sexual ethics

My sexuality may have become unbound but is fundamentally unchanged; my sexual ethics have changed completely in the binding.

Essentially, my sexual ethics exist now. They were previously unexamined, visceral, in-the-moment things which didn't really qualify as something so organized or intentional as ethics. They could have been roughly extrapolated from my behaviors, insofar as that's possible (which is not terribly far), but those findings would have been as unreliable as my behavior.

So, what are the values that define my sexual ethics?

Foremost, fidelity. - Which is different from monogamy. Fidelity describes loyalty, which encompasses honesty, forthrightness, and the keeping of promises. Fidelity also describes upholding one's honor, and their lovers' honor. None of these things require monogamy. In fact they become more important as you stray farther along the non-monogamy path. Fidelity is a broad descriptor; it is the basis of my ethics regardless of relationship type, now. Everything stems from that root.

I wish I had always been so guided [but if wishes were horses... I would ride].

My lover has proven the value of fidelity to me, and I will never again settle for a lesser lover.

This all sounds less than genuine, but I read it back and can't seem to re-word it in a way that works. Maybe I need to be more specific...

My values, my sexual and romantic ethics, demand this behavior:

*Conducting myself as an 'unavailable' person, in thought and deed.

*Being forthright with my lover, in everything.

*Keeping my promises, explicit and implicit.

21

21, as in the album by Adele.

I love it. Really love it.

At first I just loved her voice, her talent, and the soulful quality of the songs. The only song on the album that didn't strike my fancy was the cover she did of The Cure's "Lovesong" (even Adele can't out-sorrow Robert Smith).

Some of the songs could have been written about my past lovers - "Turning Tables" was certainly about my ex-husband - but mostly I just enjoyed the feel of the music.

Now I see it differently.

Now it's as though most of the cd were sung to me, from my lover's point of view. It's not a complimentary perspective, but it feels true. Listening to those songs now is both moving and masochistic. When I shift away from the immediate, I see more clearly how other people have treated me the same, at different times in my life.

The pattern is enlightening.

exquisite

your hands are wise
though your tongue is quick;

yet your voice soothes
while your touch arches
exquisite
across visceral truth.

days for family

I think I just figured out why my mother always gave us kids Valentine's Day gifts. As a single mother, it's better to celebrate with your kids than not at all. How much loneliness can a woman take?
All the years I spent Valentine's with my child only, all the Christmases and New Years I've spent the same way... I understand, now, why my mother chose to actively enjoy her children's company rather than mourn the lack of adult company.

my sexuality

I hadn't thought of it as changing, but maybe - from a certain perspective - it is. Or has changed recently. Or more likely, I have sloughed off the necrotic trappings that gave my sexuality many names to suit my needs. That would be a change apparent to observers, while preserving my view of my sexuality as relatively static.

I haven't really decided on new labels for it, and I'm not convinced that I should. Labels haven't been terribly helpful so far. I would like to describe my attractions, at least for my lover, but I am resistant to the idea of boxing myself up again. What if I find the box I've chosen isn't such a good fit after all? If I change boxes, have I lied about who I am? Why do I have to be cuboidal, anyway? What if I'm not a cube, and I don't fit any box?

"God of....."

Whenever we talk about pagan deities, modern or ancient, the name is almost always followed by some sort of title.

"Thor, god of thunder,..."

Eastern religions are not spared this treatment, either.

So I was thinking...
If gods in non-Christian pantheons get specialties - why shouldn't the Christian deities, too? It seems unfair to leave them out.

So this is what I concluded:

Yahweh, of course, should be the god of self-promotion. He might also be the God of politics, by extension.

Jesus, as a half-god/half-mortal, should probably be the demigod of charity and reconciliations.

The 'Holy Ghost' might be the divine wight of spiritual growth, or inspiration.

Mary and the Saints already have their specialties delineated pretty clearly by the Catholic population, so I bow to Catholic scholarship on those.

There, I feel better now.

blood draw

I just got my blood drawn.

I didn't panic. I didn't feel frightened. I didn't feel like I needed to be held by someone close when it was over.

My heart rate stayed normal. I didn't get lightheaded. I didn't feel like crying.

I was calm, collected, self-possessed.

That
is monumental.

I still hate the feeling of the needle going in, the squeeze of the rubber band on my arm, and the odd ache of blood leaving my artery. But this time, it was ok. It was those uncomfortable sensations, without the fear that has always accompanied getting my blood drawn.

I can't help thinking that the timing of this change, unexpected as it is, cannot be coincidental.

It was my choice to allow them to take my blood. I didn't have to allow it.

Maybe I really am becoming
self-possessed.

