Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Friday, November 19, 2010

Let's Talk About Sex...

"The problem is, I've done this job so long and fucked so many sluts, I can't go back to nice girls because nice girls are shit in bed... But it's not your fault, it's not your fault--it's that everything has worked out for you in your life. I'm not blaming you, nothing bad has happened, therefore you wouldn't do disgusting things."

“You know that feeling when you’ve had a wank, and there’s a bit of cum on your hands, and you think to y’self, ‘What did you do that for?’… Needless to say, I wanted to kill m’self.” - Jim Jefferies from I Swear to God

OK, let’s talk about sex.

As I’ve stated in the past, I’m pretty open minded—as long as it’s consensual and the rules are up front for the hardcore stuff, go for it.

However, I also know the price that you pay for hardcore sex in self esteem and all the ensuing emotional crap. Been there, done that, paid for the therapy.

So the other night, I get into email sex with an ex. Hardcore sex. Down and dirty, porn-worthy sex via email—no pictures, no audio, just the written word.

It was not loving. It was not kind. It was purely animal kink fucking. We’d had this once before—via IM—and it was the last sex we had before the relationship ended. And he was cold as ice. The sex was hotter than hellfire, but emotionally… I have never been so vulnerable and felt so abandoned and wrecked. It was like being raped the first time all over again.

And I feel filthy, and not in a good way. My view of sex is this: whatever feels good to you, if you have a consenting adult for a partner, go for it. Not my business what you get up to, not my place to judge as long as children and animals are NOT involved. I have no problem with porn; I have my own stash of it in various forms (including a bunch of digest mags from the late 80’s/early 90’s left by my ex-husband). The problem… He was so cold. And I was nothing more than a piece of ass.I had been in love with him. Oh, well.

Now, let me say this about this man—as a lover, face-to-face, he’s gentle, decent, kind… he’s wonderful. There is a reason I fell in love with him, a reason I miss him desperately. So I am NOT blaming him for how I am feeling—this is on me. This is my shit, not his.

Wednesday night… Wednesday was not what I was used to with him. I didn’t want the cold bastard I’d dealt with over the internet—I wanted the gentle, decent and sweet lover I’d had. Now, after the last round of IM sex with him, I went off the deep end. I hadn’t been at that level of kink with a partner since Edwad, and it tripped a wire that hadn’t been tripped in a while.

It was bad. I was in flashback—deep in flashback. Throw in all the stress at the house…yeah. I tried to check out when the hormones went south. Trying to explain anxiety and depression to someone who has never experienced it at debilitating depths is like trying to explain the glories of sex to a virgin.


Now, I am a worrier. I am—I am a natural-born producer and director, which means I think about the Big Picture and ALL THE FUCKING DETAILS. I am gooooooooood at details. It’s why I am aces at what I do for my salary—I see EVERYTHING that has to get done, I know how to plot it out, chart it out, plan the workflow, write the damn instructions on how to do it... but when I see JUST HOW FUCKING MUCH HAS TO GET DONE...

And immediately become completely, totally, utterly fucking overwhelmed.

Now, when I’m up, I’m invincible. Completely, totally utterly INVINCIBLE. Can’t touch me—I’m THE BEST. And I know it. I know how to Get It Done.

That’s when my body chemistry is in balance. When it’s not… I’m a fucking disorganized mess. And I’m a mess. I hate it. I cannot begin to tell you how much I hate it, how frustrating, aggravating, annoying and disturbing it is to be lost in my own mind.

That’s the only way to describe it—being lost in my own mind. Knowing I’ve somehow got to get to Point B from Point A, and even though it’s technically a straight line, I can’t see it, because somehow it’s been obscured and cluttered.

It’s like wearing glasses or contacts: when you don’t have them on, things are fuzzy. Put them on, the world sharpens. I can tell you when everything is OK and focused because the world is sharp. When it’s not, it’s hard to tell when things are just a little fuzzy, but it gets worse and I’m lost before I realize it most times.

Does that make sense? I hope so. I’m trying to find my way through right now because if I don’t, I’m dead. I’m lost. And I don’t want to be. I want to get the hell out of Hell and back on the road I started down twenty years ago. I want my life back.

A couple of weeks ago, I went on a serious diatribe about addiction in The Bottle and the Damage Done. That diatribe was a bit over the top, but it comes from being stuck in a house with an addict and trying to protect someone who doesn’t want to accept the damage that addict has done to her life.

Please don’t ever think I don’t love my mother; I do, deeply. But I also hate her with a passion that’s almost as intense because she has spent so much of her life as a victim. She’s pushed me beyond the brink so many times, held me to impossible standards, that she herself could never live up to, and I have spent a great deal of time feeling like a complete, utter failure and loser—feeling unloved and unlovable—because I could not meet those standards. And after a while, I didn’t need her to impose them on me—I was doing it to myself because I had internalized it all.

I’m famous for saying to my friends when they’re beating themselves up, “You’re human. Give yourself a break.”

They try to turn that philosophy back on me—“Why do YOU have to be perfect?” And my response is, “Because it’s me, and I know better and should have been aware of what was going on.”

And it drives them to frustration because while I’ll give everyone else a break, I’m not very good at giving me a break. It’s a strength and a handicap. I expect more of me than I do of anyone else, and I’m not good at failure.

And I feel like a fucking failure right now.

I hate when people say to me, “I don’t know how you do it. If I’d had your life, I’d have killed myself by now. You’re so STRONG.”

