It Gets Better

I find it really sad that it takes the media and multiple deaths to wake up a country to the fact that bullying is real and deadly, emotionally and physically. However as sad as I am at that fact, I am elated at the availability social networking has offered our community to get the word out. Even if it doesn't change the views of those that bully, it is providing resources and support for the victims. Bullying will never end, but being able to combat it enough to move past it is a skill that most kids are lacking, yet one that is being taught through this medium.

I have a particular interest in these kids, I suffered severe depression and suicidal ideations most of my teenage life. Just last night I sat and read a 'letter' I wrote to someone, 78 pages long, that told of my struggles. It broke my heart to realize I thought I had no one to turn to then. At that time, I was writing to a poster on my wall. That letter was what saved me. A celebrity hanging over my bed was the one person who I could talk to, endlessly and who would understand.

At that age I was unsure of my sexuality completely. I was trying desperately to fit in at a new school, in a new town, and with feelings that were different than everyone else. I loved deeply, hurt often and was a product of a childhood full of despair and completely inexcusable moments. I was an outcast from day one; poor kid in the rich town. My clothes didn't measure up, my house was shameful and it was obvious I was different.

My family was never close. My mom was already out of the picture. My dad, just trying to survive. My friends treated me like a tag along and no one took me very seriously. For a long time I thought the advice "people will pity you only so long" written in a yearbook to me was sound advice. I replayed those words over and over trying to convince myself I was looking for sympathy I obviously didn't deserve. I drowned myself in alcohol and drugs for many years. Self medicating to avoid feeling.

I came out some time in high school and although it was a very small school, I was far from alone. I at least had a small group that I could relate to. People seem to remember those days as being OK for me. Someone actually said to me the other day 'we sure had it easy'. I am not so certain I should be included in that 'we'. I distinctly remember watching my father scrubbing the spray paint off the driveway so others would not be able to read the word "dyke". I can still recite, word for word, the derogatory song the football team made up and chanted as they jogged past my house. Senseless bullying for the sake of bullying that took an already lonely, unstable child to the edge. I didn't want to die, but it sure seemed like a much better option than living.

So I wrote. I wrote a lot. I wrote to my friend on the wall. I wrote in journals. I wrote letters I never intended to send. It was my only true connection to something. I focused on removing myself emotionally from people to avoid hurt. To this day, I am still trying to recover from that time in my life. It had a huge impact on my relationships now. It left me afraid of being me, unable to embrace myself, and watching my back at all times.

Everywhere I am seeing, "It gets better". For me it didn't get better, it got easier. I am still bullied to this day. Maybe not by chants or spray paint, but by a world that still cant accept me. However I have grown and I have learned and I would have missed a lot of fabulous things in this life if I had given in and let them win back then. I want to hand my phone number out to every kid that needs someone to talk to. To every kid that needs that poster friend.

Dominant Force

There was a time in my life that I obsessed about everything, mostly girls and women. As much as I adored certain women, reality told me that I was not what they wanted. I had a particular fascination for straight girls. I liked the challenge, and more probable, the safety. I could love them as deeply as I wanted without them ever knowing. My every breath could revolve around them but would never be taken for granted.

I have been involved in the sadomasochism circle for my entire adult life. My natural tendacy is to be dominant in those relationships and I have always felt secure in that role. When I look back on my past I clearly make the connection between experiences then and my roles now. However I wonder sometimes, how much is who I am and how much is trying not to be something that I was.

When I think back on the days of my obsessions, mostly before adulthood, I only remember craving everything that had to do with the women of interest. I recall constructing shrines next to my bed that housed items touched by them; clothes, jewelry, cigarette butts. I would have given anything in my power for their attention. Willingly I would have submitted to whatever whim they had. I wanted to submit. All I wanted to do was please them.

As I cycled through my first few female relationships, my thought process stayed that way. I felt the need to do, all the time. A combination of poor self esteem and the baffling thought that these women might actually want to be with me, led me to assume that without complete and utter attention from me, they would go away. And many times, despite my attempts to be everything, they did anyway.

I found myself hurt emotionally a lot while learning myself. I was happy to lay myself out there but unable to protect myself. As years went by, I found myself putting more and more armor on. I would enter into relationships under the premise that I was in control, I would not do what my emotions told me I wanted to and that the relationship would not last anyway. I wasted a lot of time and energy trying to escape myself within the confines of other people. Naturally it didn't pay off and I relationship jumped as soon as the waters got the least bit hot.

When I entered the world of BDSM, I found the perfect marriage of safety and the ability to control my environment while still being who I was, honestly. I was able to give 100% of me in a way that I was comfortable and I responded to. I was able to incorporate what I thought was a twisted sick side to me with a loving relationship that I needed to have emotionally.

In retrospect I don't think I became the dominant force I am today because I could no longer take the pain of the submissive force I thought I was. I am who I am because I realized the position I hold is not one of take, it is one of give. Giving of myself in the way someone needs me. Controlling and protecting what I adore most. Its not about taking what I want, its about taking what others need me to.

Mornings

I truly hate mornings. Aside from not wanting to wake from my last dream of the night, I cant stand the way my head spins.

I start with my shower. That in itself is horrifying. I don't like what I am feeling and I don't like what I see. There is not one day that goes by where I wash my breasts and don't wish for them to become diseased and fall off. I have often thought of mutilating them to the point that removing them would be the only medical option. I throw my robe on as quickly as possible.

I choose my clothes in my mind before I fall asleep the night before. If I don't have a plan in place for the morning, my frustration levels are immense. There are no clothes in this world that fit my body the way I wish they did. What I want to wear doesn't come in my shape. Period. If I left my clothing choices until the morning, I would try on everything I owned and never be satisfied, not to mention very late. Having OCD I have to have routines in place. If I make a plan, I cannot deviate from it without a lot of stress. I have found choosing my clothes mentally before bed prevents me from being able to change my mind easily in the morning.

Some mornings I feel good as soon as I am dressed. I look in the mirror and although I am not pleased with what I see, I am not completely disgusted. As long as I stand still I don't notice my flaws as much. However, by the time I go from my bedroom to the bathroom that all seems to change. And by the time I finish doing my hair, I am utterly disgusted with myself. I look fat, my boobs are gross, my clothes don't fit who I am, and my illness has caused me to have thin uncooperative hair. I used to just focus on my eyes. They were always awesome. People everywhere would tell me. However now even my eyes look sad and unappealing. My lashes have thinned and my eyes seem dull.

By the time I leave the house I feel completely out of sorts. My mind has switched genders so many times my clothes couldn't work if they wanted to. My body, at 130 pounds feels grossly heavy and awkward to drag around. My sneakers are dirty and that is unacceptable. I look around the house at all that needs to be done. I am overwhelmed. I wish I had some energy. I wish I had something positive happening in my life right now. I wish I could just go back to my dream.

All In Relativity

The funny thing about memories is our ability to change them to suit our needs. Put two people in the same room and they will say they experienced two completely different things. Sure certain parts of the scenario will be similar, but when asked, you would get two different explanations. That's because emotion alters perception. Everything we experience is a product of relativity.

I am in the midst of writing a book. Essentially it is a memoir. In my reality it is an explanation of who I am now and I how I got there. It is chuck full of taboo topics and experiences. It is highly sexual, deviant and sometimes disturbing. It is my past, my experience, and what molded me. However to many, it will just be a book of erotica or otherwise disgusting material, depending on your own life experiences.

If you ask what happened to me when I was a child, I am likely to tell you a completely different story than my mother. We were both there in the same place at the same time. Yet somehow we see things from polar opposites. I know I was a victim, she thinks pretending it didn't happen means not having to deal with it. I wanted to talk about it, she wanted to sweep it under the carpet. I wanted to be empowered by my experiences, she wanted to make sure I didn't humiliate her. Emotion was the only difference in how we experienced things. The experiences were what they were. Undeniable. Ask her, they never happened. Ask me I will give you stories to make your head spin.

Memories are so easily twisted. We have an uncanny ability to use selective memory as a defense mechanism. We have choices in how they effect us and how we allow them to effect our relationships with people. I could have chosen to live the life of a child scorn. To fall back on that excuse for my misfortunes and bad choices. Instead I chose to own my experiences; to use them, learn from them. It taught me how not to behave, what not to do and how people want to be treated. I learned that sex was not love, and those that should love you the most sometimes dont. I also learned that everyone has become who they are by way of how they have digested their past, and that my way is not the only way. When I reflect on my memories I see that I should never have to be obligated to those that hurt me, no matter the relationship.

My experiences are mine. Even those that shared them with me cannot make the rules in what I take from them. I may not be able to alter what they take with them, but I don't have to feel guilty for not sharing the memory their way.

Riddle

I heard a riddle today. Its not a new one. And I'm sure I have heard it a few times before.

"A man and his son were in an automobile accident. The man died on the way to the hospital, but the boy was rushed into surgery. The emergency room surgeon said "I can't operate, that's my son!" How is this possible?"

I admit, at first my mind raced for the possible answers, as I am sure yours may be right now. I thought, grandfather, uncle, brother, anything that would combine male figure and family. Fortunately the answer came quickly, but not from me, from the radio host. The surgeon was his mother.

The conversation turned to the fact that in a study (and yes, I'm sure this was a completely unofficial study), all the adults that were asked this question had no correct answer. When this riddle was aired on All In The Family in the 70's most people would have been baffled, including children. However today, it was the children that had the answer. Apparently 60% of the kids that were asked this riddle came up with either the correct answer or guessed the son had two dads.

