4 years ago

I remember when we met, when things were shiny and new, I asked you what you were looking for in a relationship.

“I’m looking for my soul mate,” you replied. “Not that there can’t be many soul mates, or other amazing relationships to be explored along the way and alongside. But yes, that’s what I’m looking for.”

It’s been 2 years since we broke up, since you called me on Skype and I cried staring at your pixelated face across an ocean and thousands of miles and said that you needed to figure out what you wanted in life.

It’s been 19 months since we last kissed, held that precious moment of hope in our hearts and let it blow away in the face of the reality of what we each wanted in life.

It doesn’t hurt as sharply as it did then. Time heals all wounds, as they say. I sometimes go days, even weeks, without thinking of you.

But you were (one of) my soul mate(s). You are, still. My heart is full of love, of hope, of the potential of the relationship I’m in, and the relationships I hope to have. And my partner is a good person, someone I love, someone I believe I will build a life with – a life that will bring me happiness.

I still miss you. My soul mate. My heart aches for the emotion of your touch.

h and h

I got a facebook message from an ex tonight. She writes me from time to time.

It was a relationship that ended badly. Or, more accurately - I ended it, badly.

It's a long story.

And yet, we've reached a point where we can occasionally be in touch. A back and forth exchange, every 6 months or so. Hello. How are you?

She still calls me "beautiful." It makes a little part of me smile and remember how she was the first one to really convince me of that - that I could be beautiful. All the more poignant because she didn't think she was, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Tonight she asked me a question I haven't heard in a long time.

"Are you happy and healthy?"

My dad used to ask me that. After I confessed at 16 that I was cutting and suicidal, after I came out at 18 to him as gay. Suddenly the rest didn't matter. He still wanted me to get good grades, and he never gave up on his dream of me becoming a doctor/getting a PhD/curing cancer. But this was the important thing, the question he asked at the end of every phone conversation, every lunch date.

Happy and healthy?

Am I?

I don't know. I'm still doing terrible things to my body in terms of how I eat/don't eat/throw up what I eat/exercise to make myself not feel guilt over what I eat. But I love food and feeding others. Right now I'm in a downward spiral of relationship mess that started only 2 days ago over something that feels big yet is really so small, and it's killing me that I can't seem to pull up the nose of the plane. But I'm happy to be writing again, and keeping mostly on top of the list of things I need to do, and to be supported and loved by friends in my life.

Will I ever be, totally?

a letter that will likely go unsent for now

I worry that sometimes we get so caught up in this idea of “healthy” relationship that we (I) forget to tell you how much I really do love you, how much I depend on you, how much your happiness means to me. We talk about ways to not be jealous, about boundaries, about how we know that the other person it not our sun and moon, our reason for living, our one and only. How weird it is in songs when lines pop up about being the only one I’ll ever love, or my only sunshine, or a myriad of other ways of saying that this one romantic relationship is the only thing that brings me meaning and happiness and drive to keep living. We giggle at Tim Minchin and think before we use those common phrases of endearment, careful to stay away from things that edge into dangerous territory.

But even in their full-cliché moments, some of those sentiments are true. We dance around it and that’s ok, I don’t know if I’m ready to make that kind of commitment either, but I hope it’s pretty clear that I am planning on spending my life with you (if you’ll have me). I know right now you’re in the depths of some pretty deep anxiety and stress and self-doubt (more than I think you’re letting on to me), and that I’m not there for you, not in the way I want to be, in the way I think you need me to be. I know that’s just the reality, and that I don’t always handle negative emotions very well, but I promise that I still want to know, still want to find ways to support you and show my love. Sometimes I’m a little dense and need you to ask for what you need, and I’m really grateful when you do! Sometimes it seems like the stress and anxiety and distance are making it hard to believe that I genuinely love you for the person you are. Please know - I’m not with you out of some kind of settling for the first queer lady I stumbled across post-(ex girlfriend) breakup. I’m not with you because I think you’ll keep the bed warm while I go out and fuck every other queer in town.