Maybe sometimes saying "yes" is just as empowering as saying "no."

heartsick

...over my dog.

Dogs.

Mostly one dog - the one I failed the most. The one I walked into a kennel at the animal shelter yesterday. The one who followed me because he trusted me. The who cried, confused, when I closed the kennel and walked away.

We both cried, but only I knew why.

choices

Do I need the humiliation? Do I crave degradation? Will I ever need more pain than the Archer is willing to give?

I think the answer lies in his reasons for being gentle the first time we had sex after my treachery was exposed.

He told me he would not be "rough," would not engage in anything resembling BDSM. He would hold me, caress me, love me. And he did. Because he did not want me to use pain to excuse myself from my bad behavior.

He was right, mostly.

In his analysis of my masochism, he was absolutely right. I have used pain to excuse my promiscuity, my lies, and probably many other activities I can't think of right now.

Right then, in that moment before we had sex, I didn't want pain. I didn't want punishment, though I believed I deserved it - legitimately, I think. But I didn't want it. I wanted comfort.

I know why he thought I wanted pain. I have a history of wanting it, for one thing. More immediate, though, was the look on my face when I walked in the room and saw a tawse on the bed as if prepped for play. I'm sure I looked relieved. I was, but not because I wanted pain. I took that instrument as a sign that he wanted to play with me, that he would touch me again. I didn't want the pain, but I would take it, if taking it meant having his skin against mine.

Looking back, the mentality that would have allowed me to accept that punishment in trade for feeling his caress, his loving touch, is not far removed from a direct desire for pain as punishment.

I can't do it anymore.

I look back at the times I sought pain or degradation, and I see how pitiful that small spark of pleasure gained was. I see how that spark was overshadowed and twisted by the pestilence of the means of seeking it, and I shy away. I feel ill, and tired. I feel aged.

I don't want to hurt anymore.

Not inside, not outside.

prone

pierced.
arched.
swathed
   in pain
   that comforts
   the tortured.
make it merciless.
make it hard.
show me love
   the way I know
   the way that kills.


.

cobwebs

When you ask me why I'm feeling down, my mind skips over all the proximal causes, jumping straight to the ultimate causes - which are nebulous at best. That's where I get confused. I know the triggers but not the hand that squeezes.

But, talking about the triggers would probably show the hand.

I need to stop that. When my mind skips ahead, I need to trace the route back.

I want to start that conversation, but find myself lacking the words. Even when you ask, I don't know how to respond.

...except, I do know how. So, what's stopping me?



[I'm such a visual person] When I look inwards to identify what's blocking me, I picture a web-like wall between me and my words - they're there, just beyond the haze, screaming at me, too fast to catch. Maybe all that stops me is the horror of walking through cobwebs.

flea market

I'm at the flea market.

~Be a flea-market seller, not a flea-market buyer.~

It's busy today. Lots of vendors, lots of buyers. My booth - if you can call it that - is slow.

I got here late, sometime after 8 am. I didn't want to get out of bed this morning. The man in bed with me was warm and comforting; the dark morning was cold and uncertain. Somehow, knowing I had to drive further to get to the flea market didn't inspire me to hurry. It seemed to do the opposite instead.

... I just sold my motorcycle helmet. I feel like crying.

They're going to paint my black helmet with camoflague and give it to their kids to play army in. I could have lived without that knowledge. Just as I could have lived without knowing that my motorcycle cover will soon be used as a wheelchair cover.

Selling my gear is painful, in a dead and distant way. Nostalgia doesn't pay the bills, but I wish it did - I would be wealthy.

It's the death of an era.
I won't miss the era, but I do miss the hell out of my old Suzuki.

... The wind and the clouds are picking up. Sitting in the sun is becoming challenging. The crowds are dispersing. Soon it will be time to go.

without the Archer?

How would I do, if I had to go on without the Archer from this moment on?

I think that I would go on, piecing myself together and trying to ignore the holes I know his absence would create, and I would accomplish the material goals I have set for myself already. I would get through life by focusing on my child and my school. I would use those things to distract me from the greatest loss of my life, and even from the very hollowness of those same goals - as they would be, without him there. That's what I would do. How? With a lead heart and determined feet, one step at a time. I would get there.

Hollow. Yes, that's the word which would define my world without the Archer. And somewhat bitter.

I know without doubt that I would not have become a person capable of reaching those goals without his intervention. Any accomplishment of those goals without him would be a hollow victory indeed.

But apprehensions of empty victories are not what keep me by his side. His sterling character is more than a security blanket for my fears; he is the man I dreamed of as a child, the man who is capable of loving me despite knowing my many egregious faults, the first person with the requisite interest and intelligence to see me as I truly am, and the first person who makes my heart and mind equally happy without reservation.

