That Girly Thang

Writing has happened in my life of late, though not here. This is taking longer for me. Mostly because my sexual desires are suppressed by the hormone therapy I’m forced to take to control my illness. However, that is improving a bit, I am happy to report. My partner isn’t seeing more sex from me, but I am feeling better about myself and I feel desire present in my most days again. That’s pretty sweet. I’m just enjoying that charge being available in my body.

I’ve contemplated relationship as an overall topic in my life. I’ve got good things going on in my life. My partnership with Remus (Note to self: ask him if I can use his first initial or something in future, instead of Remus) is good. It’s not as sexy as we’d both like and we’re not sharing massage nearly enough for our tastes, but our connection remains close and happy. We are laugh a great deal together. As usual. No, my contemplation is about women. I want a relationship with a woman, as well as one with Remus. I know that I’m in my way about that. Totally. Setting aside my energy levels in winter, there’s emotional barriers in me. If I’m to negotiate them or remove them to have an emotional/erotic relationship with a woman I have to examine those barriers. That’s what this note is about, so this isn’t going to be sexy yet, but I’ll get there.

So here’s the thing…

Betrayals tend to cause a person to be fearful of emotionally intimate connections. If a betrayal is also sexual, this will tend to make it even more difficult to be emotionally intimate in a potentially sexual relationship. The thing is, I’ve experienced betrayals from women I should have been able to trust. Some of those betrayals were with women in my family and those betrayals spanned the gamut of emotional, physical, spiritual and sexual abuse and neglect. For instance, I know my grandmother molested my son. He is okay and I kept him safe, but knowing what she did to him, I am certain she did it to me also. For instance, I suspected that my mother had sex with my son’s father when he and I were dating in highschool. Recently my brother inferred that she’d done so in a conversation we had. For instance, some of the women in my life broke my confidences, picked fights with hurtful behavior and then blamed me for it, were intensely jealous and talked behind my back to solicit allies against me or just refused to speak to me any more because I was dating someone they wanted to date, stole from me, traded secrets so they could get dirt on someone else I cared about, got me fired from jobs without reason because they were sabotaging my work, assumed I did or meant something that wasn’t true at all, caused so much chaos in my life that I lost opportunities, just plain lost interest because I didn’t live right beside them any more.

I could likely keep pulling examples from my memories, but you get the picture. Shit happens to people and when we are learning to be good friends, we often get hurt. That doesn’t change with maturity. At the very least, we’ll lose friendship, just through sickness and old age. I don’t feel too wounded to make friends, though I am slow to grow close to them. I do have some difficulty in friendships with letting people get really deep in my heart, but I do it. Mostly successfully.

I have never been able to let a woman be as intimate with me as I’d like emotionally though, nor been able to have sex. I just haven’t been able to let anyone get close enough. Plenty of women have tried, so I know it isn’t because I’m unattractive to women. They like me plenty. When I attend bdsm socials, women flirt, they kiss and caress with me. They act aroused by my presence and appearance and they like my attention for playing. I love that and avidly seek it. It’s felt really good to me. But there’s been no take-home relationship. It’s only what I can share there and that’s it.

I have examined “the why” beyond my stuff. I think some of it is the fear gay women have of having a relationship with a bisexual woman. They assume that a bisexual woman wants her jollies until time for domestic bliss and then she’ll wander off to a man to nest with and she’s left high and dry. Then there’s the stuff that bisexual women have going. Usually I meet bisexual poly women. They trend toward wanting to have couple to couple relationships, not woman to woman or they have man/woman relationships other than their nesting partner. This is not to mention that women tend to be the primary parent, even in the cases of two parent families. The act of giving birth tends to make them the primary caregiver (they have the boobs after all) and that naturally extends on an ongoing basis throughout childhood. Parents have an all-consuming task of caring for children which includes earning money. There’s not lots left over for developing relationships outside their home of any kind, let alone a poly relationship with a woman.

There are also fewer women looking for a woman of my age to make love to and fall in love with. This is not a common lifestyle for women my age. It’s very common with women who are fifteen or twenty years younger than I am, but those young women I’ve met, just aren’t too handy. We haven’t been able to connect. There’s a lovely young woman I keep encouraging to connect outside of our social group, but it’s not happening. There’s another woman near my age I’ve been friends with for years. We’ve talked a great deal and deeply. We know we want to, but we can rarely get any time together and then it’s usually for a birthday or a social, not one to one.

Thus I make an effort. But I am not connecting. I am a believer in the idea that people come along when we’re ready. I think I must not be ready or it would be happening. And I’m realizing that I need to process. I also need to decide how that happens. This is one way I am doing that. I know that Remus reads here when I post. It helps me to let him know what I’m thinking and why, but I rarely confide in him in person. It’s just not my habit to babble about emotions all that much any more. I used to, but that’s not what I do these days. I don’t need to. After all, how many times can you say, today I am happy, today I am wishing I were more well, but I am happy and I’m glad you can share that with me. Or I love you, really alotta. Well that I say every single day or every single time I see someone I love. I just do. It’s important to me to let people know I love them and to express it openly. I didn’t have that as a girl, so I create that in my life with great intention as an adult.