I’m with you because you make me smile. Because I see something beautiful or funny or delightful or amazing and I want to turn and show it to you. Because you nurture the best parts of me – the responsibility to examine what I believe and act accordingly, the childlike delight and wonder at the beauty of bats flying, the drive to keep learning and growing and pushing into parts of myself that maybe make me embarrassed or uncomfortable. Because you hold me so tenderly. Because you ask me what I want, and we try our best to tell each other what we both need. Because you’re willing to communicate, and to tell me when you don’t know. Because we’re learning to respect each other’s boundaries. Because even far apart, I can still feel you holding me at night. Because you delight in my smile. Because I want to see your smile, even when I’m not the cause of it. Because I want to spend sunny days hiking next to you exploring atheism, starry evenings making delicious meals to share with you while we talk about our day and how to change the world, lazy afternoons reading with my legs thrown over yours, joyful weekends hosting friends in the space we’ve nurtured together.

Seeing you happy makes my day feel radiant. Knowing that you love me and celebrate my delights feels like I’m carrying the sun in my chest. Trusting in that love…it feels scary. I didn’t think I would trust love again. It’s still fragile sometimes, and I think we both suffer because of it. When one of us is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the other person to stop putting up with us and cut their losses and leave.

I worry that this isn’t the right thing for you. That I’m pushing you into a relationship and a model that doesn’t fit because I so badly want it to fit, because then it means that I get to be with you (and I so deeply do want to be with you). That’s all a conversation for many other days, our ongoing learning about kink and poly and what it means to us and our relationship. What we value in our connection together. What we do in times of stress. How we read each other and what needs to be said or unsaid. How we can keep growing even when physically apart instead of being in stasis, just waiting out the clock. Because I want to grow with you. I want to keep learning with you. I want to keep showing myself to you as I discover more pieces to it, and I want you to ask questions and point out things that don’t fit. Because it’s so easy for me to build up this image of you in my mind, the person I want you to be, the person you want me to be. And I can always find supporting evidence for that vision while ignoring things that don’t fit until the incongruence becomes too great.

I’m listening to this song – Pray Tell, by Anberlin. I love it for all of the inexplicable reasons that someone becomes enamored with a song, certainly not for the lyrics, which are all of those things we talk about as problems. But there’s a few lines I love:

Hide away, why do you hide away from me?

Hide yourself, let me find you

Find yourself, let me find you

Help me find myself. Help me find you. Maybe we’ll discover that this will never work. Maybe we’ll discover something even more beautiful.

who am i?

"It just hurts. It's like you're becoming someone new, someone I don't know. I don't know this part of you, like I'm being left behind somehow. It's not your fault, I'm glad you're doing things that make you happy. It's just hard that I can't see them."
---
I've been feeling pent up and stressed and never quite on top of any of the "really important things that need to be dealt with asap" in my life the past week or two. I also hadn't been to the club or played in 2 weeks, since last weekend I decided to nurture classmate relationships instead of kinky ones. So this week I ripped myself away from my study guide (test on Monday, worst class, *stress*) and went to rope class. It was a nice long break from my study madness, and knowing it was happening had forced me to be pretty productive during the previous two days. I hugged some friends, got tied in a corset tie, tied someone else in a corset tie (and got to poke her cleavage bruises!). Settling back into this other part of myself that hides under the surface most of the time.

I went home to finish said study guide (20 pages - ack!), then showered and got ready for the night. I texted my gf, living 1.5 time zones and 24 hours of driving away, to tell her I was thinking of her and wishing she was here to play gender with me. It was a nice moment of connection, and even though I was more in the mood for cuddles than beatings, I left in a happy frame for the club with plans to get tied in what promised to be painful, strenuous ways.

