pyrrhic circumstances

Should any of this disturb or unsettle you, my sweet, since you're likely to read this, remember, you are my beloved, my fiance.




It's a mixed blessing, the way I am with sex. If I know a person, know them enough to open up my life to them, I can love them. There's only one person I've ever been with that I felt nothing for. I was with her for one night, and it left me a shell for days, scarred up my knee quite badly. If I've known someone emotionally, intellectually, even a little bit, I have the capacity to love them. I often do love them. And the odd thing about people you've loved, at least with me, is that they stay with you. I know that Dan emery tells us that "old lovers aren't ghosts, they're just part of who (we) are," but I feel haunted. I do, really. It's so odd.

What prompted this train of thought more or less is just a common couple squabble: Comparison of exes. I shouldn't ask about shit, I really shouldn't. But, I did. And I hate being compared to exes. I'm the "slut" in the relationship, so I can't compare her to anyone, nor do I want to. The thought does occur to me, every now and then. It does jump out at me sometimes. I dreamed it, the other day, the literal situation of the thought: I'm waking up in the morning and I turn over, and there is the silhouette of Sarah, the woman I woke up next to so often, taunting me.

"Wasn't all the sex we had spectacular? You know it was. Wasn't I available? You're never ever getting your old knife back."

I throw her away from my sight, she rises in thin violet smoke from my bedsheets. I shake the sleep from my eyes and turn to see Jess, sitting at my computer, googling random nonsense. She doesn't turn to face me.

You did me an injustice. And you lost your connection to the art world when you burned this bridge. Do you remember how demanding I was sexually? You'll never get that again.

It's a lie. I'm ecstatic with my fiance. I'll get that level again, eventually. I spin the chair like a top and she falls to sparkling grey dust. I sprint away and up the stairs, into the bathroom. I see Valerie sitting at the table down the hall as I close the door. She acknowledges me and fades away. The shower steams and fogs. I pull back the door to see Avery, nude, leaning against the pale wall. Nearly fainting again... Is she there? Is she asleep? From her mouth fall a few words, becoming more.

You left me broken again. I was always exhausted, but every time we were together we fucked at least 2 times. You've gone down a ring on the ladder. And it was great.

She passes out and turns to red mist, flowing into the steam and turning to water, she slips down the drain. She was always tired and we did fuck like rabbits, and it was good, but we just used each other. She is wrong. It was empty. I loved her as a person, as a damaged piece of goods like me but different. She'd taken more pain, that's undeniable, but we complained to each other and it felt good. Misery in company. But it was...lackluster. And I didn't love her as a woman, as anything but a reflection of my own pain. And I never told her I felt strongly. But she was the first woman I broke up with, and I made her cry.

Still, I'd never trade anything I've ever had with anyone for what I have with Katie. She's my one and only. If I was to go without for the rest of my life I'd still say as I do now, Katie is my one and only. I'd do anything to be with her, for her, for her safety, for her happiness. I love her.

As I step out of the bathroom, cloaked in terrycloth, I see a dark figure crouched on the stairs. she walks up and nuzzles into me, moving far too fast, gliding in the shadows like a prowling animal. She bites my neck and slips a set of razor blades into my right hand.

We fucked, and it was dark and satisfying and frequent. I brought out the worst in you, the worst you've ever been. But wasn't it fun, wasn't it spectacularly hedonistic? Wouldn't you prefer pleasure and pain?

I take her wrist in my hand, the small brown wrist that holds more sharp points, and I break it, and I toss her away from me. she shatters like black sea glass.

I love Katie, love her now, love her always, and wear my future ring around my neck at this very moment. But nothing fixes errors made, nothing but time heals such wounds. I know I am her's. Her life partner. Her life, even. And she is mine. But I feel inadequate whenever we talk of exes, and she seems to so often, despite being the good one. I, the "slut," try never to speak of these things. I don't want to compare her to anyone, because it is wrong, and it would hurt her, and I love her, and no one else. But I feel so often compared to, so often inadequate.

When I lay with her in our bed, and I'm holding her to me, I sometimes feel that I've several women behind me, all spooning me as one fluid caterpillar like beast. And I wonder, does she have such a monster attached to her too?

Pipe Dreams

We're not going to get that house. I was a fool to think we could. I'd have to sell my book, she'd have to make a good deal of money. We simply can't. She wants to sell so that she makes enough to live on, for a few more years. Knowing my luck she won't live much longer, the house will go to the bank, and my last memory of her will be of her apologizing because there's no way we could ever afford it, Katie and I. We leech off of our families, the job market is worth than nothing, and we don't have the savings. If we were to be married tomorrow and try to move in together, we'd have to live in my room, in my parent's basement. God that's depressing. I don't know where we will go, what we will do.

Why is it that seemingly every woman I've loved comes from some shattered home I need to rescue her from? Has society sunk as low as I'd thought? I always think the worst so I can, every now and then, be pleasantly surprised when people really are decent.

I guess I'll live past 30. I have a reason to, now. That struck me tonight, that I suddenly didn't have my 2 classic back up plans.