In any case, I feel blessed with knowledge of what’s going on for me. What happens next is my choice. Now I’ve written about it, I’ve got to decide what’s next…

Thanks for listening,


Something Yet Unknown

tumblr_mbcoapHpUY1rrgft7o1_500As I sit again at my desk, it is light today. The room is full of light. Enough light that I can see the thick layer of dust on my keyboard. Dust. My sign that I’m not living my dream. Writing is my dream. Having this art in my life gives it meaning, expression, buoyancy. So why is dust on my keyboard? For the same reason that I am not having daily sex or even thinking about it I suppose.

Prozac. Prozac is the great equalizer. There’s no deep joy, and no great sorrow. The very things that breed passion and even compassion. I am fairly numb. It’s not that I never feel, it’s that I never feel to the core of being for long enough to form an opinion that becomes art. I live utterly in the moment and each moment passes quickly by. I don’t hold on to it at all. I don’t even need to really. Except that if I don’t, I do not write either. How did writing become such a part of feeling for me? Why did it become a part of feeling?

I will leave that for a bit…I need to let the question sit and talk about my reality. I am on Prozac, not because I’m unhappy and need a biological crutch. I’m not on it because I need therapy to correct some misalignment of behavior or belief. I’m on it because I don’t have a thyroid and my brain isn’t getting what it needs. Not enough at least. And that bit I do get of what my brain needs is so tenuously placed that the light of day effects it utterly. A cloudy day makes me sleepy. A winter makes me sleep.

I don’t have a thyroid because I have thyroid cancer and giving me just a bit of thyroid hormone will keep me alive, but giving me all I need will keep the cancer alive. So…prozac and living utterly in the moment, gliding through each moment without the profound joyfulness I’ve come to love and need, but cannot have at present. Oh the lack of thyroid hormone replacement is working on the cancer. It hasn’t grown. It hasn’t spread. It is doing nothing, just as I’d like. I am grateful for that. I expect to live a long, very naturally lived life. I can expect that, because for my kinds of cancers, it’s luckily true. And except for the prozac stuff, I’m loving my life and living it happy.

This was the third winter without my thyroid. It was the worst so far. Slowly, slowly the resilience that forced me from bed, despite however sleepy I felt, to do something, anything, has ebbed. This winter, I felt I hibernated in truth. Now spring is bringing more light than clouds and I’m feeling more awake, more myself. But there’s still prozac, the great equalizer. And the moments continue unfolding without record here or anywhere. Without the ideas melding into some great life of their own that I can participate in and share with anyone else. No mundane thought, no inspired thought either to give birth to something more than just me. That’s what my art is to me. This writing art.

It’s what sex is for me too. It inspires me, makes me ever so joyful. And that too is quiet, so quiet. It’s not that I never have any sex, or that I can’t enjoy it if I do, its that it doesn’t reach the core of being for long enough to be expressed fully either. Like my writing, I am silent and still with sex too.

So how can I unhitch these expressions of joy from the Prozac? They have always burned brightly inside me. They have always demanded expression. When they don’t burn in me, I don’t do anything with them of my own volition. At least not until now. I think I must though. I have to find some method that draws me along into expression that doesn’t have to burn to be graven. Perhaps it’s as simple as habit. As simple as choosing it. It’s not like I can’t do it. Once I do it, I smile. I am glad for it, thankful for it, happy for it. Once these expressions begin, they build to something more passionate that lingers in me. I am realizing that ever so slowly.

By now, you just know that at least some of these keys have had much of the dust brushed away. And the same is true of my heart. I am thankful. I want to keep the dust away…

The other day, Remus asked me for a blow job. I could see myself doing it. I could feel the love in it, the passion for it rise in me, but I didn’t move. My body felt so heavy, I just couldn’t move it. The moment passed for him, but I could feel his loneliness for me, for the passion I contain, but do not express very much these days. I feel loneliness for my passion too. I feel loneliness for my friends whom I don’t have the energy to pursue too. That passion is the source of giving for me. It is the source of my submission to him. It is easy to express dominance and sadism in this state. Doing so makes me happy and joyful even, but it’s not the depths of me. It is even easy to express compassion, but it is not easy to simply give and serve and be inspired. I have to work for it. Once I do, it builds in me, but it cannot be demanded or pressured. It must be chosen and coaxed a little. It has to be coaxed only with joy. Chosen with joy and mindfulness and spirit. I don’t quite know what that means or how it works yet. But I so want to discover it.