Winamp, My Favorite Psychologist
Previous - this entry written on September 13, 2001 at 3:40 pm - Next


I'm writing... and listening to music. I'll paste in bits of music, snatches of lyrics, as I write... let you listen with me, a bit... but only a bit. I'd rather worry about the words I'm finding, rather than the words I'm hearing, today.

This love...

How easily that word rolls off my tongue at times. Love. Lust. Attraction. I say "I love you" and go on with life, meaning something far simpler, a hundred words and all of them mean only that, "I want you", greed is the source of it all. And then there are days when I am aching to say it, wanting to say "I love you" and mean something deeper, wishing that I had words to show you how this love makes me feel, how it rips me apart and builds me up, all at once.

A thousand times before...

I really do say it too often. I've said it about silly, childish things. About quite a few people. Here's a new word: theunre. Beloved. I've made and broken hundreds of promises, regretted breaking them, sometimes regretted making them. Here's a new promise that I hope never to break. I will never use that word unless I mean something far deeper than I normally do. It's set aside. Sacred. I'll use it only when it is truly meant. I'll use it as Agape, as Eros, as Philios... but only all at once, the point where affection and lust and kinship and desire and need and hope and happiness all reach an apex, the highest point, that wonderful moment.

You hold my heart...

Who do I love? Honestly? There are a lot of people I care for, care about, people I want in my life. It's only love if I can't do without them... only love if I would, despite that, find some way to do without them if they didn't want me involved. It's only love if I find myself dreaming of them, wondering what would make them happy, and realizing that they make me endlessly happy as well. It's only love if I cry when they are sad, laugh when they are smiling, miss them intensely when they are gone.

You take some and give less...

I know I don't return love. I know that what I'm giving is... tawdry... in comparason to much of what I've been offered. I have so much emotion, so much affection, and yet love? Anything involving true sacrifice, commitment that might inconvenience me, that might frighten me? *sighs* I'd give up the world for a very few people... and even they can't always claim my soul. I'm stubborn. I'm standoffish. I've a world of hurt locked up and everyone who offers me love draws a bit of it out... but it hurts so much as it leaves that I try to resist. I'm not good at loving back.

As I ask a simple question...

Because I do want to know, I DO want to be loved. I don't like the inconvenience. I don't like the idea that if someone loves me, I have to love them in return. I know who I love, I know why, I know, often, when it started, what made my eyes open. I don't love everyone who has loved me. I don't... I don't appreciate it, I suppose. Don't know what you've got 'till it's gone. But still I ask, still I want to know. Masochism at its worst.

Nobody loves me, it's true / Not like you do...

There's a long list of men who say, or said, they love me. Each one for different reasons, in different ways. Sometimes that list makes me smug - it strokes my ego, it lets me feel that I'm wanted, somehow successful because I've had all these men professing love, as if that's what matters. Most of the time it makes me queasy. Often, although I will ask if they do, I am praying the answer is 'no'. I want attention, yes. I want affection, certainly. Sex? Oh HELL yes, if I'm in the mood and feeling well enough. But love... that complicates things. People in love are blind. People in love expect you to return the love... and with so many different descriptions of it, with so many different versions of 'love', how could I possibly return it all, exactly as they expect? Love is pressure. It boxes me in, to hear "I love you", to say it, to even THINK it. It leaves me trapped. And although I've days when physical bonds are fun... emotionally, mentally, I treasure my freedom more than I can ever put into words, ever say.

She moved down here at the age of eighteen...

When I first came up to Portland I was pregnant, frightened, and believed I was utterly in love. I did love him... it just wasn't the love I thought it would be. It didn't last, didn't survive two-hour drives and mood swings and the irrationalities my mind kept thrusting into the mix, didn't survive immaturity, labor, the knowledge that somewhere there's a child with my hair, his eyes... it didn't survive growing up. Since then, I've said love to several people. Did I mean it? Yes. Do I still mean it? Some of them... yes. I grew up a lot when I ran to the City, but it wasn't enough. I'm still growing... still learning... and this is another reason I hesitatate to say it at times, another reason why it frightens me: how do I know it won't stop EVERY time? How do I know it will last, ever? Let alone this time...

I'm tired of this town again...

I crave variety. I know, or at least can usually guess at, what I want. So far I've not found any one man who can give me what I want, and admittedly the fact that one of my wants involves double penetration and then snuggles on both sides afterward doesn't make this any easier. Everything I do is, in the end, for my own benefit... including my wandering. I've honestly tried to settle down on occasion, tried to keep my eyes on my man, to be a one-man-girl. I'm not good at it - it honestly feels WRONG, as wrong as a catheter or praying in my parents' church or wearing green and pink stripes with purple and orange polkadots. Just... WRONG.

Either way, either way, you know where it stands...

