Banana Bread

That was my win for yesterday... otherwise, it was total emotional cluster fuck. As My Mr. put it, “A perfect storm” for my anxiety. 

My usual pre-discussion stage fright turned into full blown anxiety on the drive down. Traffic was awful due to random thunder storms and I knew I was going to be late to my own event. 

In the throes of it all, My Mr. mentioned that he’d spent all day chatting with the Boston Girl that messaged him on OkC the day before. Initially when he told me about her, I felt a touch of compersion, excitement even that he was making a friend. I encouraged him to reply to her. But then he handed me his phone, telling me that he couldn’t remember her name and to look for the first message. As soon as I saw her picture my claws came out. I immediately wanted to punch her in the throat because she’s... cute, and younger than me, and thin... Totally my own insecurities flaring up, but in the moment I was unable to talk myself down and instead swallowed it all and tried not to ruin my eye make-up.

The saving grace in that moment was that Jersey and I were texting for most of the drive. Even that is bittersweet given the way I’ve gotten my hopes up about seeing him only to have them dashed over and over again. I get it and know where his intent is, but it’s frustrating to finally meet someone with a brain in his head that’s good looking. Even more, he seems to be actually interested in my brain first and any potential for more is just an afterthought. At this point, he’s in the running with McT for the longest time “saying” we’ll get a drink but never actually having said drink.

We arrived at discussion 10 minutes past the start time and the entire group (all friends and people we know well) were cuddled up on the couch. I got a few hugs and My Mr. went to get food. Of course I soon realized that he had the memory stick in his pocket with the videos I needed. He turned around and brought it back to me, but of course it wasn’t compatible with The Host’s TV. So I frantically worked with him to get the videos to play... 

The last people to show walked in while we did a test video. And that’s when my nightmare really started. The last time this couple came, she just rubbed me the wrong way. I tried to blame it on the accent and the beret, but this time she was even more pretentious (and wearing a different, color coordinated beret) and brought along a European friend who was equally pretentious. Their comments made me feel totally invalidated for even choosing the topic, and then they proceeded to take things into a far more academic direction than my discussions go in. Add a side of therapy time where she made one friend cry (in a totally positive way, but still) and it was my worst nightmare. I know that everyone else walked away having enjoyed the night, but by the time we were done I was ready to fall over.

I closed the formal portion of the night and fled to the kitchen to devour the food My Mr. had brought. There was more laughter and conversation around me, but I just wanted to climb into my salad and disappear. I got lots of praise for the banana bread I brought, several warm goodbye hugs but stayed wound in a knot the entire time. It wasn’t until it was just me and The Host in the kitchen that I lost it. He asked if I was okay. (Worst thing ever when I’m trying to act okay but I’m not.) And he called me out on faking it. That’s when the tears welled up. They didn’t stop for the rest of the night and even while writing this I’m getting another lump in my throat.

The worst part of it all is knowing that all of the insecurities and negative thoughts are completely invalid. I know that I’m a valued member of the community (another topic we talked about at length last night) and that My Mr. loves me exactly the way I am. I know that I have cheerleaders and supporters that want to see me continue on my path as a coach and that people truly appreciate the safe space I create when I host events. I know I am enough. But in these moments I don’t know how to feel better. 

Tomorrow night is the Truth or Dare party, so I need to get on the mend and get it together. I know the happy shiny is still in me. It always is. I just need to dig it out so I can have fun and not ruin anyone else’s good time tomorrow. 

I am surrounded by Swinging Poly Kinksters, and I have no sex drive.

I am surrounded by Swinging Poly Kinksters, and I have no sex drive.

Now, that’s not an entirely true statement. Emily Nagoski helped me understand and disprove the concept of sex being something you have an actual “Drive” for… “Drive” is about things that are necessary for survival. Nobody has ever died from lack of genital stimulation. Emily Nagoski also helped me understand the concept of responsive desire. This means that I don’t go around thinking about pizza, but if someone puts a pizza in front of me I’ll savor all the cheesy goodness with pleasure. But none of that helps with the feeling of being defective in some way because I WANT to want sex. I want to have the urge to go downstairs at the parties where people are literally a few feet away from me having screaming orgasms. I want screaming orgasms, too! I’m envious of those feelings and of the interest in sex that I’m surrounded by.