My rope top didn't fail to deliver. We've tied a good number of times together - besides GF, she's easily the person I've played with the most in my 11 months in the public kink scene. Despite that it still feels like we're learning a lot every time we play. This time we pushed things a bit further. It was a slow night so we actually had people pull up chairs to watch us - something I love but still find odd about this particular club, I kept my eyes down most of the night because it felt weird to watch them watching me. It makes me self conscious - the way my stomach softly droops unevenly when I'm suspended face down, the way rope cuts into the flesh on my arms and thighs. But I'm able to tune it out most of the time, which feels like a gift, because I'm so focused on the ohmygodthatHURTS! or the wowI'mspinningwheeeee!

I've found this a little before, but last night really emphasized a little more what we each get out of it. Sometimes I feel guilty as a rope bottom, that my rigger goes to a large amount of work to tie me safely and put me in the air when all I have to do is enjoy it and deal with the discomfort of that one line being slightly tighter than all the others. Last night there was a clearer pattern of "this is tying for rigger satisfaction, and then you'll be rewarded with something for rope model satisfaction." It started in a way that was decidedly unplesant for me. Not terrible, not unbearable, just clearly not something I enjoyed or would have ever requested. I was artially suspended, sitting on a textured rubber surface from a TK and a coconut rope ladder binding my calves, most of my weight was on my tailbone and I was being scrapped along the ground every time she spun or shifted me. The painful calf rope and the TK being tied to the ring from behind me made it impossible to use core strength to lift myself away from the ground, so I just got dragged and left a decent bit of skin behind.

Once she got bored with that, she undid the suspension from my calves and hauled me up to standing, legs still tied together, and suspended me face down. I was mostly upright (chest tied much higher than my legs), so most of my weight was on the coconut rope just below my knees, two strands of painful fibers tied loosely enough that shifting rubbed it across my skin instead of moving with me. Lifting my legs in her arms gave me a bit of relief, until she dropped me back into the rope several times. This was more fun for me, a relief in the pain, the ability to mentally twist it into an endurance exercise, a rush of pain-fueled adrenaline.

She undid my calves and tied one leg in a futo, then tied that up to the ring so I could lift the other leg and crunch into a little twisted ball and spin around. This part was all fun for me! I giggled and we played with a few variations, tying my other ankle up in various ways. I'm still a little embarrassed and a lot turned on by those moments of exposure, by having one leg up and being unable to cover myself besides by trying to pull my other leg towards the bound one.

At some point my shoulder started to pop out of place slightly and was causing worrying sensations, so we untied and got me standing. I still had full motor control and sensation, it just felt decidedly weird and almost diluted - like it was tinged numb, or belonged to someone else. I wasn't too worried, but did know that my arms needed to come out of the TK without further weight being put on them.

As soon as my feet were under me, I started to feel faint. I tried to fight it, breathing and bending my knees, trying to encourage blood to return to my head, but it wasn't helping. I warned my rigger that fainting was a good possibility and to just be aware that I might need that remaining tether from my chest harness to the ring. She got me on the ground in a matter of seconds, and I bent forward over my knees and waited for it to subside. By the time she had me out of the TK I could hear again and was awash in euphoria - wow! My body can do so much! Vasodilation and orthostatic hypotension are kind of cool in a crazy nerdy way.

A little food, rest, stretching, and time brought my arm back to normal. I'm going to baby it a little today, then work on getting it stronger. I'm a little lopsided from rowing crew for 4 years, only port side, so my left shoulder is actually a little higher than my right, and is the one that tends to give me issues. It might be that we need to find a different harness for suspending me, or that if my legs are in the air to one side it needs to be to the left so that most of the unbalanced weight is on my right shoulder instead. Admittedly if one arm is going to have a problem I'd prefer it to be my left!

I ended the evening cuddling with a friend and her friend who is new to the scene. It was exactly what I wanted and needed after all - a little pain and challenge, some comfort and connection and feeling desired and intellectually appreciated. I left feeling like the luckiest person, wishing I was going home to my GF for cuddles to tell her about my amazing night. I texted her to tell her about it but she was asleep, so I happily settled into bed and slept soundly.