This says a lot about where we are today as a society. It shows progression, albeit small. It shows that people will naturally absorb what they are exposed to, or at least children will. Most kids dont know real gay couples, especially gay dads. But more than half of the kids quizzed, thought outside the conventional box. I couldn't be more outside of that box in reality, and still managed to be fooled into thinking inside it.

Our children are listening. They are paying attention. They have the ability to change the world. They will soon be the adults running this country. I have faith in them. If only I had faith in what we give them to work with.

The Other Box

I was talking to my 13 year old the other day about gender. She was questioning pronoun etiquette. She wanted to know if it was OK to ask someone that was obviously crossing gender lines what they preferred to be called. I told her that most people would rather be asked than called something that made their skin crawl.

The conversation then became focused on gender labels, male and female. While I don't openly discuss my gender fluidity with her, I guess I haven't hid it either. We were discussing a gender in between male and female, or one that included both. She piped in with "like you". I was taken back a bit at her observation, but responded with, "yes, like me". At that moment, from a parent's stand point, I wondered if that was an embarrassment for her. If I was giving her one more obstacle to get over. One more thing she needed to 'explain' to her friends.

We spent some time discussing what that 'other' box should say. She cited many example sentences that would make 'other' sound ridiculous or not as fair as male or female. "Other went to the store". She tried abbreviating it to 'oth'. And even in her joking manner, it was obvious even she knew that clearly there was no way to make the 'other' feel as comfortable as the male or female.

We talked for a bit about how different things would be if there truly was an additional gender. And how so many more people would fall into that category if given the opportunity. That people living with the hell of feeling they need to fit into one or the other box, sometimes don't ever find their true selves, no matter what they change on their bodies.

It wasn't a new conversation for me, but it was a eye opening conversation. I was proud that without direct conversation I had raised a kid to recognize people suffering with gender issues, and those that have found comfort in changing what they were born with. I was grateful that through no words, my kid knew that these were sensitive issues that she wanted to know about so as not to offend someone.

And most of all, I was happy that she knew me.

Someone Else's Dream

Its not news that music is seemingly vital to my existance. I gain and release a lot of emotion through music. I have a gazillion songs stored in my brain. I seem drawn to certain melodies and tones but not neceesarily genres. I listen to the lyrics and allow then to provoke me into reflection.

Yesterday I heard "living someone else's dream". I thought, "who's dream could I possibly be living?". Who would choose to grow up queer, after a nightmarish childhood, live with gender identity and mental illness issues, suffer a debilitating auto immune disorder and loathe themselves in every possible way? Who in their right mind would ever want what I have? Who would dream of this?

Then I realized. The people that don't have what I have would. People that wish they didn't go to bed alone every night. People that don't have a home. Those without a job. People that aren't driving a brand new car. Those suffering with real weight struggles, not the superficial ones I project on myself. The people who are already crippled and disabled from disease. Those that were not fortunate to have been born genetically intelligent. People with no ability to put forth their pain in words. The people that have been denied parenthood due to health, nature or law. These are what I take for granted as most people take for granted the things that they don't need to focus on, or work on so much.

We all see things in others we wish we saw in ourselves. Things that make us feel envious or even a little inadequate. However if we spend all of our time looking at what everyone else has, we will never be able to appreciate those that are looking at us.

The Suicide Door

Today's topic was going to be written from a purely selfish position. Although there are always people out there that will relate, the topic itself would have been fueled by me and how it effects me primarily. I decided that I needed to not only write for myself today, I felt obligated to write for others.

Yesterday I commented on someone's post regarding teenage suicide. The topic itself always hits home as I struggled with depression most of my life. As an adult I am more capable of finding ways to combat those feelings. I have more life experience which to draw from and more resources. Suicide kills more young people each year than traffic accidents. We spend a considerable amount of money in this country trying to keep our youth safe behind the wheel. Why don't we spend the same, or more, trying to keep our kids safe from their own sadness?

As I look back now, I can see how things unfolded in my life that created my depression. My friends knew little of it, my family chose to ignore it. I felt I had zero outlets and resources. Dysfunctional household relationships, violence, rejection, substance abuse, self esteem, sexual orientation, gender issues. Likely you know someone that has experienced at least some of the things listed above. Just living through one of those experiences can be enough to trigger an emotional imbalance.

I want to say I don't blame anyone when a suicide occurs, but actually I do. I don't believe for one minute the people that say "we never saw a sign". The signs are there. Someone doesn't become suicidal overnight. Anyone close to a young person should be able to see the signs. Even when teens are so off the wall and ever changing. The key is to 'know' these kids. Really know them. To form bonds and healthy relationships with them so you are in tune with the warning signs. Not all kids will sleep all day, cry all night, doodle dead people on their notebooks. Its not that simple. But they ALL exhibit some behavior that says "please, the door is open, come in and find me". All too often, people walk past the door or choose to ignore it.

The worst thing you can ever do for someone feeling suicidal, is to diminish those feelings. In an attempt to 'kick start' their strength, the most common response is "get over it". Many times all a person with suicidal ideations needs is validation that they are feeling bad. Trying to 'help' them ignore their feelings is the same thing as saying they don't exist. Even trying to explain why what they feel is irrational sends the same message. What that young person hears is "YOU are irrational".

I know from experience that suicide is not the first option you think of, and certainly not the end result you truly want. Its a long process of constantly being invalidated that eventually reinforces the notion that no matter what, no one is ever going to care or understand.

Its not easy to deal with young people these days. Its difficult to understand where they come from. Its distressing to see the world they live in. But one thing that has never changed are human feelings. They have them and they need to be acknowledged. It IS the responsibility of those close to them to learn these kids. To pay attention to these kids. To know when that door is open and to walk through.

Chasing Your Losses

I am not a gambler. But I am fueled by human instinct. And sometimes instinct overpowers common sense. For most people the natural response to loss is to first assess any way possible to reverse the situation. Even if we know there is no way to change the inevitable such as death of a loved one etc.

However we are geared to find the quickest way to find comfort. The path of least resistance. For most people the means trying to get back to where you were before feeling the sense of loss. Obviously we cant do this in many situations, but we do have control over that with others. We do have the ability to attempt to 'right the wrong'. We can try to make amends or forgive. We can pretend it didn't happen, or make promises that it wont again.

This is chasing a loss. Trying to make right a wrong that has adversely effected you. Spending time, money, and energy on an outcome that has already occurred. Sometimes it works. We see it 'work' in relationships all the time. We mess up, we grovel, we put it behind us. We have chased a loss, and corrected it. Or have we? Gambling. Losing money. Spending money in an attempt to recoup the loss. Sometimes it works. Most times it doesn't.

Loss is a part of life. A painful yet integral part of life. Because we are programmed to seek out comfort, most of us refuse to take loss and learn from it. To accept it for what it is. Nature tells us to lick our wounds the fastest possible way in order to 'heal' and move on. We, as a society, have discovered that going backwards is the way to do this. Run to the comfort zone. Unfortunately then you must relive those moments, albeit with variety, and most likely blinders on, to prevent the original loss from reoccurring.

So are we truly experiencing what we should be if we chase our losses? Isn't it better to live in the raw moment and experience life rather than rewinding and playing it again hoping for a different outcome?

Loss builds strength. Essential strength needed to tackle the next situation that may result in a painful moment. To not acknowledge that pain, to seek out comfort only, we deny ourselves the protection we need.

I am a who

An article I read today got me thinking. Thinking about how, even with the best of intentions, I have always come with an attachment of 'what' opposed to an explanation of 'who'.

Straight people don't carry labels that refer to their sexuality or their gender. Bob is rarely referred to as Bob the straight guy. Bob is usually linked to his job, his town or something of the like. Bob from Main Street, Bob in accounting. You get the idea. So why is it that Steve the gay guy is referred to as that? Why isn't Steve's address or job title indicative of who he is?

When people objectify others, even without a malicious intent, it immediately puts the one in reference in a position of minority in a negative way. Similar to referring to someone by skin color alone. It is unacceptable to refer to Barbara as "the black girl" so why is it OK to refer to Steve as "the gay guy"? While not OK in any circle Steve may travel, it seems acceptable as a society to describe Steve by his sexuality as if that is the majority of his makeup.

I am a lesbian. I get described as such often. Many times I think people are trying to show others that they are OK with my sexuality by saying it. It doesn't bother me in that I feel offended, however it bothers me that being a lesbian seems to be the first and foremost thing I have to offer. Its seems my ability to raise children properly, stay gainfully employed, manage a household, and stay committed in a long term relationship take a back seat to who I choose to sleep with. Add to that the knowledge that I am gender fluid and basically all normal perceptions of me as a productive part of society fall by the wayside and are completely unimportant.

If I was lucky enough to spend the majority of my life having lesbian sex and nothing else, I would hope someone would refer to me as the lesbian....you know THAT lesbian. Until then I would prefer to be referred to as who I am not what I am.

Today I feel like a woman

I responded to someone's blog today with the beginning sentence "as someone who struggles with gender....". I felt comfortable saying that. But do I struggle with my gender really? I think struggle is far too negative in this case.

I am as gender fluid as they come. I weave in and out of every variant there is, sometimes daily. I don't dislike any of it. I feel privileged to have the ability to feel, react, and do things from both sides of the street. Most days I am standing in the middle on the yellow line, waiting to see what comes rolling down the road and what side I will escape to. I like the flexibility. I like the protection it offers me.

