My therapist kept telling me that today. Asking, really.
“Is that the story that you’re telling yourself?”
I suspect she might not know how accusatory that sounds to a
native English speaker, but her question is valid. Is that what actually
happened? How do I know? Or is that just the way my brain has processed a
stimulus, the narrative that falls in line with my expectations and background
and patterns? What does it show about my thinking patterns? My beliefs?
I’m looking through my FL photos. The oldest ones, with Natalie
in them. She was still awkwardlaughter. Now she’s someone else, territory. Still
lowercase. Still butch. Still 34. But instead of the smiling face I love, she’s
a rainbow paisley pattern. It’s very pretty. It’s not what I would have
expected from her.
(I just realized that I probably wouldn’t have even looked
for a new profile of hers if she hadn’t deleted the old one. Funny? I’m blocked
from seeing this one, I’m guessing it’ll be that way for a while, but I can’t
stop visiting it now that I know it’s there. It aches.)
Maybe that’s going to be my story. The unexpected.
“The thing you love most about a person is going to be the
thing that drives you crazy.”
That’s what my cousin told me, when she married her husband.
She loved his “robot brain,” his predictability. Boring. Stable. Safe. And it
drove her crazy to think of the wild crazy days of her youth, the spontaneity
and excitement. But she knew that what she ultimately needed was someone like
him, that even if his clockwork routines drove her nuts, they also kept her
sane.
At first I was grateful that Natalie was constantly a
surprise to me. That she didn’t always react the way I thought she would. What
better way to beat that relationship boredom, than to have a partner who is
constantly surprising you with new depths to be explored? And explore we did!
We leaped into kink. Rather, she started slowly exploring
while I was road tripping. She had some emotional setbacks, things that
affected her much deeper than I expected, than I think I realized. Things that,
sadly, aren’t all that shocking to me. Offensive, yes. But not enough to put me
off a location, just the person. Perpetuating the cycle, as it were.
I’m grateful that she taught me to open my eyes wider and to
raise my voice higher when those things happen.
But back to kink. I arrived back in town and was ready to
dive into the deep end. She…wasn’t. That was ok, because everything was new to
both of us, it felt ok to just stick together and move at that pace.
Until it felt a little stifling. Until she surprised me by
saying no. Not directly, but with her discomfort, with the new rules that we
put in place after things I thought would be ok turned out to be unexpectedly
not ok.
That photo where she’s tying me and we’re both smiling too
hard. She was about to leave to take a phone call, I untied myself and tied the
next pattern myself. My very first self-tie. She was a little grumpy the next
day because I wanted to be tied in an arm binder by one of the presenters and I
didn’t understand why she was so unhappy about the idea.
The next wave of photos – self ties. Born out of inspiration
by RING, and frustration at my lack of play partner. At first I was hesitant to
post the photos. Worried about objectification. Concerned that she might be
jealous of the comments they could garner. But she liked them. Encouraged me
wholeheartedly. Unexpected, but not unwelcome!
Slowly I realized that she seemed to hope the self-tying
(and the minor flurry of internet notoriety) would be enough. That I would stop
asking to play with others, and wait until we could be together again. At that
point, this wasn’t too much of a surprise I guess, but still a disappointment.
Another rust point in our structure. Feeling untrusted and boxed in, hampered,
frustrated.
The smurf-arm photo. 5 months ago was the last time we
actually played and had fun while we did it. 4 months ago was the last time we
had sex, and tried halfheartedly to play. No photos from that one, although
there were a good number from that trip of us smiling together. Trying so hard,
wanting it to work.
The most recent photos. Back to playing with M for the first
time in months. Still some things to iron out there, but I suspect we’ll find a
place that’s only slightly strained, where we can both enjoy rope and try to
not force the other person into a box they don’t want to be in. I look happy in
them, giggling, blissful. It was a fun night, the kind of experience I’m
comfortable with right now.
That was when I found out Natalie had taken down her
profile, when I put up those photos. Before the shock of how terrible this
break up has been, that also would have been unexpected, but now fits in to the
story that I’m telling myself.
How will I re-write this story over the next month? The next
year? When I move back to Arizona? Will I ever get to hear her story?
Do I want
to?
