Let go. #reverb10

Day 5 Prompt – Let Go. What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why? (Prompt Author: Alice Bradley)

Not too terribly recently (but not so long ago) something pierced my heart, and in fearful defense, I locked her away in a heavy cage.

I held on to anger.

I let fear and doubt grow strong and high, in thorny bush and tangling brambles.  I saw the deadly brush thriving, and turned my eye, rather than cutting it down, as I should.  It grew thicker and tighter around the cage of my heart until almost no light could break through.  The more time passed, the less I even noticed it.

Her wounds too painful to see, even through the dense and thorny vines, I did not visit.  With no warmth from another allowed through the thick canopy I had allowed to flourish, she grew colder, ever colder.  No longer feasting on love (she deserved), comfort (she desired), the heart inside me grew weak, famished.  She beat dimly for a great time; my body kept grinding mechanically through the motions of necessary life.

So hungry was she that, when something found its way through the tangling cover to her living tomb, she questioned it not, but absorbed it fully, wanting to consume, to be warmed.  A fine and lovely trickery, this black ink was, but not the warmth she needed.  And where had I been?  It was my job to protect her, and I allowed her to be exposed to this clever poison.

Only when forcibly lead through the darkness by another was I able to realize how absent I had been, what I had relinquished so easily.  He gave me the strength I needed to bring down those brambles and vines, though the process was painful, and many thorns drew blood from us both.

I am excellent at building cages, walls.  I am a great grower of the thorny vine.  I hold tight to anger. I harbor fear.

I’ve struggled with being truly loved.  I’ve allowed circumstances to make me doubt it possible.  That is changing in me.

I have slowly, this year, let go of the fear of being loved.

And it is warm in this light.

Reverb 10 is an annual event and online initiative to reflect on your year and manifest what’s next. Use the end of your year as an opportunity to reflect on what’s happened, and to send out reverberations for the year ahead.

It’s shit like this that creates super villains.

Oh, Raw Honey, look at you sitting there waiting for me!  I heard you whispering for me to come over, Raw Honey.  And you are sounding soooo really, very good to me right now.  Let’s get better acquainted in a situation involving bread and butter, m’kay?

What the hell, Raw Honey…

YOU’RE EMPTY?

Why would you toy with me so, Raw Honey? Why would you sit there, practically beckoning to me with your sweet, delicious Raw Honeyness… and then… and then… be… EMTPY?

How cruel you are, Raw Honey!

How. Very. Cruel.  You have hurt me deeply, Raw Honey.

*deep, heavy sobs*

What is that you say, Raw Honey?  You mean, you didn’t do this to me on purpose?  You say it was beyond your control, Raw Honey?  You were just sitting there, being Raw Honey and someone came along and emptied all the delicious Raw and sweet Honey inside of you out?

You are telling me that someone scraped you clean, selfishly enjoying every last drop of you, Raw Honey?  Someone didn’t share you, but just ate you all in private?  Someone ELSE did this to you and then PUT. YOU. BACK?

Just to fool me?

What is that you say, Raw Honey? Yes, Raw Honey, you are right, I *am* feeling rather stabby.

Don’t worry, Raw Honey.  I’ll get even.  I make all the meals around here after all, right, Raw Honey? People eat what I prepare, without question.

Hahahaha.

What is that, Raw Honey? You say there’s a funny tone to my laugh?  Oh, Raw Honey, just ignore that.  Everything is just fine.  I am in a peaceful state, don’t you worry.  Just overlook the strange new element in my laughter, Raw Honey.  I promise, I’m okay.  You just rest.  Shhh, shhhh, now, Raw Honey.

Someone else better watch his Raw Honey Thieving, Trickin’ a Bitch Ass, though, Raw Honey.

But you?  You just sleep now, Raw Honey. Shhhh.

Shhhhhhh.

I would like to take an informal survey.

Don’t worry, I know your time is valuable, but I assure you, this is a very important matter.

Let’s say HYPOTHETICALLY that I was sitting on the couch watching TV. I’m watching, ohhhh, let’s say Big Bang Theory.