What I truly struggle with, is my body. It doesn't have the ability to change with me. It fits so rarely, that most days I am plagued with the mismatch. When I stand on the yellow line, I want my body standing with me. I want to be genderless in shape and form as well as mind. I want to morph. But I cant. I could never permanently transition to something else, because no matter what I do to myself, I still wont always fit. I will always be missing one side or the other. Therein lies the true struggle.

But today. Today I feel like a woman. Today I fit what I own. I may not be happy with my body, but it fits. For as long as it lasts today, I will not have to stop my hips from slightly swaying as I walk. I wont have to constantly pull my shirt out to hang loosely on my chest. I can walk into the ladies room and not feel in violation of the women that belong in there.

I love being fluid. But I sure enjoy the break fitting the body I was born with affords me some days.

Nostalgia Lane

Yesterday I took a drive down nostalgia lane. Literally. I had to attend a wake near my home town. Actually I grew up in three different towns, but they were right next to each other. I took my daughter on a tour of places I lived and places that were memorable to me many moons ago.

The house I grew up in as a young child, until age eight, is by far the one I remember the most and would like to forget just as much. Sitting in front of it, I answered my daughter's questions about living there, while inside my thoughts, memories and feelings were reeling. Before I even looked at my house I looked at the neighbor's. THE neighbor's house. An overgrown tree prevented me from seeing the window that would eventually be the distraction that saved me.

I remembered the yard so much bigger than it was, the distance to my house seeming an eternity. I thought back to how I wondered why someone would let me go there unsupervised at such a young age, just turned five. Why the police would take me to a neighbors house up the street to speak to me when it was over. Why so far away? I now realize my going there was undetected because their back door was truly only twenty feet from my house. And taking me to the neighbors porch for questioning was simply to get me as far from that house as possible while they took him into custody. I still have no idea why it took them so long to find me.

I found it difficult to find happy memories from that street. In the few minutes I was there, I racked my brain for a time when I smiled, laughed, felt loved. I came up empty. A word that completely describes my childhood there. A time in my life that I was too young to control my surroundings. A time when I was unable to create my own reality, to rebel, to run away mentally.

I left that house in third grade. I was eight. I had a snow fort in the yard that winter. It was still standing as we prepared to leave for the final time. I hugged it. My snow fort. The only hug I truly gave all year. The only attachment to the first eight years of my life.

Wrong and Right

I think its accurate to say that when people do wrong things, we automatically think it causes a bad effect. When people do things right we associate that with good. Wrong is negative, bad is negative. Right is positive, good is positive. It makes sense.

Yesterday I was thinking about all of the 'wrong' things I have experienced, especially as a child. And honestly, as wrong as they were, they didn't all make me feel bad. In fact, some made me feel pretty good. That doesn't mean that they haven't effected me in ways that have been trying at times as an adult, but the feeling, when experienced, was not bad at all. Its no wonder people repeat certain cycles of abuse, especially when they are able to eroticize them.

I have a great disgust for those that preyed upon me. I find them weak and cowardly. I credit my morals and ethics for those feelings. If I were to allow my sensations to rule me, I may possibly have become one of them myself. We all have that choice. "I did it because it was done to me" is a cop out of the nth degree.

On the flip side, as much as I eroticize my past, I also find that what didn't feel so good then can creep up as an adult when it should be 'right'. Right doesn't always mean good. Someone sexually skilled with the best intentions has the unknown ability to toss a curve ball into the situation without warning. Most times it is simply a matter of the stimulation I need is just a little off the normal mark. So the curve ball may just result in boredom. However there are things that have happened in the bedroom that bring back moments that are not sexual at all but had a lasting negative effect. There are reasons I don't like certain sexual things, and reasons why I crave others. You might be surprised to learn that they have nothing to do with the experiences common sense would tell you they did.

Every connection we have is a direct result of who we are, where we come from and how we have processed the journey so far. You can know every factual thing there is about my past and have no idea how how I choose to use it. My mind has twisted, remembered, forgot and/or eroticized everything I have ever lived through. I have chosen to use those memories how they best suit me to live within the confines of my own morals, ethics and values.

Wrong isn't always bad. Right isn't always good. Its all in perception. How we choose to use it is what matters.

Internal Homophobia

I read the phrase internal homophobia yesterday. I found it pretty amazing that it was the first time I had even thought about such a topic, and more specifically how it does and doesn't relate to me. The definition is fairly blurred with so many people having their own experiences and opinions to base it on. But the concept in itself was very easy for me to understand.

I knew from a very early age that I was attracted to women. It took different forms throughout my growing up process due to situations and environment. I didn't truly understand the attraction and the need to be in a woman's company, since as a child it made no sense. I didn't dislike boys, and I don't now, they just didn't and still don't have anything to offer me emotionally.

As I grew to know that my feelings were genuine, no matter the reason, and that I was sexually attracted to women, I found myself very interested in the 'others' of the world. I had a keen gaydar and an even keener ability to pick out the straight ones that were approachable. I was drawn to the freaks of the world and loved the free spirit ways about them. I was drawn because I was unable to find that within myself.

I never thought that I was homophobic as I loved to surround myself with the most off the wall characters. I never hated that I liked women, so I had no fear of myself. What I was uncomfortable with was people being uncomfortable with me. I am still am. I want to blend in with the masses. I want to do what I do without wearing a sign. Not because I am ashamed of myself, but because I don't want to be different. I don't like being picked out of the crowd, judged and made opinions of, as they are usually wrong. I disliked those that were blatantly gay and 'stereotypical'. I always said it was because I didn't feel you needed to advertise, that it was fake. Now I realize that my feelings were dislike for my own self coupled with envy because I was not strong enough to be and do what I was and what I felt.

In a like crowd I am very outgoing, fun, loud, a leader. In a diverse crowd I am quiet, reserved and unsure. My comfort level determines everything, and unfortunately I am not usually comfortable. Am I internally homophobic? If I don't embrace my diversity within a group does that make me phobic of my own sexuality and gender confusion?

If fear is the premise that homophobia is based on, am I homophobic of my very self? If I choose not to take the risks of outing myself in every situation, or allowing my fluid gender to show, does that make me as bad as those that judge me when I do?

I love my complexities, my genders, my sexuality. I avoid those that cant love them completely. Is avoidance a product of phobic?

Euphoria

The air is heavy, the lights dim. A familiar smell of leather, latex and metal filling my senses. An atmosphere that allows me to walk with pride and confidence. As if nothing matters but who I am and who I am with. I feel no self consciousness parading through the crowd. Trying not to be an obvious voyeur, I glance at the scenes taking place around me. My hunger grows, even witnessing things of disinterest to me. Its not the scene that fuels my craving, its the connections I feel.

It seems my mind can race through a million thoughts in the amount of time it takes to cross the floor. What can I do to feed myself? Do you think they know how intense I am...or feel? Is there any way their submissive can connect on the level mine can? Who is feeling the energy exchange? Who is simply role playing? Will I be able to reach deep enough to achieve the dance?

The newer players stand out. Their excitement and desires obvious and uplifting. What they lack in experience, they make up for with anticipation and willingness. The older players more subdued, concentrating on honing skills and finding deeper connections. I relate to some, envy others. I wish I had a little of both within me. I miss the eagerness the most. Even before I make it to the other side of the room, I have replayed my most memorable moments. I recall the intensity, the desire, the wantonness. I picture the eyes looking up at me in pure adoration.

I allow myself one more scan of the dungeon. The sights and sounds intoxicating me. The painful cries, the primal moans, the marks that accompany them. I focus on the bottoms. For the skill set of the top is of little interest to me. Its the bottom that has control. The bottom that runs that show. The bottom that fills me with lust and things there are no words for.

I watch you set the bags down. I wait for your silent "I'm ready". When I hear this. Feel this. Somehow the room that filled me with such desire disappears. You become the euphoria.

MM

Paradise

I was recently on vacation in Hawaii. It was beautiful and laid back with perfect weather. It was filled with obvious tourists, but didn't seem inundated. The locals seemed genuine and willing to talk about, explain, and direct to the same things they probably do on a daily basis. Some times it was difficult to pick out on the beach who was a 'local' and who was on vacation. It seems that so many people that now call the island their home are obviously transplants and not native.

Its obvious why someone would chose to relocate to Hawaii. Its weather is amazing, and its atmosphere is guaranteed to make you lose your stress. There is little room for snobbery, and dress up means a newer floral print shirt than the one you had on yesterday. But what brought these people there to begin with? Was it a realization of love after a vacation there? Was it just a no-brainer? Who knows.

What I do know, is that these people have and had a lifestyle that allowed them to pick up and move to this paradise. A lifestyle that through lack of work, a flexible job, and/or little responsibility, afforded them the opportunity to pick up and go. I admit I was envious. And the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if I regretted my life path. I pictured what life would have been had I been selfish and lived just for me. I thought about never having lived carefree. About how my responsibilities took hold of me way before my time, and have never ceased.

Then I thought about why I chose the path I did. How I like to take care of my family now that it is a choice not a mandate. How I appreciate my accomplishments and responsibilities. How I like the pride that goes with it. I thought about how incomplete I would feel if no one depended on me, especially emotionally. I remember how I gave up friends and good times and replaced them with children and work. And how much deeper one touches you over the other.

Yes, I would love to live with absolute freedom from life's quandaries. But I have realized my life's quandaries are not responsibilities or emotional attachments. Those are the very things I live for. I will stick to vacations in paradise.

