The Secret Place

I have been pushing against more than my usual resistance lately, but apparently still determined to try to keep up this daily writing for some reason, so maybe it will help if I come clean about what’s been going on… In addition to my other health problems, a new one has developed.  It is… disrupting my life significantly, and is going to require invasive medical tests and interventions – I’m not sure the extent, yet.  But it has been emotionally overwhelming and triggering a lot of PTSD on top of the medical issues. Sir is concerned and also trying to be gentle with my emotional state.  I know he wants…

My therapist wants me to do some compassion practices around my writing issues.  So I promptly decided to force myself to write daily, and then once I did that, I decided I had to write CREATIVE pieces daily (not just journal entries which are easier…) I think I’ve failed at compassion practices.  

It’s 8:00. I turn off the TV,  I turn on the light. The house creaks, The keyboard clicks The dog whines and shifts. I breathe. Turquoise shoelaces. White threads in my jeans. An empty water glass. Dinner dishes. I breathe. My watchband presses into my wrist. Too much food presses into my stomach. My eyes burn. My head tilts back. I breathe. It’s 8:07.

Every once in a while I torture myself by reading back over old things I’ve written.  When I go back 20 years, it’s… mind-breaking how bad my writing was.  But there seems to be a sweet spot where I go back just long enough that I’ve mostly forgotten what I wrote (a few months for blog posts) but I’m still close to the present day…  And I have a strange experience… I read my writing as if it was written by someone else (because I don’t completely remember writing it – especially if it was a one-off blog post that I didn’t spend a lot of time with). And every…

I heard once, in reference to undocumented immigrants, that the term “illegals” is dehumanizing.  That human beings can’t be illegal.  Human beings can be undocumented immigrants in a country, but human beings cannot be… illegal. I heard this and I understood it and I stopped using the term “illegal” and rigorously trained myself to use the term “undocumented.”  Because… humans can’t be illegal. But then my therapist asked me how I could be fired from my job for my sexuality… How could I not simply sue for discrimination if that came to be?  How can I be forced to live in the shadows, in fear, simply for who I am,…

Oh My God, blogoverse!  I just outed myself to two of my very dearest friends from college… Well, technically not, because, I outed myself when we were IN college.  But that was before I knew I was a sub, and before Sir and sub brother, and… before Michael and Ryan…and… well… a lot has happened. I’m going to share my blog with them. And now I’m panicking. But I’m glad, too. This might be the first post they see… so… Hi, C and D (if you ever find the Facebook message – sorry, I’m a coward!) I’m very stressed now. And Sir is making “We’re late for bed” grumblings. And…

I had spring break last week.  I went on vacation.  Now I’m back and I’m struggling to adjust back to normal routines.  This is a price I pay for traveling – a price I’m willing to pay because I like traveling, but a high price. An hour ago I was suicidal.  Not for any particular reason, my brain just thought that would be a cool look to try on for the evening. Things are a little better at the moment, but Sir is in a grumpy mood. I skipped breakfast and lunch today, then came home and ate a bag of chips.  He doesn’t like that. On my vacation I…

I’m trying to pull my shit together.  From all directions. I want to write more. I, ever so wisely, associate with a writer on Facebook who has a blog about writing, who is very responsible about updating regularly and maintaining a daily Facebook page full of writing conversations and memes and “You should be writing!” guilt trips. I like him.  He keeps me conscious of my art, even as it lies curled up in a dark corner doing nothing. He keeps me conscious of the neurosis that I try to run away from and hide and pretend isn’t there because it is so daunting for me to deal with. He…

I have been working up to getting a massage… for the first time in my life.  For reasons that are probably understandable, the idea of a stranger putting their hands all over me has always been disturbing, and then add being naked for all of that touching… just a big nope for me. But I have a fucking hard ass job.  I have a fucking hard ass life.  And somehow I’ve started coming around to the realization that maybe there are things that are worth getting past my fear of.  So I started thinking about massage. I’ve been talking to Sir about it… talking to my therapist about it… talked…