Last night my wife was laying her head on my shoulder in bed. Lightly running her hands over my body for no purpose other than to feel me, I asked her what she was thinking. She had no answer, though I find it difficult to imagine a completely quiet mind; something I have never experienced. She then directed the repeated question at me, to which I always have an answer. I told her I was wondering if she had ever pictured someone else laying on my shoulder, touching me the way she was. I know I do it all the time.
For me, removing myself from the relationship and looking at it from an outsider's view is a great way to remind me how horrible it would feel to not be in that space anymore, to see someone else replace me. I picture a scenerio that includes me as the 'ex'. Perhaps sitting on the couch sipping cocktails. Me on one couch, my wife and her new flame cozy on the other. I replay an intimate moment and replace me with someone else. I imagine someone else touching her, doing the things I do, and worst of all, her responding to it. This is usually where I get sick to my stomach and stop thinking.
In that moment, its that nausea and gaping hole in my heart that reminds me to never take what I have for granted. To never let life get so dull and mundane that my replacement looks like a better option. To leave yesterday's spat (not that we have many) in yesterday because bringing it into today could leave me sitting on the other couch tomorrow. The ill I feel from my clearly masochistic thought processes requires me to reflect, constantly, on how easily life could change. How quickly a replacement could come into play. It reminds me that I need to work every day to show the appreciation for what my relationship affords me.
So as you read this, try it. Remove yourself. Watch your relationship be had by someone else. I promise you, the loss you suddenly feel will be replaced with a much needed adoration for your partner.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Antidote
I had a conversation with someone today. It was really just about her teenage daughter and the good for nothing boy she chooses to spend time with. While I sat and listened to my colleague she made the statement about all of us having that one poison or toxic person we just cant seem to shake. At first I thought, nah, not me. Then I realized, I was lying to myself.
I know the conversation was about having a relationship that is toxic. About wanting to be with someone that everyone in their right mind tells you not to be. Usually its for your own good, and the advice most times, should be heeded. I see it happen all the time and its very easy as an outsider to shake your head and think "what is wrong with them?".
Although I have had toxic people in my life, I cant say that I have any relationships with those people anymore. Well, unless you count my mother, who is poisonous to my heart and soul and doesn't even know it. But family isn't what I'm talking about here.
I would like to think that ridding myself of poison people has rid me of their effects on me, but that's not the case at all. And even though I don't keep running back for another shot of death, I still carry the effects of their lethal ways with me every day. I think this is pretty normal. Its normal to be effected by people. The relationship, no matter what kind, molded some part of you. But what does it mean when you find yourself capable of letting the toxins go, but unwilling?
For me, I find safety in knowing who I am and how I feel. Even if I don't like how it feels. I am a realist. I know life is not all good, and sometimes I will feel bad. I don't dwell on the negative impacts on my life, but have to admit that I venture back to them in my mind. I find a strange comfort in remembering the sad and empty times; the yearning etc of some of my adult relationships. I seek out the feelings of loss in an attempt to remind me that I don't feel like that anymore. Its my way of never taking what I have now for granted. A way to appreciate things even when they seem mundane and unimportant.
There are people that still haunt me. I find them in my thoughts, my photos, my dreams and many times, my disgust. But I still find them. I just cant seem to walk away; not because I enjoy their poison, but because it reminds me that I found the antidote.
I know the conversation was about having a relationship that is toxic. About wanting to be with someone that everyone in their right mind tells you not to be. Usually its for your own good, and the advice most times, should be heeded. I see it happen all the time and its very easy as an outsider to shake your head and think "what is wrong with them?".
Although I have had toxic people in my life, I cant say that I have any relationships with those people anymore. Well, unless you count my mother, who is poisonous to my heart and soul and doesn't even know it. But family isn't what I'm talking about here.
I would like to think that ridding myself of poison people has rid me of their effects on me, but that's not the case at all. And even though I don't keep running back for another shot of death, I still carry the effects of their lethal ways with me every day. I think this is pretty normal. Its normal to be effected by people. The relationship, no matter what kind, molded some part of you. But what does it mean when you find yourself capable of letting the toxins go, but unwilling?
For me, I find safety in knowing who I am and how I feel. Even if I don't like how it feels. I am a realist. I know life is not all good, and sometimes I will feel bad. I don't dwell on the negative impacts on my life, but have to admit that I venture back to them in my mind. I find a strange comfort in remembering the sad and empty times; the yearning etc of some of my adult relationships. I seek out the feelings of loss in an attempt to remind me that I don't feel like that anymore. Its my way of never taking what I have now for granted. A way to appreciate things even when they seem mundane and unimportant.
There are people that still haunt me. I find them in my thoughts, my photos, my dreams and many times, my disgust. But I still find them. I just cant seem to walk away; not because I enjoy their poison, but because it reminds me that I found the antidote.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
No Longer Baggage
So lately I have focused my writing attention on my book primarily. Being a memoir, it has understandably given me an opportunity to look at my past again, from fresh eyes. Putting my life down on paper, sharing with someone, has started a transformation within me that I was not expecting.
When I began the book, I was very apprehensive. I have always been known to divulge anything someone wanted to know, however that information was always in a tailored format. I always made sure to reveal only what I felt that person was capable of understanding. I have taken the advice of a friend, and have tried very hard not to edit myself in my writing. I am putting down events as they happened, not as I wanted to remember them happening. I have found that as the memories are released, in their honesty, they are becoming less and less things I want and need to think about. It seems they have found their way to the same memory bank as the normal childhood events. They don't seem so big and important.
I feel a sudden stillness in my memories. I don't feel the constant swirling of emotion. I no longer feel like a balloon is going to pop if I don't allow someone, anyone, to share them. I spent decades with these experiences kept to myself. Not because I didn't like them, because albeit wrong, I did like many of them, but because I didn't think anyone one else would understand them.
I started this book very fearful of who would read it, what people would think and how small the audience of acceptors would be. But now I want to finish it. I want people to read it. I want the appalled reactions and the reaction of those that can relate. I want to share it all. And even though I know those experiences shaped who I am and my life as I know it, each time I let one out completely, it just becomes part of my past, not part of my baggage.
When I began the book, I was very apprehensive. I have always been known to divulge anything someone wanted to know, however that information was always in a tailored format. I always made sure to reveal only what I felt that person was capable of understanding. I have taken the advice of a friend, and have tried very hard not to edit myself in my writing. I am putting down events as they happened, not as I wanted to remember them happening. I have found that as the memories are released, in their honesty, they are becoming less and less things I want and need to think about. It seems they have found their way to the same memory bank as the normal childhood events. They don't seem so big and important.
I feel a sudden stillness in my memories. I don't feel the constant swirling of emotion. I no longer feel like a balloon is going to pop if I don't allow someone, anyone, to share them. I spent decades with these experiences kept to myself. Not because I didn't like them, because albeit wrong, I did like many of them, but because I didn't think anyone one else would understand them.
I started this book very fearful of who would read it, what people would think and how small the audience of acceptors would be. But now I want to finish it. I want people to read it. I want the appalled reactions and the reaction of those that can relate. I want to share it all. And even though I know those experiences shaped who I am and my life as I know it, each time I let one out completely, it just becomes part of my past, not part of my baggage.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, September 24, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
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.
"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.
Monday, September 13, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, August 30, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, August 27, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
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?
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?
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
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.
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.
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