Accidental Soldier

Accidental soldier. A phrase I am sure I have heard before but apparently never paid much mind to until about a week ago. I was at a music concert and that phrase happened to be in a song I hadn't heard before. I was very tuned in trying to 'hear' the words, since I felt the melody very strongly. Perhaps that is why the phrase grabbed hold of me. Accidental soldier. Yes I am.

An accidental soldier, to me, is someone who has had no choice but to fight in life. Someone who has been drafted into battles from which they must choose to live or die. Someone who wears scars, seen and unseen from situations they would never have chosen to put themselves into. Someone who fights for themselves and ultimately for others, known and unknown.

A soldier is not a victim. A soldier rises above. A soldier gives all they have to ensure the welfare of themselves and those they are fighting for. A soldier understands sacrifice is sometimes necessary, and entitlement is nonexistent. An accidental soldier is no different. A soldier by chance, but a soldier nonetheless.

As an accidental soldier, I have lived through my own battles. Taking them as they came, fighting to remain who I was and come out on the other side. I have won many, lost some. I have never asked to fight, but fought when it was necessary. I struggle with my scars, but appreciate what they represent. Survival. I wear my conquers with pride and dignity, but most times where no one can see them.

Accidental soldier. Proud of the victories, heavy-hearted from the war.

Phone call

The other day I was having a phone conversation with my mother. I sent her a picture text and being that she is old and cell phone challenged and near sighted, she thought it said she missed a call from me. So she called me 'back'. Hurray for me. I was not in the mood for a superficial conversation. Usually her calls entail passing judgment on someone or just obviously false terms of endearment. This particular conversation involved a woman that administered my mother's motorcycle road test many years ago.

My mother has pretended for quite some time now to be OK with my relationship. I know she isn't. She probably truly wants to be, but she isn't. So I hear the false tone in her voice that most people don't pick up on. The "Oh it's great to see you" comment translates to, "now I have to wonder if you are going to embarrass me". I am well aware of her fake demeanor, and honestly I no longer care. I think she thinks she has come a long way.

During the phone conversation regarding the motorcycle test lady, I mentioned that she must have passed my mothers friend Robert and not her because he was such a stud muffin. Those of us who know Robert, know he is a wonderful guy, but far from a stud muffin. My mother's reply, "That woman would have had a hard time even getting the attention of Robert......". She could have stopped there. I knew it was typical Robert teasing, and I got the point. However the comment continued..."or a woman for that matter. It wouldn't have mattered what her orientation was or wasn't."

Now I ask you, what was the purpose of that part of the comment? I am sure it was her attempt at showing me how 'cool' she is with gay people. Or perhaps it was her way of stating that even in the worse case scenario (gay) this woman was going to stay lonely. Her comment reminded me of the racist comments some of my elderly family members made long ago. They never quite understood that by adding "He was a nice guy THOUGH" or "I know SOME I really like" or "I went to school with ONE" you don't neutralize the rest of the racist comment. And its no different with my mother. By trying to 'add' in a gay reference where it doesn't need to be, it just says to me that she is still ignorant and does not accept me entirely.

I cant say that I spend too much time worrying about what my mother has to think anymore. Her thought processes have caused enough damage to my life already. However, I will keep diligent on whose calls I answer next time.

Mechanically inclined

I was putting together a new scooter last evening. It was shipped disassembled but with assurance "it is only a matter of two bolts." Cool, no problem.

After spending 45 minutes just disassembling the steel frame it was shipped in, I noted ten separate pieces, a couple bags full of various bolts, nuts, washers, and screws, and no instructions. Hmmmmmmmm.

Now, I am a pretty mechanically inclined person. I can fix most common things on a car and I have many years as a motorcycle enthusiast to know the basic mechanics of those as well. This is why I chose not to pay for assembly. Ultimately, after thinking, sorting, thinking, sorting, I finally figured out what pieces belonged to what bolts etc. In the end I prevailed and after a couple of hours I was able to take my first trip around the block. Wheels stayed on, nothing fell off, electronics did their job. I was proud of my accomplishment.

I'm really not writing about my mechanic skills however. I wanted to write about how I felt putting that scooter together. Typically I am very self conscious about everything I do, wear, say etc. But when I am engrossed in my latest butch project, I don't feel any of that. I love the sweat, the grime, the pride in fixing something. I am not aware of my hair or how my T Shirt is laying on my big breasts. I feel very untouchable and capable of anything in those moments.

I wish I was able to understand what it was that happens during those times that enables me to remove myself from the constant self judgment I do. I would love to feel that big and strong and confident and unaware of my flaws all the time, not just then.

Maybe I am just more comfortable in a more masculine role. That maybe my self consciousness is the female in me. Perhaps my lack of fitting the societal norm for 'woman' keeps me from ever feeling comfortable. And when I am working, and dirty, and being more masculine in activity, it fits more of who I really am. I am a female that is able to problem solve and think, and a male who is physically capable of handling the task at hand. Perhaps it is in those moments that I am neither male or female, but my own gender. The one that is me.

Fish

I have no idea how fish operate. I don't understand their behavior and have never looked into whether or not they even have genuine thought processes. However, I do not need to know how they operate scientifically to appreciate the relationship I sat and watched last night in a giant tank.

The tank sits in the waiting room of my doctor's office. Ten years ago there were about a half a dozen pair of fish. Each having a mate or friend or whatever of their species or breed. It looked very balanced. Today, many of those fish have been replaced. Three of the originals remain and are quite large. They no longer have partners. As a matter of fact, none of the fish have a matching species in the tank. The tank didn't appear as aesthetically pleasing with the mismatched fish, and if at that moment I thought fish could actually have feelings, I felt sorry for them.

I went from simply watching the fish to almost studying them. I could pick out who ruled the tank and who didn't. I was able to see what part of the tank each had chosen as their own domain. I watched other fish trespass and the owners balk. I still wondered if these were actions from thought processes or simple instinct.

There was a gourami fish that was small and must have been relatively new to the tank due to its size. Another new addition was some sort of goldfish with a mouth that remained open in the shape of an 'O'. It appeared that both of these fish had claimed the same territory as they appeared to take turns in each others spot.

As I watched these two fish it was very apparent they were actually interacting with each other on purpose. They seemed to be 'playing'. One would coax the other in a very childlike fashion to come near. They spent a lot of time 'kissing' each other. The gourami seemed to be more in control with the goldfish seeking the attention. If the gourami swam away, the goldfish looked for it. It really looked like this goldfish was smitten and almost needed the gourami to share its space. If I didn't know better, and actually I don't, I would say this was indeed a love affair of a very innocent kind.

I was very touched by the attention they gave each other. I have never witnessed fish paying what looked like adoration to a fish that was not its species. Perhaps it happens all the time, I have just never seen it. Either way, it just made me very aware of how even the simplest of animals in our world have the ability to see past the obvious differences in each other.

Its saddens me that the most complex animals, us, cant seem to get past the most simplest of diversities.

Soul Mate

In two weeks it will be 18 years since my best friend died. I have a particularly hard time dealing with it since the anniversary date falls on my birthday. I also still live with the guilt that I, albeit not responsible for his death, could have very well prevented it. However, this post is not about guilt and what ifs. Its about the relationship I shared with him and how it forever changed my viewpoint on what a soul mate truly is.

Most people, when asked, would say soul mate refers to two people sharing an intense unusual love, including sexuality and intimacy. We all think that soul mate refers to the one person who you can be yourself with no matter what. We view the relationship in terms of marriage or permanent commitment. What we don't usually acknowledge is the fact that soul mate doesn't always have to be about sexual relationships.

My best friend Richard was indeed my soul mate. On the outside our friendship seemed that of convenience, both of us taking what we needed from the other to push on through a very troubled time in both of our lives. But that very convenience is what connected us. Each one of us relying on each other for an incredible amount of things, both tangible and emotional. Richard was gay, as am I. We had absolutely no desire to 'be' with each other. Yet we shared a bond that went beyond what intimacy usually brings to the relationship.

As much as I loved Richard. As much as I needed him. He drove me crazy. It was like always having to be with myself. And I didn't necessarily like myself very much. Richard was a junkie and a drunk. We was loud and rude and flamboyant in public. He was embarrassing at times and would let his passion over rule his common sense. He was violent at times. His behavior an unfortunate side effect of drugs and alcohol. And I knew this. I was the only one capable of seeing who he was, who he was hiding behind and what he had to offer. A gentle sad soul lost in a world that didn't fit him. That is where we connected.

I received a call from Richard the night before my birthday. He was drunk and loud. He wanted a ride to my house to crash. I refused. The baby was asleep and frankly I didn't want to deal with him in the sober state I was in. He hung up on me. The next morning I received a call saying he was dead. After the phone call with me he allowed someone to shoot him up with heroin at the party. It was a lethal injection.

My heart still aches for him. There is hardly a day that passes that something doesnt remind me of him. There are so few memories of the behavior he displayed that people avoided at all cost. What memories I can still recall are the tender moments. The vulnerable times. The need we had to balance each other out. We were soul mates. We walked the same path inside. It was difficult to breathe alone. We shared a love that didn't include sex and obligation. It was genuine with no strings attached.

I learned a lot from Richard. I learned what I needed in my life and I certainly learned what I didn't. I learned that love and connection don't come in the form of sexuality. That sexuality and intimacy are a by product that don't truly dictate how your soul feels.

I have photos and trinkets that still link me to Richard. But I will always have a hole in my soul where he used to belong.