I try to make this clear, up front, getting it out of the way. If you love me, sooner or later I will rip you apart, either trying to make you STOP loving me, or taking what I need from you because I can, because you love me... because I love you. I've an abusive and highly illogical definition of love, perhaps. I hurt the people I love, hurt them far worse than the people I don't. I do my best to protect them, to shelter them, to take care of them... and rarely protect them from myself. That's where the pain comes from, that's another reason I avoid love. Because I know I'll make it hurt. I KNOW that I will get hurt, I KNOW I will hurt the person I love, the person who loves me. And much as I regret it, at the time I never care, never even think of mercy or kindness or anything but how hungry I am for their tears, their misery, that betrayed, achingly perfect look in their eyes that leaves me breathless and loving them even more.

Maybe I wouldn't know what to do with my strength anyway...

The tangle of D/s in my mind doesn't help either, frankly. Some days I believe that all I really want is to submit, to serve. Some days I believe that all I really want is to own, to control. Some days I want to protect, some days I want to be protected. Some days I want to hurt, some days I want to be hurt. And each day I am convinced, utterly certain, that what I'm thinking and feeling that day is the real truth. It is in a way - it's always true, for that day. It's always true, right that second. It makes it so hard to explain...

Whatever we deny or embrace / For worse or for better...

I appreciate and envy women who can devote themselves entirely to one side of the whip or the other... women who can exist their entire lives without even once having the desire to try either side... women who have a more rational idea of what they want and need. The people I love, the men I love, I do so because they have accepted the dichotomy that is my life and my desires, they know that my moods change and that my needs change with them, that what might be necessary one day will terrify me the next. I love them because they put up with me, with all my changes, with the times when I ignore them and the times when I won't go away, the times when I demand they exist for me, and the times when I exist for them.

And it feels like Heaven is so far away...

The first 'love of my life' other than Angel, who is an entirely different topic, was Alex. Alex Ambrosiac, which I can no longer spell even, it's been so long. He was a Canadian... and seems to have set the pattern for my most turbulant and long-lasting affections. Submissive. Pretty. Innocent. And so far away. I suspect that my subconscious finds it easier to deal with missing the people I care about than actually having them. I know my conscious mind does. There are days when yes, I need them HERE, when I would give the wold to bring them back... more than days, weeks and months. Every now and then though, I find myself realizing that missing them has become so familiar, so usual, that I wouldn't know what to do if it stopped.

Face to face... mouth to mouth...

I really do crave the physical contact. Anyone who knows me knows that I love to be touched at times, that often I can't seem to get enough of it. Like everything else, it depends on my mood... like every rational being, there are times when I do NOT want to be touched, and people I do not want to be touched by. However, in general, I want and need the pleasure of physical contact. I've found myself agreeing to sex purely because I wanted to feel someone's hands on my body, I've verbally whored myself out just for the knowledge that it would earn me a bit of petting. Sad. I know.

I hate to stay, but then I hate to leave...

I'm worried that my confusion, that my... eh, face up to it, Jax, my desperation... is going to drive away the people I care about. Note I didn't say love - the subject is changing slightly. The people I love... I know damned well sooner or later I'll drive them away, or run from them, or both... and that maybe a day later or a week later or whatever, we'll get back together, if the getting is good. If not... then that's that. Done. At least I won't have to worry about it. But I DO worry about my friends. I know how much of a slut I appear to be at times, and it disgusts me. How can it not disgust them? How can they keep from turning away at the sight of me writhing, hungry?

Where the cities are few and far between...

Rational moments, times when I not only want to talk about this but can, are rare. Often they're prodded by drugs, or music. Sometimes terror will do it. A good beating can work too. I have a hard time explaining the deepest parts of myself to anyone. I don't always want people to see it... and forget that it's written in my eyes, on my lips, in every action. I try to rationalize it. Try to explain it away. Doesn't work. What it boils down to is this: I am a fucked up, sad, hungry, tired, miserable girl... who still somehow ends up coming out of everything far better than she deserves, who has the very things she wants and often doesn't see it, who wants more than she needs, needs more than she gets, and somehow gets more than she wants... I'm not healthy. I'm not sane. I'm not wise. I'm sure as hell not perfect.

'Cause there's many things I've never learned / Or even decided if I'm ready to serve...

I honestly don't know where my life is going. I know that I want to get Kadin back down here to the states. I know that I want to get to know Alex better. I know I want to spend my life with Caleb. I know I want Nick to come home safe from his military stint. I know that I miss Rhett and want to visit him. I know that I want to teach Nreshan to beg. I know that I want to see Hida smile. I know I want to finish corrupting the wench. What I don't know is how to manage all of these, and everything else that occurs to me, everything that I have forgotten to mention and everything I won't know about until tomorrow, the day after, a year from now... I don't know how to get it all done. It feels overwhelming. So what I'm going to do is start with something simple.

I'm going to go hug Caleb and tell him I love him, call him theunre. Then I'm going to hug Rhett online, and tell him I miss him. Then I'm going to get a shower... and go from there.

It's a place to start.

Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved / The blackness, the darkness, forever...

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