Then, what if John, my husband, came downstairs, grabbed the remote, and started flipping channels. WHILE THE SHOW WAS ON, NOT DURING A COMMERCIAL.

Would you think that it would be overreacting for me to FREAK THE HELL OUT and start snatching at the remote? How about if he gave me a shitty look and then both refused to let me have it back and did NOT return to the channel and show I was enjoying before he entered the room like some kind of Assholian Dictator?

If this kind of a scenario, or you know, something like it, happened, then would it be kind of over the top if I lost my shit and yelled, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!??” while visualizing myself strangling him until his lips turned blue and fell off? Would that just be too much?

I mean, it is only television after all. What do you think?

You know, I’m just wondering, in case something like that ever actually happens and I had the strong urge to beat my husband about the face relentlessly with the remote once I finally did snatch it back.

This way, I’ll know if it’s justified or not.

Thank you for your time.

A transformation.

It’s a ring.

When I’m asked what Christmas gift I remember the most, this ring is the first image that surfaces in my mind. One of the most beautiful opals I have ever seen sits like a regal queen atop a shining, golden band. On each side of her, like ladies in waiting, is a tiny diamond, twinkling playfully.

I am not obsessive about jewelry. I appreciate things of beauty, and with these types of decoration I tend to gravitate towards simplicity.

I had never before received expensive jewelry from a lover. I had never really desired it, to be honest. Regardless of that, I found this piece perfect. When I opened the box, I was floored and pleased.

It is beauty, basic and true. I loved it immediately, and still do.

A person special to me worried over the selection of this ring. He had labored over this choice, and this ring had spoken to him.

While it is certainly true that the ring is stunning, that is not why it is my most memorable gift. There is magic in my memory of this gift, but it is not because I received the ring on Christmas day.

The real magic lies in what it later became – an engagement ring. The man who painstakingly chose that gift for me did not know that later I would switch the hand on which the Queen Opal rode, as promise to marry him.

My most memorable Christmas gift was a pretty, shiny adornment that later transformed into a symbol of love, basic and true.

Beautiful.

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Today’s post is my answer to The Gift, a writing challenge at {W}rite-of-Passage.

The following people took the challenge, too.

Dear Old Fart That I Love,

Yes, you forget things *cough* occasionally.  Your knees are bad (snap, crackle, pop!).  You tell Braden it’s time for his bath when it’s time for his nap.  You tell him it’s time for his nap when it’s time for his bath. (By the way, he doesn’t even notice – I’m the only one who does.  And I’m required to make fun of you for it, so just get used to it.)

Don’t even think about sharing that pudding with him – you know it will go right to your old gut.

Your hair might be thinning… don’t worry, you’re going to get more and more of it in your nose and ears to make up for this.  Your back hurts, but I’m here to distract you from that by demanding that you rub mine (and don’t forget my feet)!  I am just that loving.

And yes, I might feel the need to make endless jokes about you being old just because you turn 40 today.

It’s because I love you.  And I’m glad you’ve been around for this long, and I’m hoping to make fun of how freaking old you are for so very much longer.

You are a wonderful (old ass) daddy and fabulous (decrepit, aging) husband.  Hey – look at it this way:  When men age, society kindly chooses to say that they are developing a bald head and a fat gut character and charm.  Women?  Get slow, fat and grow a beard.  Maybe don’t worry so much about your aging – it’s mine you might want to start being concerned about.  *wink*

Be careful on the road and hobble home as soon as you can.  I will miss your old ass from afar for now, you wonderful, old fart.

Happy 40th Birthday!

Love,
Your hot, young wife.

With this ring, I thee wed.

Today’s Photohunt Theme is “Hands”

Photograph by Joan Williams, at our wedding. It is in my collection.


Today we have been married for five years.
I kind of like him.

He loves me for everything I am, and all the things I am not. He accepts me even though I show him my faults.

I am able to be at my very most “relaxed me,” in his presence.

One in the company of the other can do the most stupid things that come to mind.  The other not only does not mind, but most of the time thinks it’s pretty hilarious.

And he rubs my feet. Keeper.