Waking up this morning was hard! GF called, and we had a really good conversation about our evenings, up until it suddenly wasn't good anymore. This happens sometimes, and I still can't quite figure out what to do. It breaks my heart to feel like I'm hurting her, that she's ok with the things I do with other people in theory, but wants to hear about them and then is hurt when she hears about them (except sometimes she's not hurt, and it feels so random as to when something is going to go over well and when it isn't). She was asking questions about pain - what it felt like, how I deal with it, what I want from it. She said she wants to see what I do with my rope top, so that she can have a picture to go with the description. I don't quite get it, but maybe part of me does. She only has what I say to go off of. In my mind, what I'm saying paints a clear picture, but in all likelihood it doesn't, and maybe she doesn't like what she's imagining. But she knows I sound happy and ok, and the disconnect is troubling, so she wants to see it for herself.

I told her that I think it might be hard for her to see the times when I'm in pain, when I'm genuinely not enjoying myself, but that it's worth it for the times when I am because then in retrospect the unpleasant parts serve a purpose of giving both the top and bottom something that makes them happy, which makes us both happy. There is no ability to see in the light without the contrast of shadow. I find it hard to see people I love in pain, but maybe it would be different in this context?

I'm scared that my desire to play is pushing a wedge between us. As a cis femme bottom, I find kink partners more easily than she does as a more queer soft butch top who is a little emotionally guarded. She doesn't feel comfortable in the scene in our hometown, mostly because right now she has no one to play with (and thus is unmotivated to go, and might miss any opportunity to meet new potential play partners, etc). I feel very comfortable in the scene here in my adopted town, and I'm willing and able to go even when I have no play plans, and often end up playing anyway or just socializing and self-tying pretty designs on my legs. She's in a spiral of anxiety and stress, and hearing about me making friends and growing in the kink scene that we both discovered together is hard. I know I'm jealous when I hear about her meeting up with people I want to get to know better, or going to events that I wish I could be at - it feels like she's nurturing social connections with people who I want to be friends with, but don't have the time or energy to pursue when I'm so far away and trying to make friends here.

I have this vision of what I want my future life to look like. How I want my primary partnership to look and feel. I'm scared to put it into words. I can see it happening with her, I really can! But part of me is afraid it might be wishful thinking, that instead of her anxiety easing with time and repetition, it will just become magnified. I don't feel like I'm turning into someone else, that anything I'm doing is out of line with who I am. But it feels that way to her. I don't know what to do with that. I'm hoping that seeing each other in 2 weeks will help us figure it out a little more. 3 months of distance down, 9 more months to go.

inside vs. outside

In my head I'm a pretty cynical, critical person. Things flash through my mind that make me a bit ashamed of how judgmental and negative I can be. Sometimes (often when tired or hungry), that cynical cranky person gets verbalized. I'm short with people, unwilling to stop and try to listen to their ideas. and basically steamroll over anyone who gets in the way of my leaving the upsetting situation. (which usually means trying to get classmates to stop talking so we can leave and I can eat a snack and stop being hangry) I feel bad about it after, but whenever I apologize I'm met with these reactions of disbelief. I guess even when I'm being what feels like borderline rude in my frustrated resentfulness, people don't see it as upset? Several times this month, from a bunch of different people, the reaction to my apology has been laughter, or denial that there was anything to apologize for. On the one hand, I'm glad that people don't think I'm an evil bitchy person who's always angry - a lot of my self-conception and ego rests on being a "good" person. On the other hand, I'm a little concerned that even when I think my emotions are pretty evident, they aren't being communicated at all.

public approval and motivation

I've started posting photos on FetLife of rope designs that I'm self tying - things I've learned or copied from others. Because otherwise I'd be having sex, or sleeping, or watching TV with my love. Maybe even reading a book next to her. But she's not here, so instead of doing my homework I tie myself up and seek public approval. Every "love" on a photo is a little hit of dopamine, every friend request from a stranger an awkward seal of approval and value. I like the feeling of being recognized, the motivation to try and improve and continue to learn more about rope. But it also feels...awkward. Like I'm doing it just for the attention. I worry that it's actually kind of hurting my relationship, making my GF jealous because suddenly I'm receiving a lot of public approval and interest from folks in a domain that she also would like to be recognized in. She doesn't put up photos so people don't really get to see that side of her, but I still worry. And still put up the photos. Because dopamine.

surrender

She pulls out the chair for me a little, indicating with a small nod that she wants me to sit. As though we’re in a fancy restaurant and she’s being chivalrous, these little moments of acting out gender roles that make us both giggle.

