Wednesday, April 15, 2015

the stories that we tell ourselves


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?

No comments:

Post a Comment