Slightly Crumbly

Naturally, once I handed over the key to my personal pandora’s box, my partner –that very night– went and read through half the archives. They did not waste time, oh no. To which my reaction was a kind of stuttering limbo between:

AeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiGHHHHHHH!

and:

‘Okay. Looks like that wasn’t such a big deal.’

“So I’m not so into rape and torture,” they said.

“I’m not necessarily either,” I replied. I did my best to answer their questions, to describe my experiences. I found the description surprisingly hard, as if all the clear-cut word-frames I’d thought of before had flown apart. We discussed the nebulousness of kinky vocabulary and how nobody is using anything the same way. I don’t know where I will go over the tumbled wreckage of the thick, high, camouflaged walls I spent two decades building around these parts of myself. It is. I am freer than I was.

“So, do you feel rejected?” they asked, waggling their eyebrows, warming my ice-block feet between their thighs. I wiggled my toes.

I have given partner’s partner Dev and Dw3t-Hthr’s blog addresses, and told them that if they stumble across me, it’s their call if they want to read.

There are things I missed in my last comma-abusing stream of thought. Such as that I am exploring my other gender. (Being argued with by an eight-year-old about if I am a man: Priceless). That I missed participating in this loosely woven sexuality community, lopsided as it is. To just be able to talk to or read the thoughts of people where it is taken for granted that I am what I am, and that it is normal, without any explaining. To remember that there really are others who share my experience.

I realized yesterday during an unrelated emotionally intense conversation, that I am in approximately eight-million different pieces. I didn’t even know it until I had said it aloud.

I am a dominant and a sadist looking for ways to meet my needs with no idea how. I have just torn down the maximum security fences that I started building when I was three. I am in a new place, beginning a new life, that I don’t know if I will continue or move on from. I am stumbling along trying to learn how to live with the people around me in an intimate and meaningful way. Through various small events and interactions, the line between my old life and my new life has become smudged, and it’s not as comfortable as when there was a clean break. I am a maker longing to make, and I don’t know how to share what I make, and I fear what I make will not be wanted. I do not know my role in a dying world, my responsibilities to the land or my responsibilities to myself. I don’t feel like an emotional wreck, but I am not entirely together either.

Right now it just feels like this vaguely uncomfortable, toe-stubbing stage that I’m bound to go through until all these aspects of my life begin to coalesce again. In the eye in the back of my brain, I see something like jewel-toned stained glass.