perfectionist ruins lives.