I sit.

She kneels in front of me, strong hands warm on my skin as she touches my calf, my knee, my thigh. Slowly spreading my legs apart so that she can enjoy a little peek up my skirt – not gratuitous, just enough. I close my eyes as I feel her hands reach for me, hold my breath as I feel the cold metal touch my skin, let it out when I hear the lock click into place. My breath returns with a purring sigh as I open my eyes and smile back at her, acknowledging, happy, aroused. She nudges my thighs back together, then lifts one high heeled foot onto her thigh. Takes her time massaging my skin. Slowly unbuckles the fiddly little strap around my ankle. Delicately removes the sparkly stiletto and leaves a last caress on my now-bare foot before returning it to the chilly cement floor.

After both shoes have been ceremoniously removed, she rocks back on her heels and stands. Hands cross her torso as she reaches for her sweater and pulls it off over her head. Her grin widens as she comes out from under the hem and sees the look on my face, appreciation mixed with frustration. She knows it’s killing me to not be the one to undress her. And that’s why she does it, and that’s why I’m still sitting in the chair, not saying anything, just smiling back with only a little pleading in my eyes. Unbuttoning her shirt becomes playful, even more erotic for this lapse in serious tension, my butch strip tease. I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until she takes off her sports bra and I feel myself exhale.

She reaches her hand down to me and helps me to stand in front of her. Examining, gaze palpable even when I look down at the ground. I feel a blush rising to my cheeks.

Then she undresses me. With confident appreciation, zippers slide and layers are peeled away as I’m unwrapped like a gift. A shirt with eye and hook front is slowly undone inch by inch. A tight skirt is peeled up overhead. Bra unhooked with seductive precision, her breath warm on the back of my neck. Underwear shimmied down, the gentle tug on my lock making us both smile. She brushes my hair behind my ears and pulls out each dangling earring post, tips my head forward to undo the clasp of my necklace.

That’s the moment I actually feel naked, hearing the silver chain shimmering into a puddle in the palm of her hand, the last protection stripped away.

When she pulls me into her arms, I bury my nose in the crook of her neck. Her skin is warm against my chest, smells deep and familiar as I kiss her collarbone and wrap my arms around her. Her fingers stroke that sensitive spot on the back of my neck that sometimes makes me shiver. Comfort. Grounding. Yes. We both take a deep breath in, let it out.

She will lead me to the cross, tie my hands, cover my eyes. She will flog and smack, punch and paddle, cane and bite. I will moan and yelp, giggle and struggle, growl and cry. We enjoy our roles, going places that push us and excite us and make us bring our darkness a little further out for the other to see.

She is my top.

I am her bottom.

But in that moment of watching her kneel at my feet, I do not feel like I am bottoming. I do not feel like I am being serviced.

In that moment of both power and vulnerability, I feel surrender.

socialization

Friday night option - go to free classy cocktail hour with fellow grad students, or go to FemDom night at kink club where I'm almost certain to be watching rather than playing? I chose the dungeon, and although free cocktails while dressed in pretty things is hard to resist, I think I made the right choice. Is it weird that I'm in a new city and I'd rather socialize with kinky people than fellow nursing students? The students will be my future colleagues, people I might need in professional references and connections. The kinksters just feel so much more real, there's already so much about each of us on public display that somehow it's easier to be open and honest, to get to know each other as complex creatures. Something about starting from the most secret places in yourself and working outward to build up the knowledge of the more superficial/public information, as compared to starting superficial/public and digging in over time into more personal information. Either group is one I'm not terribly likely to see in person once I leave this state next year, but I somehow suspect I'll leave with greater feelings of connection for my growing kinky family than I will for my sprawling cohort of nurses.