Last Year’s Anniversary Post
The One About Our Wedding
When We Decided To Have Braden

I Fell In Love Thanks To An Asshole

When Lotus asked me to guest post, I immediately had a panic attack, worried that I would never be able to think of anything to write on her blog that wouldn’t make people rush to that Unsubscribe button. And sure enough, my panic forced me to put writing this off to the end of the month. (Well, that and an extremely busy schedule and sick child. I suppose those had some impact, too.)

But then it occurred to me: since She of the Awesome Rack lets it all hang loose here in this space, I should take this opportunity to write something that I would never write on my own blog. Something that is too embarrassing or personal to leave in that permanent record for my daughters to stumble upon when they’re a little older. Hell, no – they’re going to have to work harder to find this post!

So let me tell you how my husband and I first got together.

It was 1998, and I was working at the Ohio Renaissance Festival. I had been interested in this guy we’ll call Justin…because that was his name. He was a bit of a playboy, but my 22 year old heart nether-regions found him irresistible. To my surprise, he began showing interest in me, too.

At this moment in the story, I should add that my husband is named Aaron.

Anyway, one day during rehearsals lunch break, in a more secluded area of the festival grounds, Justin and I suddenly hit it off and he kissed me. To my surprise, Justin tried to turn that kissing into more, and I refused. There were people not far away, and I didn’t feel comfortable taking things further since I didn’t really know him all that well yet. He whined that leaving him “unsatisfied” would leave him in pain, and I told him if he wanted more he’d have to wait.

He didn’t call me that week, and at rehearsals the next week he completely ignored me. I walked up to him at one point and asked, “Are you ignoring me?”

Justin huffed back at me, “No. If I was blowing you off, you’d know it.”

“Oh, so you’re ignoring me then. Fine.”

I was furious. Because I refused to put out right away, I was no longer interesting to him? I spent the rest of the day in a foul mood. At the end of the day, in the parking lot, one of my friends found me and told me she and some others were going out to eat, and invited me to join them to blow off steam.

Driving to the restaurant, I had a car full of people. One of those people was Aaron. I knew him a little from rehearsals, but didn’t really know much about him other than he was a newbie at the renaissance festival, and he had a girlfriend. In the car, I vented about Justin, and everyone began adding in their own frustrations about their significant others or those they liked at the moment. Aaron complained about his girlfriend – a girl who he saw rarely because she was off at school – and stated that as a result they decided to have an open relationship.

The conversation continued through dinner. After dinner I was invited back to the campground that several people were staying at that night. We stopped at the grocery on the way back and bought alcohol. (Because you know this story has to involve alcohol at some point.) I was still planning to go home later that night, so I reminded everyone that I wasn’t going to drink much, since I still had a 30 minute drive ahead of me.

Around the campfire, six of us told stories, sang songs, laughed and had a great time. Aaron had a cushioned mattress, so I made him share it with me because I didn’t want to sit on the hard ground. I had more to drink than I had planned on, and as the hours flew by, I quickly realized I was spending the night and phoned my mom to tell her not to expect me home.

I really don’t know when the attraction between Aaron and I started. It could have been at dinner. Or in the car. Or around the campfire. But by late in the night, as I sat close by him, sharing a blanket, I found my hand close to his, and then holding his hand. The air grew cold, and I snuggled closer for warmth. Sometime around midnight, most of the group fell asleep, and the two of us continued to talk. That talking led to kissing, and that kissing led to a lot of hand wandering.

Before the night was over with, we had sex. Crazy, right? Yeah, I know, especially considering I had scolded Justin for suggesting the same thing a week before. But unlike Justin, Aaron wasn’t pressuring me in any way, and I felt some insane connection with him. It’s like some little voice in my head knew we’d end up together.

(At this point in the story I always must add that I had NEVER done anything like that before. I wasn’t a virgin, but I also had only had one other partner – and that was during a long-term relationship.)

Aaron’s long-distance girlfriend eventually disappeared, although for some time he was dating both of us at the same time. Exactly three years after our night at the campground, he proposed. We’ve been together now for over ten years, and while we’ve had the normal stresses every relationship goes through, we love each other and we love our family.

