I've been avoiding writing this for a while.
Or maybe it's more accurate to say that I've been avoiding writing as a whole for a while.
Since the update of my site I've uploaded two things, both of which were poems about my lover that I fluctuate between adoring and wanting to delete out of pure mortification.
I feel like a lot of my personality is fluff. Call it what you want, actually. Fluff, a facade, straight up lying... however you hash it I feel like for all this transparency™, that no one really knows what's going on with me. Or maybe I've just been too many different people in too short a time.
Plagued since birth with "No One Understands Me" Syndrome, I am an extremely lonely individual. Isolation was a huge abuse tactic growing up, and I missed key emotional development stages especially around other people.
No one knows who I am, and sometimes I pretend to like it that way. I keep 90% of my thoughts to myself, and it doesn't matter whether or not you believe this fact, but I truly hate talking. Talking is bullshit, and most of the time, with most of the people, I'm not saying anything at all. In fact, I'm not even there. It's not uncommon for me to have an in depth discussion on something that I'm apparently interested in, only to turn to a friend and ask "what the fuck was I just talking about, just now?" There is an extreme disconnect between verbal and mental communication.
Oh, but I've mastered The Conversation™. I know how to make people laugh, and can read an individual within a few seconds of conversation. The interaction is autopilot from there, really. It upsets me to type this, but on most days I truly can't feel anything. Not a thing.
There are a few things that penetrate this numbness: pain, sex and daydreams.
I love pain. Wow, that feels good to type out loud. I'll say it again, I fucking love pain. To feel pain is to feel pain. And for someone who's nerve endings are shot, that shit feels good. It reminds me that I can feel, and that makes me feel like useful flesh again. When I used to physically self harm, my favorite parts were the antipication of pain. The knowing that the unbearable vortex that had ripped by chest raw and red, would finally meet its match. That this self-inflicted physical pain would register sharp and clear onto my skin, forcing me feel something else; lifting me mercifully from the void I fell into every night.
I don't intentionally self harm anymore, but my body remembers it all. I hurt myself all the time without consciously thinking of it, or trying to do it. If I'm not paying attention, I'll go to relieve an itch, and scratch until my skins rips bloody. If I can't tame the internal chatter that day, I'll walk hard into every wall I see. It's as if my body's auto-pilot is still set to self-destruct.
The way I used to self harm was very methodical and soothing. A broken bangle was my go-to; slicing clean in loopy ropes down the inside of my forearm. Watching as the skin split; sometimes blood, usually not. I'd apply peroxide afterwards with clean Q-tips; loving the way it burned and cleaned. This ritual calmed me down, and the dull, secret throb under my long sleeves kept me safe all day. This was pain I could control; this was pain I could like.
The way I've self-harmed since hasn't been as methodical or physical, but equal parts damaging. I entered a relationship with a person who I truly believed would never want to commit to me. As a serial monogamist, I craved nothing more than a monogamous partnership, and by entering a situation with someone who identified as the complete opposite, I ensured that my feelings would be hurt constantly, as a (what I thought was) necessary reminder that I could not and would not ever be loved the way I wanted to. This did not go according to thought, as I found in her a connection that I didn't expect, and to my complete surprise (and horror) she agreed to enter a monogamous, committed relationship with me. She loved me. Oops.
Being loved makes me sadder than anything. A long time ago, a seed inside of me was planted, that grew and sprouted into an inner/outer truth which is that no one can ever love me, because I already ruined what love is. The love that I want does not exist. It's a fabrication of media, a manifestation of my intense loneliness, and stupid, childish, hopeless dream. The worst part of it all, is that the love I want for myself, is also the way that I love others, and it is not good.