heartbreak

With any luck, I will never look at this again. But I needed to write it, and need to share it.
---

I was grateful when the decision was taken away. Before there had been a choice, an impossible choice.  He wasn’t stable yet, but they thought there was a chance that machines could keep him alive. A chance that he would continue to breathe and moan, maybe keep occasionally opening his eyes (so hurting, scared, comprehending?). With luck, he might regain the ability to communicate. There might even be the tenuous possibility of improving enough to go to an assisted living/rehabilitation facility. A slow battle with terrible chances of success, but a glimmer of hope was still there. The other choice was to stop. Stop the cascade of interventions. Let the next time something failed be the end. The end. The weight of finality.

I couldn’t chose. Don’t make me chose.

Don’t make me kill my father. Don’t make me selfishly chose to not see him struggle and hurt like that, recovering from this crisis only to have the diseases progress, to have this happen again.

I feel evil. Filthy. Unloving. Robotic. Broken.

Fly, he told me. Spread your wings, you don’t need to worry about me, go explore the world for both of us. Don’t let me hold you back. I hated when he said that, and still, I did it. But somewhere in there I started to believe that he didn’t need me to be there for him anymore. That living for both of us meant doing what I wanted without thinking of the consequences for him. I was selfish. Self-absorbed. Human, I know, but somehow that only slightly lessens the guilt.

Now the doctor said that the prospects were dimming, that rehabilitation to any kind of functional level was looking unlikely. He would be alive, in the sense that he would still be warm, still breathe with a machine, still have my father’s edema-swollen features. He could stay like that for a while, months, maybe.

But he wouldn’t be living. He wouldn’t get better.

The choice was still wrenching. I never understood that word until that moment, “wrenching.” I called my mother, across the country, divorced from my father for over 15 years. My step-dad had to listen to the voicemail to extract the information I was trying to get across, she couldn’t stand to listen to my heartbroken sobs as I tried to choke out my need for her help.

We “discontinued therapy.” A nice injection of morphine, turning off the alarms on machines. The feeding tube snaked down his nose was hooked to a regulator that kept methodically turning a half turn every minute. The positive-pressure oxygen mask still pushed air into his lungs. His pulse still traced a wave on the screen next to the bed. His arm was still warm under my fingers, retaining deep pits from even the lightest sustained pressure, the weight of a fingertip. I tried to be surreptitious as I distanced myself from reality, examining the “pitting edema” that I’d read about in books. Somehow I don’t think my dad would have minded that part at all, he always wanted me to learn.

When he died, it was like nothing had changed. I think we all picture deaths happening surrounded by loved ones, hands held tenderly, maybe a tear or a sniff betraying the emotion behind the bittersweet contemplation of the end of a life well lived. Eyes close with a smile, the monitor sounds a flat tone, tears flow and people hug.

My father died surrounded by people I didn’t know. I had no conception of the power I had, to ask people to leave, to ask to say goodbye in private or with the people I wanted around me. Most of that whole week is a blur, a mentally censored box that still brings me to tears to write about, even 3 years later. I was answering questions that someone was asking about my work in the Peace Corps, some older woman who I don’t think I’d even recognize if I saw her again, just churning through the rote script that I’d repeated a dozen times to countless family members and strangers on airplanes alike.

Then I looked up, and he was gone. That expected flat-line tone of a hundred medical dramas never materialized. Maybe it had just happened. Maybe it had been while I was mindlessly trying to please this person who also needed distraction from her grief. His arm still felt just as warm under my fingertips, sunken gently into his skin. The oxygen mask was still strapped on, making his chest gently rise and fall, 14 breaths per minute. But he wasn’t there anymore.

Of all the events of that week, that’s the moment I just can’t forgive myself for. Not being there for him when he died.