Have you ever had the experience where you “knew” something but you don’t believe it at all. So like, for example: my brother committing suicide. I wasn’t there. I didn’t pour gasoline on him and light him on fire. It is not my fault he died. He did that to himself.
But I don’t believe that. I believe he died because he was in so much pain from me and our father and our mother and our siblings that he had to. That’s what I believe. I believe I am to blame, in part.
So there is knowing and knowing.
At least I no longer think it is all my fault.
I came back from the road trip and things were much better in the sex department. It’s true. But then we had a triggering sex event. And I exploded. I can’t do that anymore.
I didn’t explode in a way that will really solve the problem and that sucks. I did what I have done since I was very young to try and solve sex problems. Add more sex with more people.
It did increase my overall responsiveness and readiness for sex. It did mean even a no-frills quickie can get me off because I’m just primed all the time. It did mean I wouldn’t get so mad at Noah for times when he… doesn’t do the work.
But at a cost Noah can’t bear. So it failed.
So it worked and it didn’t. I know that it didn’t work and I know that it sorta did.
Noah wants me to be fulfilled by him alone.
I know. But I don’t know how. I need so much connection. I need so much attention. I need so much love. I need so much adoration. I need so many people.
I am a black hole and I can consume him entirely.
I don’t know what to do.
Yesterday I discovered that some people consider the controlling of music to be a nearly unreasonable boundary.
No one else has ever wanted that before. Well I fucking do. I’m a special god damn snow flake.
If you want me to open my mind and my soul I’m not going to do it to shitty instrumental music of your choice. I will get up and start breaking things in frustration. No. No. No. No. No.
If you want me to go within and feel safe, I am going to set the terms.
It’s different at the grief ritual where I am part of the music being created. That isn’t shitty background instrumental music. That is life.
I’m not going to relax in your environment unless I get to change it. Because if I can’t change it I can’t make it safe for me. Yes, the accommodations I’m asking for are bigger than normal. Deal with it or I walk.
He was surprised that I was so ready to accept, “Ok I’ll go” as the answer. Then he wavered and decided maybe it would be ok.
First he said I could send him a few tracks and he would decide if they were ok to include.
No. That’s a boundary. I am not doing work so you can approve or disapprove my inner journey. That’s not your place.
He looked fucking stunned.
“Is this journey about you or me? You don’t know where I am coming from and you don’t know where I’m going. Music sets mood. I set the mood or I’m not interested.”
Given that this is meant to be therapeutic I said, “I’m open to suggestions of listening to music or turning it off for a while to move into different stages of processing. I’m open to questions about ‘Why did you pick this song?’ I’m open to long periods of silence. But sometimes I’m going to want to turn it on and that has to be ok.”
I’m doing this because I need to be able to think about myself for a while in a state where I don’t hate myself and feel like a worthless whore. I don’t have access to very many states where that happens. So I’m going to god damn do it whether people approve or not. So don’t fucking share your disapproval.
I’m outwardly focused to such a degree that it creates problems. It’s because I don’t like looking in. It is like looking into a mouth full of decaying, rotting teeth.
I don’t like myself very much. Not because of the promiscuity, amusingly enough. The “whore” thing and the actual sex I have don’t seem to be related. I mean, sometimes they do? When I’m gritting my teeth it matters.
I don’t feel like a whore when I have joyous sex with my friends. It just… never becomes part of the dynamic. Even if they whisper that I am a good little whore. I’ll orgasm. But I don’t feel bad.
If only it were that simple, kids…
Breakfast is ready.