Striped Shirt

In a reply to a post I wrote last week, a friend refereed to those not fitting the societal norm as "others". And how we, as others, rarely have the opportunity to be who we are without some political stigma attached.

Keeping emotions aside, when I am in a group, as I often am, with no other 'others', I tend to try to fit in instead of allowing myself to be who I am. I don't feel it should have to be my job to familiarize who I am to people. I dont think that throwing my diversity into their faces helps them find tolerance. I think it puts me in more of a compromising position than I was to begin with.

Why does being who I am have to be about my pride, about representing something. Why do I have to constantly fight for my position? You don't hear people greet each other normally as "Hi, I'm Bob, I'm straight. Just wanted to get that out there because you will hear about it later". However that is exactly how I feel I need to be. I come with a label and a disclaimer. "Pleased to meet you. Yes I am a lesbian. And yes I look a little gender confused. And no, you don't need to hide your wife or worry that I am undressing you with my eyes".

So most times I say nothing and feel half of my whole. It seems easier than being a freak show. Even in the most gay friendly group of straight people, someone is talking about you, even if only in their own head. I understand its intriguing to some. I understand they are trying to see what makes me tick. But honestly it is exhausting. I am so conscious of everything I say and do in a group setting in order to minimize those thoughts.

My presence is all about my sexuality. There is hardly a time when my presence is about who I am. I am my sexuality and my preference, the rest of me comes after that. And while I have absolutely no problem with people knowing who I love, I have a real problem with that being who I am to most people. "You know, the lesbian over there." Instead of "You know, Bob, the guy in the striped shirt".

No one ever sees my striped shirt.

Chicken or the egg

While I was traveling over the weekend, I had the opportunity to do a lot of thinking. As usual I was playing my IPod and allowing myself to mentally go from space to space as the music changed. I started to wonder if people would be interested in the effects music has on my brain and its ability to make me switch. I thought maybe I would pursue a research or study team to check it out. I find it fascinating, even if no one else does.

The act of what I refer to as 'switching' can be looked at from many angles. I suppose the most notable might be the possibility that it is a product of mental instability. That its a manifestation of post traumatic experiences and borderline personality disorder. A simple case (well not so simple) of personality identity disorder. Another strong possibility is that I truly am both genders and physically there are multiple sides to me.

Since music has such a big influence on my emotions, I began to wonder if the fluidity I experience in gender is emotionally based or physically based, or both. It is very apparent that emotionally I am in different places when in different spaces. And it is also apparent that I am physically in different places as well. I have noticed that my hand writing, my driving style, the way I walk or carry myself, is all dependent on 'who' I am in that moment.

Do my emotions change the physical state or is a physical change (eg: brain chemical or neuro activity) changing my emotions? Rationally I would think that most things are emotionally based and therefore behavioral, but I am not so sure I am ready to give in to rationale on this one. I can say, with the utmost certainty that I truly believe I am both genders. I have way too many characteristics to say otherwise. Characteristics that are not just behavioral. And being able to trace these attributes back to childhood well before I would have taught myself to behave differently just makes me think I am not just a girl.

So my research project would be to see if there are chemical or neurological changes that take place when I 'shift' from one gender to the other. And then to decide if emotionally I can cause those changes (if they exist) or if those changes are causing my difference in emotion.

Certainly not your classic chicken or the egg experiment.

What Can I do For You

I am dealing with a particular situation within my relationship. Not a bad situation, quite the opposite. We have made a collective decision to find a common dynamic between us that seems to have found its way to the back burner. The dynamic was what brought us together in the first place. It was who we were to each other, who we grew from, who we experienced many firsts through and who we truly are as people deep down. Unfortunately it is the easiest dynamic we share to overlook. Most likely because they are the pieces of us that need the least nurturing. However, out of sight truly is out of mind. Out of mind means neglecting who we are as a whole and allowing pieces of us to fall by the way side.

My role in this particular dynamic is quite dominant. I make the rules, I make the decisions, I dictate what occurs. Well one would assume that to be the way things unfold. In actuality, it is much more complex than that. I, as the dominant force in the relationship also have the responsibility of self humility and humbleness. It is my job to find what works for everyone. Being a bully is not an option. Brow beating one to fit my desires is counterproductive. As the dominant one in the relationship it is my job to see that everyone is taken care of.

Yes, it is my way or the highway. And yes, I can be very demanding. But always. And I mean always, those demands are made in a way that my needs are met and so are those providing for those needs. The dynamic is intricate and particularly difficult to share within the realm of every day life. Those that say they live this way 24/7 are probably not being completely honest. There are some that can manage, but with jobs, family, children, chores etc, it becomes exceedingly difficult.

I have seen many relationships start out very deeply committed to their D/s dynamic. I have also seen most of those relationships die. Many times vanilla life becomes something they cant overcome and usually don't wish to share together. My situation is different. We were very committed to our D/s relationship. For many years. But we did grow to add everyday life as well. And I do wish to share that as well. But we have let life take over and that original commitment seems to be a memory. A memory I am determined to add to.

I am the dominant. I am the Ma'am, the Daddy, the Mistress, the Sir. I am the boss. But I am humble and gracious and nurturing. I want you near me. I want to give you a reason to want that too. And so I ask, what can I do for you?

The Wedding

I attended a wedding this weekend. A young family member on my partner's side. No one in actual relation to me was there.

Weddings are bitter sweet for a lot of people I think. You go there, expecting to be elated for the couple, and instead find yourself questioning your own life. Some people looked genuinely happy to be there for the couple, some looked miserable because they just realized they aren't in love, some are just drunk fools, and then there's me.

We were the only (that I know of) gay couple that attended. And while the bride's family (and blood relatives of my partner) are well aware, accepting and welcoming of me and our relationship, I cant help but feel like the red headed step child.

I know "its 2010" and people are "cool(er)" with gay people, especially the ever popular and trendy lesbian. However, I had many reasons why I didn't wish to be the 'token' anything at this wedding. Some of it is fear from decades ago. Some of it is the fear instilled by my mother that I reflect poorly on my family. And a lot of it is simple respect drilled into my head as a child. I was brought up that if there was a possibility you, your actions, your clothing, whatever would offend someone in some way, you don't go, do that, or wear it, etc. This didn't just teach me respect, it taught me to loathe myself and fear every single situation I encounter that is new. But this piece is not about my mother or my self esteem. Its about the deep sadness all of that creates.

I have been with the same woman going on 14 years. That is longer than the majority of people at that wedding could say about their relationships. I share a very passionate love with my partner and have wooed her continuously since day one. I am a hopeless romantic and spend an uncountable about of time choosing and making gifts that are meaningful. I send flowers and chocolate dipped fruit to the house just because. There is hardly a time I walk into a store and leave without something for her, even it is just the Peppermint Patty she likes. I choose to spend my free time with her, and have happily given up nights out and friends for that time. We always go to bed together at the same time. We still brush our teeth together. We have 'our songs' and 'my song', the one even she doesn't know is for her.

As I sat at my table during the wedding, I watched. Watched all the young couples and a few married couples interact. The mood in the air at a wedding brings out more lovey behavior in most people. None of them seemed to share the deep connection we do though. However, they shared the one thing that I deperately wanted to but couldnt.......a dance. As I sit here now I can feel the tears well up at the realization that we probably loved each other more than most people in that room, and yet I was unable to share a moment that they all took for granted.

Could I have danced? Sure. Would it have been the end of the world? No probably not. But I have seen and felt first hand the possibilities that can exist. I have felt the stares, heard the whispers and have even been removed from the premises because I took that chance before. I have lost family, friends and invitations to return.

Being the romantic in the relationship, I may be the only one that shares in this sadness. The question "did they even play any slow songs?" was asked of me. My reply, simply stated, "yes, a lot of them". What I didn't say was, "they even played my song".

Owned

According to urban definition, owned refers to what is otherwise known as embarrassing or beating someone, and calling attention to the 'epic fail'. I don't speak urban anything. I speak middle aged pompous ass sarcasm mostly.

According to good old Webster, owned can mean a variety of things. Most commonly, it means to have or possess as property, or being had or possessed by someone, having an owner.

My idea of owned is probably a little risque for the average Joe, but I assume the average Joe isn't reading this so I will share.

Ownership in my world isn't about staking claim to someone. It isn't about an opportunity to puff up my chest and say "MINE". It isn't about finding someone to crawl behind me. The only things those own is a title of cowardly bully.

Ownership for me is about finding a connection with someone, a trust so deep that their soul screams to belong to you. A connection that makes me only half a person without it. Its about learning everything about someone's psyche. Its about getting into their head, their mind and peeling away the layers until you reach the raw core.

Being owned is not about being a doormat. Or about being taken advantage of and demeaned. Its about being held highly with the utmost respect and allowing someone the gift of owning you. Its about knowing although you don't control the time and place, you do control the energy.

Ownership is unfortunately given up way too easily and with little regard. Ownership is also taken unjustly and abused all too often.

I am not really sure where I am going with this today. Maybe it is just my round about way of thanking someone for knowing who they were, what they deserved and allowing me to receive that gift. My acknowledgment that submission is a sign of strength and not of weakness. My gratitude for making my journey possible through you.

Owned. Never taken for granted.

Nurture the Entire List

In light of some positive writing feedback, vivid dreams, and questions from a friend, my head has been inundated with the thoughts, and the missing of sadomasochism in my life.

