Decrying Gravity

I have dreams of Laura.  A couple of times a week, the past few actually.  She comes back, tries to rekindle the relationship, explains there's some mistake, I react.  I think it's because it's the primary model for intimacy that I have.  And it's sad, when I wake up.  I imagine it'd be devastating if I wasn't on antidiepressants, but as it is, it's just another thing to endure.

And that's mostly what I feel like I'm doing now.  Enduring.  I've been so busy, to an extent I haven't been in recent memory, that it hasn't had time to catch me.  But I'm lonely.  I remember, back in the later years of high school, where there was a period where I would routinely talk to seven girls four-two years younger than I was. I assume it's because they were more receptive to emotional wallowing, although even then I was fairly shielded. Now, I don't know who I talk to.  Tyler, yes.  A few of the interns, yes.  And... that's mostly it.  Tyler asks questions and pushes me, which is more than most people I suppose.  But I feel like I need more of that, from many more outlets.

And I've been looking for them, kind of.  I went to the first meeting of an LGBT support group that consisted of me and twelve lesbians.  It was darkly comical, and I'll go back, but it didn't "help" in the true sense of the term.  I went to the faculty support group at Fulton, which helped, a bit.  And I'm probably going to try to join the "Small Group Ministry" at the UU church which is, essentially, a spiritual support and discussion group.  That's three support groups + counseling that I'll be in.  In many senses, my Monday class is another.

So what am I being supported for?  It honestly seems like life in general.  Loneliness. Existential failure.  I am overwhelmed, and I feel like I'm doing everything to a degree of mediocrity that is authentic, not a fabricated shadow left by my low self-esteem.  I used to be good at things.

But then, I know I'm not alone.  I read about so many others dealing with so much, and that doesn't even include all of the other people in my support groups.  I see so many people just getting by.  And although it helps me, in a large sense, in a small one it just makes me even more discouraged.  Is this what adulthood is like?  Learning to accept all the disappointment and torpor you hate and rage against in your youth?  I wouldn't mind working so much if I felt like I was doing something positive, helping others.  But instead, I feel like I'm treading water.  And that's all a luxury afforded me by the good fortune I've had with undergraduate finances.

I don't know.  Life's weighing heavy.  I miss having someone else who carries it with me.

I don't necessarily lust, but I undoubtedly desire.  It's a double-edged desire, envy and wanting of legs and hair and facial curves.  My mind wanders, but not as it used to.  Like I used to deal with hunger, I assume nothing will happen, and so I do not grow lustful.  I am not frustrated or unsatiated.  But I am lonely.  I do lie in bed, at night, and wish I need not curl upon myself.  I do miss kisses and hugs, miss the physical trust and affection, miss the excitement and reliability.  I miss romance.

I am not depressed, but I am far from happy.  I am not full of angst, but I am not peaceful.  I am not unloved, but I am distant.  I see the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo, and I, a poor man's Frida Kahlo, lie broken and unobserved in the next room.  I am great, in my own way.  But I am not desired or wanted.  I'm lost.    I feel too young to be getting old.  Strange, since I don't particularly relish what I have.  And yet I want more.  Want more of what potential indicates, not what reality reports.

No, I do not lust.  But my desire cuts both ways and leaves me slivers and shivers of should be's.

I feel like an impostor.  I went to an LGBTQ support group today and every other person was a lesbian.  That, in and of itself, isn't a bad thing.  I've never felt more vulnerable, though.  Well, "never" is harsh.  But I'm protected as Dylan.  I'm safe.  I can joke about myself, withdraw into myself, perform with myself, drawing attention away from the "real."  I can act as myself.  When I distance myself from Dylan, I get further away from that safety.  I'm not "myself," in a sense, and getting to understand the new self is a frightening process.  But even more than that, I have to take myself seriously.  I have to be vulnerable.  I have to say "no more distance, no more hiding, this is who you are, intractable imperfections laid bare."

And if there was a litmus test, if there was a brain scan or DNA extraction procedure that I could point to and say "you test positive for XYZ" (pardon the pun) or whatever, I'd be ok.  But instead it's all a murky world of if's and maybes and it's not so simple as kissing  a girl and liking it.  It's not so simple as ascertaining attraction.  It's the deconstruction and reconstruction of identity, of self.  It's a fundamental questioning of feelings so deep and devoid of conscious logic that I find myself swimming in darkness, thinking I know the way by the breeze but worried the wind's always shifting.

I haven't been this terrified of not being accepted since high school.  I haven't been this self conscious since I was a shy introvert who always worried what others thought instead of a person who started gauging reactions instead of fearing the worst.  Oh God, I can't take myself seriously, I can't.  And yet I take her seriously.  Dylan is a wry joke.  Yes, she makes wry jokes but is herself sincere by virtue of legitimacy.  She's beautiful and whole, and Dylan can be a shell, a skeleton, a twisted and crumpled figure that animates and slinks and is not to be taken seriously, in and of himself, because he knows he's just a game and a joke.  Or, at least, he knows that's the way the game is played.