Me? I’d rather be upstairs having a conversation than go downstairs to be licked, and poked by any number of my friends of both genders that would happily oblige. I have no moral objections to NSA sex, no concerns about accidental pregnancy and am comfortable with the proper use of barriers to prevent STI’s. I have a group of sex positive friends who are (mostly) intelligent and caring people that also have sex outside of their primary relationships and primarily within this close social network. I have an amazing husband that loves every zaftig inch of me and is turned on by the idea of me having sex outside of our marriage. He doesn’t view it as a bargaining chip that he could use to have sex with other women or any other secondary motive. My biggest complaint about our sex life is that no matter how much lube we use, my vagina seems to have a maximum thrusts per day before it becomes painful. And hell, I’m the kind of masochist that LIKES a certain kind of pain. So, what the hell?

In trying to find other ways to explain how this feels I thought about being an alcoholic at a bar. But that implies a negativity to the subject and a distinct refusal to partake. So… dieting at desert? No. Clinically depressed at Disney Land. Well, that struck a nerve! Firstly because we did a trip to Disney World last summer and it was top 5 in the ‘Worst Experiences in the World’ for me. But also because of the clinical depression factor. 

I know I have depression. I’ve dealt with it my entire life and made a conscious choice to not take psyche meds for it after several years on Prozac and a really rough time coming off it. I’ve researched all the foods and lifestyle changes that can help with depression but the best holistic treatment is exercise, but I’ve had chronic pain and issues with my hips for nearly 15 years. Exercise causes pain which causes the depression and anxiety to spiral until all I can do is lay in bed and cry.

The last time I went to my doctor for a physical, she noted my chart with “OBESE” and gave me a referral for physical therapy for my hip pain. The therapist said that my tendons are hyper flexible and tried to work with me on strength training so my muscles would hold things in place better. The pain was so bad that after 2 sessions she said that I needed to get into pain management before she would see me again. Pain management means drugs and I’ve learned the hard way that having prescription pain medication in my home is a bad thing so of course I never followed up. Instead, I’ve tried to push myself to exercise, eat better and drink less. That usually lasts a couple days before we have steak and wine night followed by lazy hangover day and greasy food remedies. And the cycle starts over again.

Beyond the physical issues there’s even more. I know that I was a product of our culture. In my 20’s I knew all about being sexy but not much at all about my own sexuality. Most of the sex I had until my early 30’s had nothing to do with the act of sex, but everything to do with the twisted concepts about sex I had learned along the way. Sex was about power. Sex was about control. Sex was about becoming an object of desire and about chasing the “naughty” with all of the roller coaster thrills that come with it. Sex was seldom about me or my body. And even when it was, I was simply on display and being commanded by another. “No, you’re not done, Baby. You’re going to come again for me.”

I studied the physiology behind sex so I could give a better blow job. I stayed thin and bought new boobs so I would look good naked. I slept with married men and bosses because I could. I had FMF threesomes because two chicks together is considered the ultimate sexy. And once I realized that I didn’t want to be that person anymore I lost all sense of self. I was tired of being objectified and gained weight. I was over being anyone’s secret so I vowed to stop being the other woman. I needed honesty and transparency and I found it with My Mr. in ways I’d never imagined possible. But I never really figured out my own sexuality.

Here's what I do know: I know that I’m not sexually attracted to women at all and to pretend otherwise is dishonest and icky. I know that I need to feel valued as a person before I’m comfortable fooling around with anyone. (See: sapiosexual and possibly demisexual) I took certain sex acts I tolerated but seldom enjoyed and set a hard boundary around them. I discovered an interest in BDSM and that energy exchange is the ultimate fuel for my fire. But my responsiveness is so hit or miss that it frustrates me and My Mr. And all of this while swimming the sea of non-monogamy where we not only go to parties where group sex is happening one floor below, but we host discussions about sex and sexuality and have become a part of a community that is based on sexual freedom and acceptance of ones’ self. Sometimes I feel like a total hypocrite or phony for it. I teach others how to be open and accepting of themselves but here I sit unable to untangle all of the crap that is strangling me.

I feel like a vegetarian at a barbecue. It smells so good but I can’t make myself want it. And I’m envious of everyone around me enjoying their steak. That envy just makes it all the harder to enjoy the rest of the backyard and feel at home.

We are going to a Truth or Dare night this weekend and I’m trying not to make a big deal about it. In the past the host had not specifically emphasized the play aspect of these parties, but the flirty fun with a side note about the basement activities. My Mr. actually created the new digital version of the game and is co-hosting so when I saw the way the party was written up I had to just swallow my usual anxiety and push through. Otherwise I wouldn’t even agree to go. I hate play parties with all of the expectation and the single-mindedness that others bring to them. I want to want to be part of that scene. And I want My Mr. to have his own stories and experiences. But I don’t know if I know how I really feel about it all and I’m dreading the long drive home if I’m not able to keep it all in check.