A wise man once told me that you should never allow your D/s relationships to die under the pressure of vanilla life. Apparently I am too stubborn to listen to wisdom. In all fairness, it takes two to tango, and I am not the only one to blame for the diminishing desire, but I certainly didn't have to go along with that plan.

In the twenty plus years I have been involved in the dark seedy world of kink (that was a joke folks), I have had times when the lifestyle came dead last on the priority list. Not because I opted to place it there, but because other perceived essentials ranked higher. However, we seem to neglect things that make us different before we neglect things that we as a society deem normal.

When we allow society to dictate what should be important to us, we short change ourselves. We pretend to believe that our needs and desires for anything else should not over shadow our 'normal' life's expectation. And this holds true for all things different, not just kink. If its been oppressed or put in a taboo box, it should end up at the end of the nurturing list. And until today, I might have agreed with that.

Yesterday I wrote about hair pulling. It flowed out of my fingertips like lava. It came freely and intensely hot. It was written in about 2 minutes (or as long as it takes me to type that many words). I had to put zero thought into that post.

The day before I had a friend seek intimate advice from my dominant viewpoint. Again, no thought necessary. The answers came quickly and easily. I enjoyed the conversation, the memories and the offering of my experience. In fact, I was a tad bit envious that it wasn't me.

Last night I dreamed of woman standing, restrained and beautifully marked. I remember thinking how beautiful she looked. Not because she was pretty, because I could not even see her face. But because she was so eager and hungry and marked with the most delicious signs that only a masochist is willing to wear. Her sounds made me sad. Sad I was not sharing in the moment.

In a very mundane moment yesterday, I remembered my wife, my submissive, and a moment we shared together long ago. It wasn't about pain or play or sex, it was a simple moment of trust. A trust that is capable of giving me butterflies when I think about it. I suddenly felt a huge appreciation for who she was and what she gave me. I wondered if she would do that today. I reached my hand out and rested it on her back. She, having no idea where I was in thought, most likely thought nothing of it. I was hoping she would 'feel' me.

I know life has changed for me. But only because I have allowed it to. And perhaps my days of hard core heavy play is behind me. I am not getting any younger or any stronger, but its never really been about that for me. Its been about allowing who I am, at my core, to surface and be received. Its about not taking pieces and keeping them stuffed out of view because it doesn't fit in with the rest of the 'list'.

A wise man also once told me that I should listen to myself. I think this time, I will allow myself to hear the wisdom.

Hair Pulling

Thats the thing about hair pulling. Simply put. It's hot.

I am a big fan of hair pulling. It gets someone's attention, no matter in what context you use it. No, I am not a violent person. No I don't do it because I am angry. No I don't use it just because I can....wait...yes I do.

Gripping ones hair in your fist speaks louder than words. At least when you use it with someone that understands the language. For me, grabbing a fist full of hair says, "I am in charge" or "I am feeling very aggressive, and you are about to find out just how much". Its pretty easy to tell if this tactic is effective or not. You always have the "Just kidding" scape goat if not.

During sex hair pulling is a great tool for restraint. You can keep someone frozen in whatever position you choose the minute your hand wraps around their hair. You can direct their head if thats your pleasure. From behind, that handful of hair makes a great leverage tool or handle if you are a little unsteady in your technique.

All those wonderful things aside, hair pulling for me is really about energy. My energy transferring to another. Its full of expression and meaning. Its a way to take someone to my energy level enabling me then to feed off theirs. Its a raw gesture but very effective. The breath that inevitably escapes someone's mouth when you grab hold is a major turn on. Quick and sudden, it can spin me from an 'eh' time to an incredible one. Its not just about me taking over, its about transferring power and energy. Its about sharing a raw space.

Hair pulling....its not just for the play ground anymore.

Obsessive Relationships

I was thinking (odd I know), about how much I have changed over the course of the past couple of decades, even though I don't feel as though I have changed at all.

I still feel young and vibrant despite my age and the illness that kicks my physical ass on a regular basis. I am still driven by compulsions and manic behavior. I still make stupid decisions. However I seem to have grown into those behaviors and found a way to handle them at a more mature level. They are much less damaging to my life and relationships. As a matter of fact, most of my manic episodes go fairly unnoticed by anyone other than me. I disguise my short comings well.

This morning I was recalling my past. Particularly my 'relationships' if you will. I put that in quotes because a true relationship is shared by two people equally. Only now have I really found out what relationship means.

My adolescnce is full of one sided obsessive relationships. My addicitve behavior spilling over into my desire for people. Couple that with abandonment fears stemming from my BPD and what you have is a gender confused, obsessed, hormonal and mentally unstable young person vying for attention that is usually not reciprocated or even taken notice of.

I, not so fondly, remember stalking, creating shrines, stealing clothes, changing looks, and wanting the same things as the women I became fixated on. Many times they were older, always straight and usually unavailable to the likes of me. Sometimes I would luck out in my conquest, but only with those that recognized my relentless pining for them. Most time I went undetected and therefore found myself angry, frustrated and hurt but their lack of returned affection. I simply was unable to rationalize these women didn't even realize how they were effecting me. Perhaps I was just hoping they would come to me, validate that I was desirable without me having to put the idea in their heads.

Back in the day, when my addictions controlled every aspect of my life, obsessive relationships filled a void just as well as drugs. It enabled me to focus on something other than the pain I was feeling. Little did I know how painful those obsessions were to me. The residual effects I live with even to this day. Unhealthy relationships, even the ones others were not aware they were having with me, paved the way to even deeper self esteem problems, confidence issues, and feelings of being undesirable. I live with those feelings still.

Today I am not chemically addicted anymore. But I cannot say I am free of my obsessive relationship style or my manic behavior. I have learned how to fine tune it so it isn't as obvious to everyone else. While I am manic, I am happy. While I am obsessed with something, I don't have time to let negative thoughts in. I still feel as though I need to give a million percent to deserve even a small portion of that back, but I am working on that.

I have learned that obsessive behavior is not what defines your desirability. And that I will never, and should never have someone see me from those eyes. I have learned that obsessiveness is not healthy. What I cant seem to learn is how to stop wanting it.

You are admired, I am judged

Its never a good idea to let yourself envy others. Or so they tell me anyway. I cannot help it. I have always been envious of others. Not for what they have, or who they know, but for what they possess emotionally and who they are.

Contrary to popular belief, I am not a confident person at all. I am brassy and bold, loud and the center of attention. However all of those qualities come from fear and shyness, not confidence. I don't know how to be comfortable with myself. And it seems everyone else does.

When I look at some of you I see very brave people. People willing and able to be true to themselves. People honest in what they feel. People not afraid to do what defies everything they were taught. People willing to sacrifice almost anything for that honesty. For that I am truly envious. And apparently a coward.

When you walk down the street people look at you because you exude the true "I am what I am" air. They feel it, and most are OK with it. I walk down the street and people look at me because I don't fit in, I am shaped a little odd, and its obvious they know I am gender confused. You are admired, I am judged. This is how I feel.

I know this is not reality. I know you too have more than your share of self conscious moments. I also know that there are people that do feel my air and do respect who I am. Rationalizing is easy. Feeling the rationale is much more difficult.

I wonder where you got your confidence. Where you got your strength. When you realized that it just didn't matter what the world had to say about you. I wonder how you braved the journey you have taken and crossed the line from judgment to admiration. I should not envy, but I do.

Its not Poly, Its my head

I tend to write a lot about crossing gender lines during intimate moments. Perhaps its because I am very aware of what is happening then. Maybe its because I am not distracted by trying to fit myself into the shoe box of the moment like I am during my work day and interaction with people that don't 'know' me.

Whatever the case, I am acutely aware of the blurred lines in which I love from. What I don't know for certain, is what my head is truly tapping into, especially during self love. I know I have talked about experiencing excitement from both gender spaces. But I haven't discussed (because I just thought about it today), the confusion I have over what part of the picture in my head I am aroused by.

There are many scenarios I can think up that will arouse me. All have at least two people involved, some more. And they all have both sexes involved. Since I am without a doubt a lover of women, I can only assume my fascination with men during masturbation is out of penis envy or my desire to have some cougar take on the young boy inside of me.

When I fantasize (and I use that term loosely), I cannot with any degree of certainty know who I am relating to in the scenario. I don't ever picture me, and I don't ever picture someone I know. I suppose I just make up my own porno flick to suit me. My thoughts encompass all aspects of who I am. Predator, prey, younger, older, male, female, experienced, novice. Take a couple of those and mash them together with different genders, and you have a ton of possibilities and combinations.

I feel sorry for people that are aroused by only one gender, one thought, one mindset. And although I don't really know who is 'getting off' in my thoughts as well as my pants, I don't think I care. I have the ability to be anything and all of these things, and that opens up a world of opportunity. I take these thoughts and bring them over into my intimate moments.

I feel fortunate that I have a wide variety of feelings and expressions I can use in my love making. I feel even more fortunate that I have a partner that can find a connection with them all. For us, it is like having multiple partners and experiences in the bedroom without the hassle of having to deal with multiple people and relationships the rest of the time.

Multiples in Bed

I apologize if you clicked the link to get here only to find out this is not about threesomes, foursomes or orgies. It is about me, and all the pieces of me that I take to bed.

Its no big news that I float around this earth using multiple personalities to get me through the day. I enjoy switching when it suits me, and appreciate that my head does it naturally when I need a safety net. During the day it doesn't usually present too many challenges since most people are unaware of my head space anyway.