This, believe it or not, although it’s meant with kindness, respect and admiration, is NOT comforting. It cuts like you wouldn’t believe. See, I’m not looking for sympathy—I can find that in the dictionary between “shit” and “syphilis” and it has as much worth. Empathy I’m good with, but sympathy or pity… No thanks. I’m not proud of dealing with depression. The suicidal shit… I have zero patience for. I hate it. I have no fucking reason to want to end my life. I have INCREDIBLE talent and capabilities. What I’m lacking is motivation.

See, that’s where I fail. I am an attention whore. I admit it. I need constant feedback and encouragement because if I don’t get it, I falter. If I don’t get approval, I shrink.

Now, sex… sex is the greatest source of approval in the world. Regular, reliable sex can, in no way, shape or form, be underrated as the single best source of personal applause. The other thing is actual applause.

I haven’t had either lately, and it’s making me a little crazy. And I’m angry at myself for needing it.

See, that is a problem for me. On the one hand, I expect to be disapproved of. I expect to be considered in the wrong and not liked. On the other… I’m human and need a little approval and to be liked.

It annoys me. It annoys me that I can’t just flip a switch and drop into the headspace I need to be in, that there are so many physical factors limiting how I function, and if everything isn’t in balance, I’m fucked.

Sadly, not literally.

And focus is non-existent ATM. Not sure what nutrient I’m not getting, but there is definitely a chemical deficiency going on in some area. My body’s hatred of all things not coffee, cheese, banana, peppermint, or lime is not a good thing—I am really sick of hurling. And I’m CRAVING a cheeseburger… a Not Your Average Joe’s medium rare with cheddar and bacon… EXTRA cheddar… And I’d probably lose the lot not five minutes after eating less than half of it.

So, last night I finally got to see Alcoholocaust, playing on my lappie, propped on the desk in Tory’s hotel room.

And then we went outside, I lit up a clove cigarette, and had a fucking breakdown.
It is not often that someone gets under my skin. I can think of maybe five artists—actors, writers, whatever—who have, and most of them when I was a hell of a lot younger. It annoys the piss out of me that this man has gotten so far under my skin

My feeling about life is that everything happens for a reason—it’s a giant jigsaw puzzle that needs to be put together piece by piece, and you can’t rush things or you’ll fuck it up and lose the important pieces that tie shit together.

OK, I know, not the greatest analogy, but the best I can do atm.

That’s how I’m feeling right now—I have most of the pieces of the puzzle, but I still can’t figure out how they all fit together.

I’m exhausted—the past couple of weeks have SUCKED. Work is a pit of stress and stupidity, and I have reached the end with it. Hell’s Vestibule is just that—Hell’s Vestibule. My love life… Christ, it’s a bad comedy. And artistically…

Argh. I just so feel like I have dropped the ball because I’m being pulled in a million different directions. Between insomnia, anxiety and stress, I want to scream. The rewrite is happening, but it’s so damn slow, and I’ve failed NaNoWriMo—I mean, I’ve written two sentences about pantsing a priest. Way to go Rizzage. I’m terrified about money, and fuck knows… Yeah, fuck knows. I got my drum kit yesterday. Oh, Gods, it’s so beautiful… and I have nowhere to set it up.

Don’t ask about the open miking. I decided against going back to Sally O’s; nice bar, but the crowd… no audience but the comics, and the clique there was a bit heavy on the geek testosterone. I think I scared them.

This is a problem I’ve dealt with forever—I scare the hell out of men. I hate it. I can’t hide nor help who I am; I’ve been this person for a long time and hiding her didn’t get me anywhere but miserable. I’ve been told how sexy I am, how intense, how incredible, talented, yadda, yadda, yadda, but if I’m so amazing, why the hell am I still alone? Riddle me that.

It’s not just about the weight—the weight is going away. It’s about me.

I hate it. I don’t hate me—I like me, love me most of the time—but men… they just come and go. And I’m nothing, a footnote in their life if that.

I cannot tell you how much that hurts.

Brit Boy #5 is back. And I don’t know if I can handle it emotionally. I’m having to confront the suicide attempt in February/March, and realize that he had a hell of a lot to do with it. I’m not blaming him—I’m the one who tried to slice open a vein, and he certainly didn’t guide my hand or encourage me—but at the same time…

I had a flashback last night—a PTSD panic moment where I was trapped and scared. Thank the merciful Gods Tory was there. I fell apart. I chainsmoked before that—I mean I don’t even smoke, and here I am puffing one clove after another—and paced and talked and got more and more agitated and then, BAM! flashback and panic.

See, I did something stupid. I left the line of communication open. And he got in touch. One of the things that triggered me last was a very intense IM sex session and then him pulling away. There was a time in my life when sex was all about dirty things; there was very little vanilla about it. It left me with serious emotional scars because I wasn’t ready for the stuff I was into, no matter how much it turned me on. The relationship between him and me while he was here in Boston was the closest thing I’ve ever had to normal. It didn’t get dirty until after he left.
And after it got dirty, he left me high and dry.

It killed me.

It broke me.

Gents, a word about kinky women—some of us need a little reassurance afterwards that you don’t think the worst of us. That while you appreciate the intensity of the experience, you also still respect & love the person providing it.

I didn’t get this, and it brought back a whole lot of ugly, horrible shit that I thought I had resolved.

And I'm sitting here in the office, in the closed library, trying to figure out my life.


Fuck this. I need to go do some real writing instead of this intellectual, emotional wanking.

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