I hate the way I love. It gives me away every single time. If I was playing it cool before, then my cover is blown to shit now. I hate the space I allow others to take in my heart. Hate the childlike purity of my joy at their presence, the way I hang on their every sweet word, the way it only takes a look or a clipped tone to slam me back down to reality, and to silently shatter the secret hope that builds in my chest every time, that maybe they might maybe feel the same way. I feel sick. I feel unhealthy, and I find myself stiff-faced and embarrassed at the thought of bringing it up to my therapist. I'm reluctant to write this out; as I type slowly here now. I dread the text or light-hearted look, that I will immediately believe is a cover to attempt to not hurt my feelings, when my lover asks about this post, or brings it up. I know that these things are wrong with me. I know that this love doesn't exist, and I know that real love is as equal to sweet joy as it is to sorrow, loss and hardship. For this reason, I ran from love for a long time. Refused to verbally commit, refused to entertain certain thoughts. And now that I found myself here, in a committed and relatively healthy and loving relationship, I wonder if this will change. I wonder if it can.
Exiting my tangent, and returning to my list, sex is a well-used tool into breaking my numbness as well. The raunchier, nastier, freakier, the better. I've been hog-tied and slapped clean across the face by grown men thrice my height and body mass. Thrown around, made to beg, spanked into slight nerve damage. I almost got a gig as a submissive working at a dungeon downtown; a job I disappoint myself for losing. The intersection of pain and pleasure takes me to a new dimension. I skip upstairs, giddy, to shut off all the lights in my neocortex, and chill full-reptilian for a couple of hours. The language of grunts and slaps is one that I understand and speak fluently. The human body is my favorite instrument to play, and I play it well. During heights of my hypersexuality, I grew frustrated in the abundance of partners but complete lack of energy. No one could match me in bed, even when they promised me they could, and so I stopped. Now, I am quite literally a chronic masturbator; cumming so quick that I don't even get wet, or sit down. 12 seconds flat, and see you again in an hour!
Although sex is pleasurable, unless mixed with pain, or extreme, extreme intensity, it really does nothing for me. The sex I have these days is the most intense of my life. I've never breathed in another human being before; I've never had sex with someone just by staring in their eyes; never kept my own eyes open this much, so as to not miss a single moment. I wish there was a different word for it than "sex", because it's so much more than that. But the words don't exist, only the feeling does, so I lay still and quiet, staring with an intensity that makes my partner uncomfortable, and having to look away now that she is, because that is what I have been conditioned to do. But I don't want to look away. I want to look deep, and keep looking while my eyes adjust. I don't need words, I just need her breath. And I don't need "I love you"s because I already read it in the skin of her palm.
And this brings us to dreams.
I dream all day long. I'm almost never here in the physical.
I dream of dying every day.
I wonder if it will hurt as badly as I think it will to slip under the subway as it comes down the tunnel. I wonder if I'll feel the hot metal scrape my knee bones; if I'll miscalculate my leap and just end up disfigured and having to explain. I dream of the 2-4 second drop on my way down from the roof, and wonder if I'll be scared. If I'll even feel anything, or if it'll just be black-out, then curtains. I wonder if the car crash that I know will claim my life, is happening right now as my uber speeds through traffic. Sometimes that thought makes me put my seatbelt on. Sometimes it doesn't. And most of all, I wonder what will happen if this fear that I have around dying ever goes away. I suppose I'd be in real trouble then, because on most days the thought of dying is as delicious as it is forbidden.
I also dream of my babies. I've seen their faces a couple of times; was visited by one once. It makes me wary to talk about them because I feel like people don't understand. I'm constantly dismissed when vocalizing my need to mother. Told that a baby won't fix my mental state, or make me whole, as if I don't already fucking know that. As if babies are accessories, and dress up dolls. Don't insult me, I want to scream, but never will. I don't think my children will "fix" shit. In fact, I'm the most happy to be in a same-sex partnership, because now I know for certain that having them unexpectedly is not an option. I don't know if I'm ready for them right now, but I feel them and they're real and it is my birthright to mother. I struggle between wanting to wait years and years until I'm "good", until I've read all the books, done all the classes, cleansed completely and totally, but another older, smarter part of me knows that this is not what makes a good parent. There is no formula or perfectly curated set of skills that I can memorize and master that will make me "ready". There is just no such thing. And part of my education is truly understanding that in all parts of my life.
I started out this piece riding hard on the wave/dick of self deprecation. But as I come to a close just now, I feel... nothing. Or maybe I should't say "nothing", I don't think that's right. But I feel now that everything just is. And bottom line is that unless I decide to quit the show early, all I can do is take a seat and try on the days that I can.