1. Live out of my car until greener pastures show themselves. Not do-able when you've a partner.

2. Suicide. I've a partner now. Her life is mine and mine is hers. The option is simply erased.

It's an odd feeling, the lack of power I suddenly felt when I noticed this. The sudden escape plan I didn't have. I can't go off my meds, either. Insanity is the escape chute I'm no longer allowed because it would be irresponsible. There are times when I'm hopeless that I miss it though. It would be the ultimate in irresponsibility to simply up and vanish, and I've known since I met her that I can never live for just myself ever again, for I have her. I have purpose. But, the path I must follow to provide for her, to get a house, to do all those things, I can't divine it.

Where do we go?

I long for medieval medicine

Read this first. It's kinda important that you know what it is.

And this is how I am feeling now:

So...impotent

I just wish I could do something. Anything, really. My mother is in enough pain that she said the only thing she could compare it to is childbirth, a pain I cannot ever fully comprehend. All I can do, I suppose, is try to pick up my end of the slack around the house. Do more of the cooking, and the cleaning. But, I am not here that often anymore. At least if we were being told by some wise old medical wizard I could be told to go and sacrifice a goat or cover her in leeches or something. Do not attempt to advocate prayer to me. As I believe Ghandi said,

"Two working hands accomplishes much more than a thousand hands clasped in prayer."

But, for her suffering I can't do a damn thing. She said she's beginning to get health problems like my grandmother has. My grandmother is on a large quantity of pain medication, for she is in very much pain. I well up a little over this entire situation.

My little sister and I thankfully have oddly strong bones and joints, and are not at much risk. My youngest sister, it seems, is. I'm scared for her, I'm scared for my mother. I've warned my fiance in the past that she must face her mother's mortality someday, despite her apparent good health, for it is just realistic. I hoped it would lighten the hit she will one day emotionally take. But when it dopes happen, she'll have my shoulder to cry into.

Tomorrow I shall utilize hers.

My mother knows me too well

A (very) recent exchange between her and I:

"Uh, hey, can I have my batarangs back?"

She considered the question for a moment, looked me in the eyes, and said very calmly, yet still quite firmly, "no."

She could tell, I suppose, how tempted I was. How queer my attitude had turned since my little sister accidentally ruined my evening. It was not her fault, but she has doomed me to a weekend without feelings of love instilled in my head. In my heart, most certainly do I feel them often. Always, even.

But up in my damnable brain I don't.

I keep forgetting I don't have any knives. That black hole of an ex took my best one, never to return it. She "lost" it. I hate her for that. I surrendered most of my blades to my mother after my last breakdown. I still have my cards and my multitool, but damn it all, I wanted my real blades. I miss them, and though it would conjure a veritable shit storm from my fiance and I would add many bruises to new scars from her hands, I still wanted it tonight.

I suppose if I really needed it I could have used what I do have access to. I wanted it though. I wanted it bad. Very bad.



Too beautiful for words...

Smut

You read it right ladies and Gentlemen. Nothing but the best American bona-fide pure Grade A expert certified S M U T. Katie had a small request for two characters to write and though I'm not oft one for the fanfiction, I do enjoy filling writing requests. So I now present to you a story entitled The Favor of the female Jester.

AFF STORY

Oooooooooooooh yeeeeaaaaaaahhhhh.

Thanks to Francesco Francavilla (blog) for the borrowed sketch.

Moving right along, time for a header

Steady as she goes

So the fiance and I had a spiff last night. I thin k it all has something to do with the nature of my disorder and the fact that I have so much sexual dysfunction. It might have been affected by her un-medicated state, but that does not excuse my behavior. I dwell on things instead of burying them because I do not know how to deal. When something is on my mind like what I've informally referred to as "sexual frustration" I tend to focus on it because talking about my issues helps me get them out. I haven't seen my therapist in quite a while now, and I absolutely refuse to do anything unhealthy like cutting or obsessive dieting and exercise because as much as it would hurt me (or so I'm told it does. I fucking love doing it.) it would hurt Katie more, and I just want her happy. She makes these offers of ways to fix my problems but they seem like a compromiose of who she is as a person to do so. I know there is no love without some compromise now and again but denying who you are as a person is not the way to healthily remain in a relationship. I know I'm meant to be with her, as she knows she is with me. Nothing changes that. Nothing ever could. But these little roadblocks we hit while our minds are not running at peak performance, they do hurt to go over. So I'm not really completely sure even what we fought about. But I know I made her feel like shit somehow. I hate that, and I don't know how to remedy it. I wish I did. Somehow I think poetry or flowers wont help. But we'll talk about it and see what the issue was/is. It's cliche as all hell, but true love weathers all storms.

It is also likely important to note that I or she or we may be grossly over-reacting. If it turns out to be so, disregard...90% of this post. Just go read the smut instead.

TRUE

LOVE

Borderline personality disorder is distressing

That really sums it all up if you know anything about the condition. But, since it is likely you do not, I'll give you a bit of information to explain what I mean. I love and I hate. No, that's what the diagnosis generally implies, but that's not what I always do. It does seem that way often I must admit. Socially this is a problem. Romantically this is augmented and magnified to a degree approaching lunacy. It is ludicrous, the life I lead.