Who the hell am I?  Dr. Jekyll, Mrs. Hyde.

She is who I want to be.
He is who I am.
Split personalities, performances, instead of a synchronized whole.  In my quest for the organic, I find myself playing roles.  Which is to say, changing parts instead of continuing in my traditional performance.  I "go into character" and I smile and I'm sweet and I'm a wry bitch and I love it and I switch to stale and I find myself wanting to protect her, to save her, to not let her be tarnished by this imperfect reality.

But, then, if it's her or me, I don't know if I have much choice.

I've been going to church at least twice a month since November.  The Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church and I have had our differences, but since I've been going, I've always left feeling good.  It's such a wonderful ethic, to love, respect, and be loved.  I was prompted to make a kind of prayer, to whom I don't know, during the "silent meditation" period.

Give me the strength to find who I want to be,
To be who I need to be,
To help others do the same
And to find peace, accepting
The perfecting imperfect.

It's similar to the AA Serenity Prayer of
God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change
The courage to change the things that I can
And the wisdom to know the difference.
with a bit of identity thrown in.

I want to love.  I want to be uninhibited in that pursuit, to embrace a benevolence of spirit that forgives and fosters, cultivates and encourages, embraces and supports.  I don't think I can do that until I'm able to do those things with myself, though.  And it's been a struggle all my life to keep myself protected while trying to promote safe vulnerability in others.  I can't do it.  I need myself to be exposed, to be unashamed and self-accepted, before I can truly begin to do the same for others.  I'm working on it, of course.  And there are some pretty big steps ahead in that respect.

I love talking to my students when I don't have to be "in charge" of them.  If I could just talk, not demand or reprimand, control or grade, if I could just support and love without the need to always hold authority and direct them, I'd be happier.  I don't want an adversarial relationship, a constantly negotiated power dynamic.  I'm not, have never been, and have never wanted to be a "leader."  I think a teacher can probably manage to negotiate these sorts of things, but it would take a strength of personality and more externalized hope and passion than I can muster.

I hope counseling works out.  I really do.  I have the patience, the compassion, the curiosity/interest in individual stories, the questioning.  Or, at the very least, I want them.  I want to be in an environment where those are the traits most desired, not organization and "management."  And I want to be in an environment where I can have some level of vulnerability, too.  But more about that later.

To return to theme, I want to love.  I want to feel free to love.  Life, myself, others.  I sometimes feel like I could overflow with it, if I didn't have to maintain so many fears and facades.  I want to get there.  Love is my religion.  And I want life to be my church.  Others to be my altars.  And myself to be two clasped hands, soft lips with a sad smile whispering that I may not know your pain, but I have known my own and, in it, I have known what it is to live, and through it I have wished not to heal you, but to love you and support you while you heal yourself.  I want to love.  I hope, someday, that I wholeheartedly can.

(This is probably the most explicit post I've made.  For me, in my clinical dissections, that's probably not saying much.  But consider this a disclaimer of "personal sexual content ahead" nonetheless.)

This post confounds and inspires me.  On the one hand, it speaks about an experience, one of life, intimacy, beauty, and intensity, that I think sounds as close to divine as a secular person can get it.  Admittedly, she's writing artistically and there may be some degree of hyperbole.  But I think it's safe to say that she enjoys the experience immensely.

On the other hand (so to speak), I'm afraid that, to this point, I can't say I feel the same.  My sexuality has always been a thing mired in uncertainty and guilt.  Part of that I attribute to my parents' defunct relationship.  For as long as I can remember, my mother slept on our living room couch and my father slept in his room.  There was always tension when he tried to be affectionate with her, like it was a childish thing, done on a whim.  There was no passion, no authenticity to it.

Of course, there's also my early and rapid development of a superstrength superego.  I've hidden, repressed, and pretended for as long as I can remember.  That's one thing you do when your father has anger issues and an alcohol problem; you walk on eggshells, because you never know what incites wrath and what is rain on a slick roof.  It's what you do when you're six and you tell your father you love him, only to have him respond "no you don't."  As if six year olds can understand low selfesteem.  You guard and you hide and you fear.

So sex wasn't really on my radar for quite some time.  Liberal as my parents were (and I'd known about the mechanics since I was 3, given my mother's "always honest" policy), I developed the habits and demeanor of an individual quite conservative.  (there was also an incident when I was in kindergarten where I kissed someone or they kissed me and it may have been a boy or it may have been a girl but all I know is I was reported to the head of lunch who put me at the bad kid's table and I was mortified and I was shocked and the teacher talked to us and told us that's something people do at home in private and so it was).  It's small wonder, then, that I balked at talking about it.

