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I had a chat on Monday night that changed the way I see everything. It was one of those moments where my heart beat wayyy too quickly, I knew too much, and I felt disgusted because I thought I’d left these goddamn moments of panic behind.
I took a few more sips.
I finished the bottle.
I filled a tub.
I let myself thrash in the throes of fury, violent intentions, and painful hurt.
I took my time.
Finally, I laughed.
And somehow, with the burning of pictures and crazy wild yoga and sweaty hot walks, I’m actually feeling lighter than I had been, before I knew what had really been going on.
So while I’d like to say fuck you, I’d add a thank you as well.
Turns out, I’m one lucky bitch.
Crazy how that happens.
“What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? …
The world would split open.” – Muriel Rukeyser
And, deep breath, here goes:
I run from our relationship because sometimes it feels easier to start over as the Me I Know Now, rather than clue you in to Who You Knew.
The more I learn about my patterns, the more overwhelmed I feel.
Most of the time, I’d rather be alone.
In fact, I crave taking a year, maybe more, of complete solitude to make sense of life. To feel restored as Me.
I don’t think I’d be lonely.
It bothers me that you’re so picky about vegetables.
While I do feel I am responsible for my orgasms, it would be nice to let you do everything more often. You know, like I do for you.
I am tired.
Even though I cut her out of my life, and feel I should be over it, I still wonder if she will ever ask where and how I’ve been.
Sometimes, life feels so easy.
I wish I had the balls to never wear a bra, unless I wanted to wear one that’s sexy.
I could live in boxer shorts, tank tops and flops.
Why do we all try so hard to be the same, when it’s clearly not working?
I want to make more money.
I want to slide my body into a vat of red paint and press against a white canvas.
I’d like to make love to a woman.
My very soul craves bellydancing.
And dancing under a full moon.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m simply more kinky than those around me, or just further along on the discovery scale. Or perhaps their vanilla is my kink. Or they’re just doing something damn impressive with vanilla.
Every once in a while, I am quite sure that I would leave it all to go to massage school.
I want to ask her What She’s Thinking – why can’t she admit he sucks?
And then I remember: I can’t admit a lot, too.
I think it really comes down to power: The World doesn’t want women to have any. And then they wonder why women are powerless to leave shitty significant other’s.
It starts with the mother.
If a woman cannot set boundaries in her life, she is teaching her daughter the very same thing.
Emotional Intelligence would have been much more valuable to learn in college instead of Biology, or Algebra. Or pretty much anything else offered.
So, perhaps Barnes & Noble is as worthy a place of education as any college.
What would happen if pleasure for pleasure’s sake was admirable?
No guilt, no shame, no regret?
Ok, how about a week? A week of only choosing foods that light up your belly, a week of funny movies, happy conversations, bubble baths, candles and wine, gratuitous nudity and laughter….Could we do it? Could I?
That’s the next step in my life: Choosing pleasure, for the sake of pleasure. Relaxing into feeling good. Owning those feelings.
Believing that if it hurts, I’ll navigate to something that feels better.
Because I am allowed to feel good.
I am allowed to have needs, feelings, and the safety to express them.
I am allowed to value myself as much as I value Everyone Else.