Katie, since I know you read this, I'd like to let you know that you are my exception that proves the rule. You are tonight's subject but do not ever doubt even for a moment my complete love for you. You are my one and only and seeing this has allowed me to recognize and tackle each mental problem I have as it comes to me and admit my weaknesses.

Tonight I spent time with my fiance. Some fun was had, not too much, but enough. My twisted wicked mind pesters me like a stick poked into my side over and over. "If she is not with you completely physically than you may as well be acquaintances." That statement is false. There's no arguing for it with any sense of logic. But I'm not a Vulcan. Knowing something is not logical does not pull it from inside my head, doesn't force me to be normal and feel what I so badly want to augment my love for her with. I have not doubted for an instant that I love her, because it is just that kind of love. My soul, which I have never even been sure existed before, sympathizes with her and symbiotically bonds to her presence.

But this nagging voice persists at me like Marge Simpson grinding her teeth I can't seem to separate it from the audio track playing in my head. I know that unless she is completely mine, a shared life in every conceivable way, this will nag at me. This will carve itself into my flesh day in and day out while I contemplate my life in the shower or gaze into the mirror or twiddle my thumbs. It will keep carving this with the broken glass that is my grey matter: Not really yours. It's like it's all a sham to that little voice in my head. Every emotion I feel, every moment we share, each kiss and nibble and orgasm, it all lacks substance to that creature who I very much wish to name so that my torment may have a name and I can assign it a face and picture its grim countenance feeling the pain I inflict.

I miss cutting my flesh. I miss the pain, I miss the pleasure. I miss the blood perhaps most of all. I'm not a religious man, but the first time my blood flowed out over my joints and dripped onto the carpet I understood baptism, being hurled under a liquid so pure and beautiful it cleanses your soul. So cutting is sort of a mirror image of a baptism. Holiness reflected in a mirror, darkly.

I feel so guilty and upset, distraught really, over this whole thing that my stomach churns. I wrote a bit on it in math class this morning. I will put it into poetry later, but not poetry for her. I haven't written her poem for today yet. This guttural poem is for my own growth, and perhaps for the folio. But it is not a side I would like to read to her. It would only make her upset.

I cried just a few tears while holding her tonight, I felt so close and so in love that, as the flaming lips would put it, my happiness made me cry. I'm finishing tonight's entry with another lyric:

And still this emptiness persists
Perhaps this is as good as it gets

My old wallpaper is now making a comeback:

Join us in our sunship balloons.

I know it's so silly and cliche but I'm so in love. It seems a habit of mine to write blog entries while she sleeps on my bed. As some of you may know I love watching people sleep. In the past it's been pets, babies, and occasionally lovers. Not many people get this about me. It's understood that I'm a people watcher but when you are observing the oblivious you can see every nook and cranny of their personality. She's about half covered by my black comforter, resting on the similarly covered sheets and pillows. Her eyes are closed but not moving much. I don't think she is dreaming. Her face is still tiredly expressive though. Her eyebrows raise and her face scrunches and her cheeks grow pink and the corners of her lips curl and rise, sneering at the waking world she is separate from. This whole thing has felt like a dream, the magic of falling in love and knowing so soon and so completely that we've nowhere else to go in this often life-long quest for companionship I see so many of my peers wrapped up in every day. Her hair falls in obtuse streaks across her forehead. Too thin to be clumps, too thick to be strands.

In conversation today I said the words "my fiance" much to the surprise of some of my peers. A project group member saluted me for my ability to make such a decision. The biggest decision he made this month he said was choosing what beer to drink in the evenings.

So I'm here, at home. She is with me always, sleeping or awake. We went out to buy her a ring guard today and now the silver holds to her skin like a leech, seemingly siphoning energy off and pulling the cheap stone to levels of grandeur the small jeweler I bought it from would never imagine, the high standing of the ring on her finger. When she needs to say the "W" word or refers to me with the "F" word it drains her and scares her and excites her and I love her all the more for all of it.

She doesn't know I'm watching her like this when she slumbers only a few feet away from me, but if she does catch me doing it she can't be too unhappy. After all, when I look at her I grow the biggest goofy grin I have in my repertoire that no photographer has been able to capture yet.

Perhaps the wedding photos will contain it.

I know this was kinda...sudden. I'm aware. But sometimes you just know. I can't seem to find a simile or metaphor that contains my reasoning in its entirety but I have been trying. For the absolutely geeky in my life I've got this:

You ever fall across something while you were browsing these here internets that is simply beyond passing up? Not porn or anything, but some data that fits you perfectly. The song collection that has every missing track off every album you owned but never were able to complete because your disc was scratched. The 15 pages in a PDF file conspicuously missing and leaving out the climax of a downloaded book. The last pages of a comic you bought second hand and could never ever finish. It appears in your life and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you simply must posses it, and it is what has been missing and you never want to delete it as long as your hard drive still lives.