I went through puberty and hated it.  I don't know when I started getting anorexic (for all intents and purposes).  I think it was around seventh or eighth grade, when I started reading through lunch instead of eating.  But I wanted a smaller body. I wanted to be small.  I definitely wanted to not be my father, who is lumbering and large and intimidating.  And I also didn't want to be like other boys.  I don't remember the specifics, but I do remember that I never had a qualm about defying gendered expectations.  Hell, I took pride in my weight.  I weighed around 105lbs and was 5'10 (my current height, twenty-twenty pounds less).  I hated myself and my body; that was my way of expressing it.  Denying myself food, suffering through the hunger, punishing myself for not being enough, not being right.

I had a minor crush in seventh grade.  It was, naturally, the smartest girl in the class.  She moved away.

I didn't have a real crush until junior year of high school, my "awakening."  And then it was agonizing.  But that's been covered.

I don't know when I started looking at pictures of naked people.  I know it wasn't until I found porn on the computer my father uses.  He didn't know how to erase his cookies, and when I found out I was disgusted and shocked.  (I'm going to estimate I was 14, but I can conceive of it being older; I remember hiding my eyes during sex scenes well into middle school, finding films like American Pie repulsive on principle, etc.).  The idea stuck, though.  I started looking at drawn pictures, eventually.  Certainly not "genuine" pornography. I won't go into the details of the content for the moment, but suffice it to say it was not "standard fare."  I also did not masturbate; I think I honestly didn't know how or have much interest in doing so.

This lack of conscious sexual expression produced nocturnal emissions, which are grizzly, confusing things (especially when you have no idea what they are, which I didn't for years).  It was very disconcerting for me, and it took me quite awhile to get brave enough to figure out what the hell was going on.  Mind you, this was when I was 15, 16, 17.  The specifics elude me, but I was well on my way through puberty.  Hell, plenty of people had been having sex for quite some time by that point, and I had yet to consciously ejaculate.

Suffice it to say, it was not until I was a month away from my 19th birthday, after immense struggle and determination (it was practically painful and terribly frustrating), I finally succeeded in manually inducing ejaculation.  That's quite some time, especially for a male in our culture.

Since then, the impetus for comparable endeavors has largely been pragmatic.  It is not something I relish; it's a kind of cleansing, a washing away of furtive desire.  And there's undoubtedly some shame there.  There's some selfconscious, superego-driven dullings.  But even as I explored sexuality more, with others, it was very, very rarely something I'd dub "pleasurable."

Of course, I loved/love giving oral sex.  I'd always wanted to, looked forward to it, etc.  It was the first thing I wanted to try when the opportunity presented itself.  And I still love it.

There's a lot to that, of course.  It's vicarious pleasure, me enjoying their joy.  It's a self-esteem boost since I feel like I'm actually doing something for someone else that they'll like me for.  It's fun and exotic and in some ways I like the challenge/reward.   And god, I'd do it casually, no-strings attached, etc.  I genuinely enjoy it.

The rest of sex, though, has not lived up to its reputation.  Anything that my two partners have tried has largely been rather uncomfortable.  I don't like it.  They blame themselves.  I tell them it's not them, but my arousal is evident (all dressed up with no place to go) and they can't help but think otherwise.  And although I have had very, very limited experience with vaginal intercourse, I was much more excited by the potential it might have in the future than the actual experience.

Which brings me back to the link above.  I wanted to have sex again, certainly.  But I was decidedly underwhelmed.  The emotional aspects of it were great, of course.  But for a person who does not have the shame, the guilt, the lack of desire, the lack of love, the lack of safety, so much in their favor... it makes you wonder.

I read a quotation on one of the forums I've been on (and it's that sort of community that I've come across blogs like the one above) that said that if you don't enjoy sex, you're not doing it right.  Granted, I have limited experience, and getting in a position (so to speak) to remedy that situation is difficult and unlikely, at the moment.  My opinions are relatively uninformed about the ways others experience their sexuality (hence the reading material), and much of them are based upon popular culture (for instance, I'm pretty sure American Beauty had a lot to do with me even knowing what masturbation was about and how others engaged in it).  And, indeed, the post that linked me to Diel's post expounds a bit upon the exceptionality of Diel's first experience.

So, yeah, there's a lot to question there.  But I assure you, I can think of only one, definitive time where I have orgasmed without having to imagine my partner (real or imaginary) screaming in pleasure or I've involved myself in twisted, self-hating identification in scenarios that will not likely be discussed for some time (I wouldn't suggest using your imagination; I'll tell you if you ask).  My sexuality is part of my repression, part of my self-loathing.  It's never been healthy or "pure."  And it's also, essentially, not been a thing of authentic joy or self-pleasure.

"If it's not fun, you're not doing it right."  I've been doing a lot of things wrong for a very long time.  There's something to be said for experimentation and trying all kinds of different things.  But there's also the case where you keep getting results that keep pushing you in certain directions, as uncomfortable as those may be.  Eventually, it's hard to deny.  Empiricism's a bitch.