Oh, and we invited Justin to our wedding. I made a point of thanking him for blowing me off that day in 1998. After all, if it wasn’t for Justin being an asshole, I’d have never married Aaron. (Thanks again, Justin!)

Now the only problem I have is trying to think of how I will EVER tell our daughters when they inevitably ask how mommy and daddy met and fell in love. I think we’re going to have to craft a new version of the story, where mommy is a virginal princess and daddy is a knight in shining armor saving her from an evil villian. Although when we hit the teen years, I’m completely screwed, because at that point there’s no way they’ll buy that.
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When she’s not seeing Cupid’s wings on An Asshole (*snicker*), Christina leads a very full life. She is mother, wife, student, writer, reviewer, and woman. How she does it all and balances it with such grace, the world can only wonder. It’s definitely A Mommy Story.

Close Your Eyes and Think of England.

Editor’s Note: This is an anonymous guest post from someone who is looking for constructive comments and feedback. Comments are open on this post for your reflection and discussion, to communicate with the author, and to offer your own experiences. There will be ZERO tolerance for rude comments or ridicule. If you do that, I’ll delete your comment, and ban your IP.

You are encouraged to offer feedback. The author is interested in knowing what you have to say.

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I have a problem. It’s something I’ve struggled with all my life. I need help, and I also need to know I’m not the only one. Or am I?

I have no libido. I have no interest in sex at all. I guess a therapist would call me asexual, although somehow I’ve managed to conceive five wonderful children.

By the way, this is not Lotus of  Merry Crotchmas fame. I can’t speak for her but I’m pretty sure she likes sex. I am an anonymous guest writer. For a long time I’ve wanted to write about this issue, but my blog is very public and it doesn’t get much more personal than this.  In fact it borders on pornographic, so if you’re sensitive to that you may not want to read on.

It all started when I was a child. My family is very religious. In order to foster chastity in me, I was indoctrinated not just  to think of sex as something reserved for marriage, but something so disgusting it should be completely avoided. If there was a kissing scene on TV my mother made mock gagging noises, and my parents never kissed or hugged in front of me. I don’t want to sound like some self-involved whiner, but they never hugged me either or told me they loved me, though I know they did. When it was time for sex-ed, my parents had me pulled out of class so I wouldn’t be exposed to it. I learned about sex and periods later from my friends. When I did get my period I slipped a note under my parents’ door to let them know and maxi pads began to materialize in my bathroom. It was never discussed. As an only child I often wished for a sister that I could talk to about it.

At first this repression backfired. I discovered masturbation at an early age, though I didn’t know what it was. I just knew it felt good. Then when I was about ten a friend of mine showed me her stepfather’s dirty magazines, and I was far from repulsed, although in hindsight all that was shown was the female upper body. In junior high I discovered Harlequin Romances, which I had to hide under my mattress, and I marked all the sex scenes so I could reread them whenever I wanted. As I got older, I discovered Cosmopolitan Magazine and memorized every sex tip.

Somehow I made it through high school as the other kind of statistic: the odd kid that didn’t lose her virginity. I didn’t want to be a virgin, but I didn’t want to be a slut either. I’d decided that I wouldn’t go looking for sex, but if it came knocking I wouldn’t turn it down. I was a fairly popular and attractive girl, a cheerleader even, and I did manage to land a boyfriend my senior year. But I was so shy with him I could barely speak in his presence. I was saddened greatly but not at all surprised when he broke up with me after about a month of this.

When I moved on to college, all my friends were having sex. But not me. My virginity was its own chastity belt, enclosing me in a protective bubble. Anyone with a penis dared not approach, however much I wanted them to, and I was too shy to put myself forward.

I reached the age of 20 without ever having been kissed, or even having any idea what a penis looked like. Finally I found another boyfriend. He was someone I worked with. I had my first kiss, and it quickly evolved into full-blown make-out marathons. But nothing more. Oddly enough, John had a small penis complex. I told him I’d never even seen a penis before, but he was afraid to let me see how small it was. I put myself forward as much as I could stand, determined to lose my virginity. One night I even snuck into his bed with a box of condoms, but he wouldn’t have it. A few days after that he broke up with me, he said he wanted a relationship that was about more than sex and that was all I seemed to be interested in. The other guys we worked with were incredulous and rather interested at this news, but I didn’t want to continue working with John after that, so I left that social sphere.