Where it becomes tricky is in bed. Each one of my 'spaces' has its own individual wants and needs. I usually don't dictate where my head will go, I prefer to have my partner do that. I am much more aroused knowing I am somewhere she wants me to be as opposed to taking her somewhere I want to be. I am insatiable in the bedroom and want her to at least be able to enjoy where she is at since she is going to be there a while (think energizer bunny).

When we are 'finished' having sex, it is no secret that I am still ready to go. This has never been more prevalent than with my wife. Because she knows 'all of me', and can interact with each persona and compliment them, I find that she also has the ability to sexually arouse them all. And when they are all aroused, but not all are participating in the activity, someone is going to be left unsatisfied. Its not a bad thing, and I have no complaints, its just the reality. Partners in the past were not so tapped into my psyche so I didn't necessarily have a desire to be with them from every place within me.

Most intimate evenings end up with me masturbating the poor soul that got left untouched. It is virtually impossible not to have a piece of me left standing since they are all so different and not so easily switched in a passionate moment. I have found certain positions that allow me to 'take care of' multiple head spaces at the same time, and its fantastic. Its like receiving two or three times the stimulation you otherwise would in that moment.

I like my identity disturbances. I am thankful for the opportunities being true to how I feel and who I feel like affords me. I am undeniably grateful for having a partner that understands, appreciates and complements them all. I enjoy the satisfaction I am able to achieve in my life now without having to leave pieces of me waiting in the wing.

Locker Room

Today was the first time I have ever had any type of trans gender situation occur at work. While doing my mundane paperwork I noticed a note attached to someone's account regarding their child being transgendered. After working here almost five years I am well aware of the fact that no one here has any experience with or even knows transgendered people, so I looked into it further.

The child (which turned out to be 22), is named Paul. However from the notes on the account, I kept seeing Paul referred to as 'she'. It got me to wondering what gender Paul was. Was his gender male now? Or was it his birth gender and his name not changed yet? Either way, I needed to make sure that Paul was treated like any other person of his or her gender. And from the rest of the note, I knew that was already in jeopardy. "I showed her (the mom) the handicap locker room and said Paul could change there". (it only accommodates one person or small family at a time)

I immediately made a phone call. Thank goodness Paul hadn't been here yet and had never been subject to that ignorance. And that is all it was. There was no maliciousness in the comment. Just plain ignorance.

I made the call and found out the Paul was an FTM. I stated that Paul is a man and should have all the same rights and availabilities as every other man that walks through that door. I was pleased that our staff asked a lot of questions. I was even more pleased that I knew the answers. The common misconception was over 'where he was in the transition'. After explaining the difference between gender and sex assignment and the rights that Paul should be afforded, all was how it should be. And all without Paul having to deal with the stigma and embarrassment associated when confrontation with ignorant people occur.

In all fairness, you can hardly expect everyone to be knowledgeable about things they have never had exposure to. But sometimes I think common sense is stalled when staring into the face of the unfamiliar. Exposure, as scary as it may be for those exposed, truly does open doors to acceptance.

Reality Show

You will never see me on a reality show. Not because I don't agree with the idea of reality, but because my reality doesn't fit.

My wife and I jokingly question each other on why they don't make a reality show about us. Two middle aged lesbians that work forty hour a week jobs, parent children and do household chores. You wont see us, because its boring. Everyone does that. Well maybe not the lesbian part, but that in itself doesn't seem too appealing to anyone else but another lesbian. That decreases my viewer potential drastically. However, if I looked like the 'lesbians' in porn films or music videos I might stand a chance.

That's my point. People are only interested in things they can relate to, even if they don't realize they can relate. Most reality shows can be traced back to just a few common themes; match making, fitness, power struggle, or medical anomalies. They sugar coat the theme with something that appears to be a human interest story and call it by a different name than the one before. Toss in your 'token' whatever in each show and voila! We watch the same show again and again. Different people, same stories. Hardly a representation of reality.

Reality is not just a couple of topics revisited different ways. Reality is a million people living a million topics every day. So why do we not embrace that? Because my reality is so far removed from yours the risk of your disinterest is too high to chance. This is where we fail as whole. If we don't understand it, we don't seek to learn, we ignore it. If it makes us uncomfortable, we look the other way and focus on something we know. If it doesn't 'fit' into a familiar category we pretend it doesn't exist, or worse yet, make a decision to hate it.

I know I am interesting. I am complex and full of stories. I am engaging and willing to share. I am not just the middle aged lesbian living the typical life. I am a fighter, and a survivor and someone that still battles both physical and mental challenges on a daily basis. I have life experiences people cant even fathom. There are things that can be learned from me. However, I am different. I don't fit the reality mold. I am unfamiliar and uncomfortable to some. And because of this I have tucked myself out of most people's sights. Sharing only what people ask for.

My life will never be a reality show. People will never learn that my diversities are not threatening. That they can embrace people they don't understand. That if they just sat back and 'watched' they would find commonalities and relate. They might just find they have more patience and love than they thought.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhh

I realized today that when I am alone and able to think I do not ponder or reflect, I hold conversations in my head with myself and/or other people. If my quiet time is in the morning, I play out conversations that I assume will take place during the day. If my quiet time is driving home, I play out conversations I will be having while cooking, having dinner and prior to bed. When I brush my teeth I am practicing the lines I will use in bed or the ones I will try to deflect. If I don't think I will need to hold any particular conversation I usually spend the time arguing in my head with myself.

I came to the realization that I rehearse what I think the day will hold for me. If you know anyone with OCD, you can attest to the fact that any variation in a plan is never a good thing. For me personally, it frustrates and aggravates me unbelievably if anyone other than me changes the 'plans'. I suppose my quiet conversations with myself is me planning. Planning things that most likely will never play out exactly. I know I do it so I think I will never be unprepared in a social situation, but in reality I am just setting myself for the stress and frustration of having things go terribly different than my made up version of the day.

This morning I was holding a conversation with my wife, and although she was in the room, she had no idea we were conversing. It make me chuckle and wonder why I wasn't just talking out loud to her. The only answer I could come up with was that I was responding to a conversation that she started, but really never did. I thought about all the times when people say "whatcha thinkin?", and you respond "nothin". What fun it would be to actually let loose and start spewing the entire conversation to someone. "well you see, I just said, and she said, then I said, then you said".

The purpose of bringing this up really had nothing to do with my sanity or lack thereof. I just felt enlightened, and a tad distressed, at the fact that I bring on so much undo stress to myself. I imagine most people do in some form or another. I don't know what course I will take therapeutically to cease my silent destructive behavior. I suppose finding an answer to why I rehearse my life in the first place would be a good start.

So if ever I am eerily quiet, please just say "shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh".

Reassurance

I know there are times when you don't think I notice you. Don't think I feel you. Don't think it matters that you are there. I know there are times when I appear preoccupied, disinterested, or removed. You tell me "I am getting used to your back" while lying in bed. You assume I don't know what you mean. But I do.

Some days, some weeks, I simply am not physically well. You are not slighted, I am just trying to get through the day. I don't want to complain, so I say nothing. My mind does not want you any less, my body just cant keep up with it.

But what makes us different, and you inherently better than I, is your ability to still reach out, even when feeling slighted. I feel your hand on my hip. I focus on it. You having no idea how much that moment says and means. My back toward you, I can still 'see' you. I listen to your breathing, as it gets deeper. I feel your hand slowly relax and find its final resting place. I know you are asleep.

Your touch my reassurance. These words, yours.

Strap on Strap off

I was thinking about how proficient I am with my cock(s). To me they are an extension of who I am, not something I attach to my body. I don't always use one, but when I do, its because I NEED to use it.

I have owned a variety of shapes and sizes, harnessed and not. I have worn soft ones when I felt the need to 'pack' and dabbled in creating them out of silicone myself. I have even incorporated catheters into them, so peeing could be optimized.

For me, owning, wearing or using a cock does not change my gender. It simply enhances the twisted parts of the fluid gender I already have. I don't use it for control, I don't use it to humiliate I use to to express parts of me that I cannot otherwise do.

I can look back on the past 25 or so years and recognize that my cock needs have changed as much as I have. (I would have said grown, but hell, they are pretty big already!) The first one came with a harness, it lived the majority of its life in a drawer, still in the box. My desire to use it was over shadowed by my fear of looking stupid. I short changed myself, as I often do. However, over the course of the years as others desired my cock as much as I did, the extension of me became that much easier.

My collection has been pretty extensive. Each one almost tailored to whom it was intended. Short and fat, long and thin, black or white. I have owned soft ones, hard ones, strap ons, strap offs, vibrating and not. Having the ability to purchase the perfect fit is pretty nice. Had I been born with one, I imagine my cock would have been less desired many times. Vibrators and cocks made of plastic and glass, or colored rainbow, just don't do it for me. I want a cock that is just that. One that can be sucked off, sat on, and handled naturally.

I like to fuck. Literally. Its not a need to shove things up someone's vagina, its a need to physically fuck. To me its not always a gender thing, as I have fucked many women that did not relate to my masculine side at all. Having a cock on does not change my gender, it just enhances all of the genders I already am.

Sometimes I wonder if my genetic makeup truly consists of both genders. I cant help but be amazed at my own reactions to how my cock makes me feel. Is it possible that I have just created the 'knowledge' of what it feels like to fuck or have my cock sucked? Or are those 'feelings' a predisposition in my genetics and I am just lacking the physical attributes that go with them?

Is it Vanity?