You wouldn't know it by looking at me now, but I am capable of (and have previously exercised) fierce loyalty. Always, I have given that loyalty to people who didn't deserve it, who wouldn't treat me loyally in return. The Archer's clarity of thought and speech has shown me this, and given me an opportunity to experience well-placed, reciprocal loyalty. I will not let that opportunity be wasted.

I will not be satisfied, now, with a sub-par relationship. The bar has been set quite high.

All that is very analytical, very right-brain oriented.

Those are my logical reasons for doing - or refraining from doing - whatever I must to rebuild and maintain the integrity of my relationship with the Archer.

The more powerful reason is spiritual; it is unreasonable Love. It is that unmistakable kinetic energy between us, that draw that becomes pain when he is hurt or angry and pleasure when he is happy. And for the first time in my life, that Love has a chance to be untainted. I know this to be true: Love will keep me by his side long after my need for safety or guidance diminishes.

Mobile Bones

I can now post blog entries from my cell phone. That is awesome. You may continue.

the excuses of depression

This is what I tell myself, when I consider my difficulties with depression. ~

My depression sneaks up on me sometimes - that's the most accurate way to describe it. Some people see the world as though through rose-colored lenses; my lenses twist everything darkly, make everything a reflection of my worst traits. Sometimes I can see it happening, and convince myself that the twisted perspective is not the whole truth, or even any part of the truth. Sometimes, I can't. Or sometimes I don't see it soon enough, and the damage is already done - the spiral is already spinning downward.

The seeds of depressive thought patterns are woven with kernels of truth - the dark reflection is the twist that takes away the real meaning of events and replaces that with a more damaging, more painful meaning. In that world, a busy or tired lover becomes an uninterested lover, tolerating me only out of pity.

Logic may tell me otherwise; I know that if I were actually unwanted by my lover, I would be shown the door. But the twist - that emotional force - which is depression personified, makes that knowledge feel tenuous and flimsy, maybe even false. Sometimes, I can't refocus to see the lens; I see only the darker version of reality. Describing that force when I'm in its grip, feels impossible, and my efforts feel worse than ineffectual.

Nonetheless, the attempt to describe a wave of depression steals power from it.

My lover's touch diminishes its grip.

Displays of love. My depression loses, pitted against displays of love.
...I must be a ridiculously, biologically sappy romantic.

The above is true - but only in the recognition of the feelings of depression. Comparatively, it's unimportant. None of this holds water as an excuse for not speaking frankly about what I'm feeling, when I'm feeling overwhelmed by my depression. In fact, it clearly means that I must speak candidly, and often, about my behaviors - that will show me my real feelings, I believe. 


Time for reality.

Depression is a bitch of an illness. That reality is that I am smarter than depression.

I often don't act like I am. I excuse myself from behaving intelligently, and I blame depression. It's a crutch for poor ethics. On one hand, no amount of intelligence or will or internal fortitude will actually chase depression away completely. That twisted emotional force will be there, regardless, unless I figure out how to permanently change my neurochemistry. On the other hand, how I deal with it is completely my choice. Failure to be forthright is a failure to take control of my behavior, by allowing childish fears to circumvent or overpower adult knowledgeability and responsibility.


From a slightly detached, psychology-student perspective, it seems likely that forcing my brain to switch regions from whichever is producing/reacting to those fears (fears which create the shape of depression) to a region which is more logic-oriented - that which might be stimulated by speech and analysis - would necessarily reduce symptoms of depression. Forcing speech, and the requisite analysis for coherent speech, might force a reallocation of resources from the reactive region to the logical region. Maybe?

I do know that speaking about events (or anything, really) reinforces the transfer of that data from short-term memory to long-term memory. That's important.

I need to find my memories.

childish

Parts of me are very childish. Not child-like, in the "oh that person has a child-like spirit" sort of way, but childish, in the "that person throwing a temper tantrum is childish" way. Like, being upset because I'm alone when I do the dishes. Like choking on the words when I want to tell my lover why I'm crying, when the words are screaming in my head. Like excusing poor behavior as the necessary result of emotional whims. Childish.

Excuses are like ______. Right? Right.

.bones

This is who I am, who I have been, and who I am becoming.

Those are three different people, and that's a good thing.

I won't go in order, often. The chronology is only superficially important.

What matters, as I'm told, is behavior. What I do, defines me.

What I do, is more true than what I think I do.


I want to write my story. I want to teach myself to stop excusing myself, to be forthright - which is more than being honest. I want to burn away who I was, take myself down to my bones and become who I need to be. For myself, for the people who love me, and for the person who needs me.