The phenomenon continued. I’d hopefully go on dates, wearing sexy underwear, armed with the knowledge of Cosmopolitan, but my dates seemed to be as shy as I was, waiting for me to take the initiative. And my very conservative upbringing prevented me from taking that initiative.

I finally resolved myself to being single. Of course as soon as I did that, my future husband came on the scene. I was 26 by this time and felt old. Jeff was a known player in my area, but also the only man that was still single. So when he made his move, I went for it. Because of his reputation I was certain it would be a short-lived, sex only relationship, and I was okay with that.

The experience of sex was not at all what Harlequin and Cosmopolitan Magazine had led me to expect. Sweat, hair, breath, sticky saliva, gross noises, after-smells, yuck. The greatest disappointment of all was oral sex. I knew it was supposed to be the greatest thing ever, but as Jeff’s head began to move down my body I became more and more appalled. And then seeing his head there between my thighs, I had never been more mortified in my life. He lifted his head and told me I had the most beautiful vagina he’d ever seen. That only made it worse. I was horrified.  My whole body was tense and I wished he’d just get it over with. As he worked at it my body responded, but my will was stronger. I didn’t like the physical sensations. I didn’t like the idea that I might lose control. I pushed him away.

And then it was my turn. I thought I knew exactly what I was supposed to do, but it was all theoretical. Remember, I’d never even seen a penis before. And there was hair, and smells, and strange alien movements. I gathered my bravado and went for it. But Jeff had also read Cosmopolitan, and had learned that you’re supposed to let your partner know exactly what you want them to do. He wouldn’t stop talking, asking me to do this or do that, use my hands more, go this way, stop this other thing, until I gave up.

I felt like an idiot and a failure. I was supposed to know how to do these things. Isn’t it instinctive? Why did I not find his penis attractive? Why did it, in truth, repulse me?

The logical assumption here is that maybe I was gay. Of course that did occur to me, and I gave the thought a good deal of consideration. But I found female genitalia even more repulsive.  I decided I’d simply placed to many expectations where they didn’t belong, and shouldn’t have assumed I’d be a sex goddess from the start, even though everyone seemed to think it was supposed to work that way.

While the sex was a disappointment to me, it wasn’t to Jeff, and what was supposed to be a physical relationship only developed into something more. We got married, and had a big wedding with all the pomp and frills. I spoke to Jeff about my inhibitions, and he promised to help me try to get past them. He understood that his attempted direction had put me off of oral sex, but I was afraid to tell him that it went beyond that. I didn’t like or want sexual pleasure. I didn’t mind trying to appease his libido, but that’s all it was for me, an appeasement. Because you can’t have a marriage without sex, can you?

When my first son was born, I saw a magazine with an article titled, “Get Your Sex Life Back.” I was thrilled, I thought it would have suggestions on how to increase my libido. Instead it was geared toward women with high libidos, explaining how to work more sex into your schedule. And ever since I have seen this as the general way of things. Women are expected to want to have sex, and to want it often. There’s no help or support for women who don’t fit this description. It makes me feel like a total freak, ashamed and afraid to ask for help.

And now the years have passed, and having five kids with busy schedules has made it all too easy to avoid sex.  I feel horrible about this. My husband deserves more and better.

I know I need help, but I don’t know where that help should come from. Jeff has not tried to help me get over my inhibitions as he said he would, but has been very understanding about my aversions, far more understanding than the majority of men probably would be. I don’t know if this is psychological, a result of my upbringing, or if it might be something as simple as a hormone imbalance. Some might even say that if my experience was broader I might feel differently. Maybe that’s true, but I doubt it.

I wonder if I’m really the only one on the planet that could happily live out my life without ever having sex again. Scientists seem a lot more interested in giving men erections than in making women receptive to them. Maybe there are others out there who are ashamed to come forward, as I certainly have been. But I want to like sex. I want to be that sex goddess I always thought I’d be. But for me, that’s like wanting to be a rock star and yet not even capable of speech.

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