Vanity. A word that seems to make us all cringe a bit. It's defined as excessive belief in ones own abilities or attractiveness to others. We all know someone we would call vain. The person who always dresses to the nines, not because they have the class to, but because they have a need to look better than everyone else, and let you know they do. Someone who never leaves the house without makeup or their hair done just right. Someone who can't walk past a reflective surface without staring, fixing, and appreciating. Vanity sometimes makes beautiful people very ugly.

We have become accustomed to recognize superficial shallow people. Vain people. We think we are able to pick them out of the crowd and have no problem making a snide remark or subtle sound of disgust. But are we right in our assumptions? Are perceived vain people truly holding themselves above everyone else? Are they really that into themselves? I suppose the answer to that is yes, but probably a lot less than most presume.

I don't want to discuss the reasons why we are disgusted with those people, thats a topic in itself. The old green eyed monster comes to mind. I am more interested in who these people are. The people we call vain. And why they have such an air of greater than thou. If they are anything like me, they are overcompensating for a life time of body image issues, eating disorders, a traumatic childhood, and lack of self esteem.

I dont ever leave the house unkempt. My clothes are ironed every morning, my hair is where it needs to be, my makeup is always done. This does not make me vain, this makes me extremely distressed. I have not left my house any other way since the age of 13. That's almost 30 years of torturing myself. I was brought up to be perfect. Obviously that was impossible. However when you are told again and again that your lack of perfection reflects poorly on those around you, you cannot help but try all you can to come as close as possible.

I am well aware of where my issues derive from. I can rationalize most everything that plagues me. However I have never been able to get past what it has done to my self worth. And no matter how hard I try to look 'right' I never have.

So yes, I am the one looking into every mirror I pass. Not because I think I look good, because I keep hoping to see something other than what I have loathed all these years.

Addicted to addiction

I haven't written much about addiction here. As a matter of fact only one entry actually made it into the addiction category. I suppose once you say "I am an addict" out loud, you pretty much have said enough for people to make their judgment and move on. Some will pity the addict, others chastise them. Most will have words of wisdom and a few will not care either way. When people who have never been addicted realize you are an addict, even a long time recovering one, they attach a stigma to you that immediately puts you beneath them both on the moral and social ladder. Or so they presume.

I have been an addict since high school. I don't embrace that realization, but I dont deny it. Now that I am many years into recovery, its a little easier to talk about it with people. I even find myself making light of the drug induced behaviors and situations I lived through. I truly don't find humor in them, however sometimes laughing at yourself is easier than beating yourself up.

I harbor a lot of guilt from those years. I don't need others judgments, I have given myself enough of my own. Aside from the horrible things that could have happened and all the things that could have gone wrong, I live with the realization that I could have been so much better. I could have done so much better. I could have offered so much more.

I spent a lot of my days purposely putting myself in dangerous situtations. I copped drugs in the meanest, baddest, scariest places the New York City area has to offer. I have had guns pulled on me, attempted car jackings occur, and friends severly beaten and raped while I waited for them outside of buildings. I visited dealers with hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of drugs laying on a table, gunmen and dogs guarding the doors, and shots and sirens wailing outside.

Everyone knew I liked to party, no one knew how serious of an addiction it was. My addiction to the addiction was a million times worse. My natural compulsive behavior got me hooked and my obsessiveness kept me there. I was so addicted to the act of buying the drugs. I was drawn to the danger and the euphoria that copping in an environment like that and surviving gave me. I had delusions of being untouchable and desired as a 'regular'. I refused to think that my drug addiction meant nothing to those I bought from or those I gave to other than their own selfish satisfaction.

There were times during my addiction that I was not 'active' in the addiction. I spent a couple of years not doing drugs at all. During these times there were other things going on that fulfilled whatever the drug scene did previously. I was always very aware of this and perhaps used it to lessen the need to acknowledge I was an addict. If I could stop I was not addicted. If I only used to fill a void, I may have been unstable, but not addicted. And maybe I was right. Maybe I was not addicted to drugs at all.

Just because I ingested drugs does not mean I was addicted to what it did to my body any more than over eaters are addicted to their weight.

Man or Male

I am gender fluid. To me that means I have the ability to shift from one gender to another effortlessly and without resistance. There are times when I consciously do this and other times when it just seems to happen. Certainly my environment and situation have great influence, as do others personalities and auroras.

I do not feel transgendered, as I do associate with my biological sex. I was born female, I have many female traits. I sometimes only feel comfortable in that female space. Again, it really depends on the circumstances. I have no desire to change my sex or to live as the opposite sex. I am 100% supportive of those that do, its just not who I am.

I embrace my male qualities. I like the traits I carry when my testosterone seems to be winning the shift. I feel powerful, strong, confident. I feel protective. I feel untouchable by things that upset the female emotional apple cart. However, at no time am I a man.

There is a big difference between male and man. I honestly don't believe one equals the other. Man is a gender, not a persona. Male is a 'feeling', a way of being. I can be very 'male' in feeling while still being very female in gender. This seems especially true in my dominant and sadistic states. I am very female in that space. I want to look desirable, and dare I say sexy. I want people's heads to turn. Not because my appearance looks confused like usual, but because I look intriguing and exude dominance and sex. The irony is my male 'feelings' run very high in these moments.

I have come to the conclusion that feeling male, for me, has absolutely nothing to do with my appearance. Granted I feel comfortable dressing genderless or even to the 'boy' side, but the male in me seems to come out as strong when I am wearing a leather corset as it does when I am working on the car. For me, its all about the use of testosterone, not my genitals.

Home

I have an uncanny ability to take words and make them mean whatever I need them to mean in the moment. The same goes for music. I can think so abstractly that any song can be transformed into words relating to me some how or another. I have experienced a lot in my life. You would be hard pressed to find a song that I couldn't relate to somehow.

When I hear a song, and truly listen to it, I will either 'feel' it or not. If I feel it, it goes on my Ipod. I have days and days of music on my Ipod. Everything from opera to heavy metal and everything in between. My music tastes are as complex and diverse as I am.

I like a lot of music but particular songs speak to me. They evoke emotion, sometimes overwhelming. They bring memories to the surface quite easily. Unfortunately, many of the memories are deep rooted and sad.

I have a lot of songs that make me think of my current relationship. Phrases that typically come up in these songs have to do with feelings of comfort, peacefulness, or being 'at home'. At home. Not exactly a place I associate with love and feeling good.

Home for me was a place of isolation and loneliness. It was a place of maturing too soon. It was a place of abandonment and unsafe love. Home was where you never lived up to people's expectations, where diversity was shunned upon and where perfection was all that mattered. Home was always being ridiculed and put down. A place where your imperfections were brought to attention over and over again. Home was a place of physical dominance and mental torture. Escaping home was where the comfort was.

So when I hear phrases, like "feels like home", "I'm coming home", "reminds me of a place called home", I have to blank out that moment in the song. At no point does my relationship feel like home ever did. And thats what's sad. I don't have a cozy feeling when I say home. I cannot relate to those that do.

So I as drove many hours this past week with my Ipod playing, I realized that home doesn't have to be where you grew up as a child. That home is really where you are safe, warm and loved.

"I am already home"

Things I learned on Vacation

Tourists make a town pretentious, not the locals

For the price of one bowl of ziti, I can feed my entire family

There truly is a Walmart in every town

A paid vacation is never really paid for

70 degrees is NOT warm ocean water

I will always look gross in a photo

My patience for other people's children has diminished with age

Complementary breakfast will always give you heartburn

Not everyone cleans up after their dog on sidewalks

If you say it's a tourist town you can charge three times as much

Some dresses should be classified as shirts and accompany pants

Boots with shorts look ridiculous, especially on the beach

If you try to sneak a kiss on a boat ride in the dark, they WILL turn on the light

You are obligated to tip everyone for doing their job

Stalactites take 100 years to grow 1 inch (useless information)

If you choose the room with two beds your odds of getting a good mattress increases

New York State cigarettes are $10 a pack!

Sleeping on your young adult child's pull out couch is strange

Toy boxes draped with material make great coffee tables

Cars should have cruise steering

The drive home is always the longest

There is no place like home

The Tide

Yesterday I was walking in the ocean. The chilly temperatures kept me from getting any further than up to my thighs. I realized how much I love the raw power and unpredictability of the ocean, but how much I absolutely hate the beach. The beach is full of people. That in itself is an issue for me. As much of a social butterfly as I appear to be, I don't like people. I am fearful of them and their judgments. Since the weather was cool, the beach was scarce and I was pleased.

As I stood in the water, I watched the ocean. Each time I thought I knew what it was going to do, it simply didn't. I tried to square myself up where the small waves would break, however that was ever changing. I spent a considerable amount of time 'feeling' the ocean. Since I was only up to my thighs I was able to feel the pull of the water as it receded back into the vast ocean. I like that feeling. That push and pull.

As I was walking back toward the beach with numb thighs, I couldn't help but see an inspiration for writing in the moment. As I approached the beach, the water, behind me, passed me. Each step I took was matched with the ocean filling in the space I was trying to emerge from. As I took a step toward shallower water, it seemed the water came in and kept me in its depths. The beach looked so close, but ended up feeling so far away. I felt as though I was covering very little ground.

I began to relate to the water. I found a connection with it. The tide, so very much like me. A constant battle to achieve something, only to be sucked back to where you came from. The walk, so familiar. Trying to get somewhere only to have the same things fill your space. Distance defying logic. Changing a little differently each time I take a step.

I don't know what my goal is, perhaps it is the same as the ocean. Just keep trying. Trying to get to somewhere you weren't one small wave ago.