I need a massage. And to put on my sneakers and enjoy some sunshine. And next month when I go back to the doctor I need the courage to talk about all of this and look into ways to make it better. 

Things my Mother Said

The saddest thing my mother ever said to me was 11 years ago. I had just moved back to Colorado after living in Germany for 2 years. My then-husband was deployed to Iraq and I had just come from a failed job interview. We were sharing a house on the West side of Colorado Springs. It was an older home with a full apartment downstairs and a small concrete porch in the back where I was laying. Tears of disappointment and frustration were flowing down my face when I asked her, “Mom, when I was a little girl what did I want to be when I grew up?” She was on the other side of the screen door cooking a pan of greens. Without much thought she replied, “Well… you never really expressed any hopes or dreams. You read.”

That statement sums up so much about my life. I never really had any hopes or dreams. I read. And I wrote. A lot.

There is an old military footlocker in the corner of my dining room that holds all of my journals from age 11 (6^th grade) until I went mostly digital sometime around age 26. Even then I continued writing on paper in notebooks and other scraps of paper as the mood struck me. My paper writing is the stuff that is too real to admit to, too dark and twisty to risk sharing. Too ugly. But it’s all there. And in the darkest, twistiest moments I wrote about my lack of hopes or dreams and what that really means. At age 12 I had no visions of myself at age 16. At 16 I couldn't imagine 18 or 21. And at 21, the idea of making it to 30 seemed impossible. There was always this sense that I wasn't supposed to be here and that someday I would finally give in to the dark, ugly thoughts I referred to as my “self-destruct” button.

In my darkest moment I shared my journal with a doctor because I was down to the last reason not to kill myself: my precious Husky, Max. In return I got a 3 day stay in the looney bin where they fed me various psychotropic medications that made me hallucinate that my hands were giant Mickey Mouse hands. This was during the cricket seasons where crickets were swarming inside and out so I was unsure if they allowed me a broom to help with bug control, or as a means to deal with different hallucinations. To this day I can’t be sure.  One day a chaplain came for his weekly visit and found me with the one book I’d brought in to pass the time, a book on Italian Witchcraft. We ended up spending three full hours discussing religion while the tech on duty watched and listened to the entire thing. He even skipped a planned group activity because he was so interested in the conversation. It was the same tech that saw how people were drawn to me and told me, “Just because you've been here doesn't mean you can’t work here.” They also had really excellent chocolate cake.

On the third day I was sent home with a referral for counseling and psychiatry. I had given my house key to a friend’s husband so he could feed Max for me so I had to break into my own home by climbing in through an unlocked window. That was 10 years ago.

Today the self-destruct button is still there, but it blinks less and less frequently. When it does it’s usually spurred by some memory about my past that invades my thoughts and interferes with my life today. All of those thoughts, all of those memories are in the footlocker in the corner. Part of me wants to resurrect it all and make it digital as a way of working through it. Another part of me wants to go out to a lake somewhere and give the box a proper Viking funeral as a means to try and let go of it all.

I've lived so much of my life grateful for all the struggles that made me who I am. But the older I get the more I know that the pain from all of those life lessons weighs me down and makes it all too easy to slice me open again. The memories run too deep and have left too many scars that just won’t heal. I don’t have the answer, but the longer I let myself live like this the less time I’m going to have to really experience the good. And my life now is so good! I have an awesome marriage, a comfortable home and I no longer have a day job eating up all of my time.  I have the freedom to pursue my passions and do what I want with my day. Yet, all I want to do is lounge around in yoga pants and binge watch bad TV. How do you learn how to want after a lifetime of focusing on all of the “need?”

Today my mother said something else to me that made me cry. She said, “In my mind, as your proud Mommio, I view you as having pioneered a huge movement which has saved many lives.”

Part of me reacts with thoughts like, “That’s my crazy mother!”

But then I think about all the times people have said things to me like, “I’d never thought of it that way!” or “I really learned something today!” I think of the times that people have sought me out for advice after only meeting me once. And as frustrating as it is when the person coming to me for advice is someone I was interested in dating (true story) it still feels good to have him say, “Thank you. I feel better for having talked to you about this.” So I know my purpose. I know I’m doing good things. I just wish I knew how to get motivated to do it more and not be so afraid of my own success.