Tagged: love

My love

I think he raped me.
Twice now in the month and a half that I know him.
But I dont know. I can’t be sure. Did I agree to this? Was this my fault?
Yet I message him to apologize for “freaking out “. He says its “ok”. I say I’m embarrassed for literally running away from him and immediately to the bathroom where I barely make the toilet with my vomit. I’m embarrassed because when he tried to touch me, my body curled into a ball shaking, I again ran. Right out of the house and down the street. Hyperventilating. Repeating over and over again what just happened in my mind. He drags me back and throw me in the shower and washes my body down and then throws me a towel and then goes home.
I’m in the middle of a flashback and the next thing I know. He’s beating me repeatedly with the whip. I put out my hands and yell stop. He restrains me. Puts his hand over my mouth.
He’s hitting me harder. Fucking me like I’m a piece of garbage. Calling me a whore. And that’s what I am right now. Not a human. My tears turn him on and he gets harder.
We’ve played these games before… but this feels different. His hands hold my wrists. Tears are streaming down my face and I keep pleading with him to please stop.
He goes harder. I freeze up and curl myself into a ball. He rips my hands and feet apart and again restrains them. He enters me again.
He’s harder now. There is nothing loving about this action. My pain and fear is clearly turning him on.
I close my eyes and just wait for him to cum. When he rolls off me and to my side, I wait. Until he is distracted, and I run. I am naked. I don’t have my glasses. I don’t have my phone. Where do I go. He’s in my house. My phone is beside him.
The first time it happened, I said I didn’t want to do anal. I said time and time again, I wasn’t feeling like it. My stomach was hurting and I was in a triggered and panicked mood already. But it didn’t matter. When I went to push his hands away, he just restrained me. And forced his way in my ass. It tightened up. Dry. Not relaxed. He forced his way in and I wind up bleeding from a tear for the next two days.
We said we’d come up with safe words. But we didn’t because we had never needed them before tonight, even though we’d played this way before. He always sensed my feelings and stopped before I felt worried. We’d start to discuss options for words and be on each other before we’d find one.

I said I liked it rough. Because I do. I said I liked when he whipped me or fucked my ass. Because I did.
Is it my fault? Did I not set clear enough boundaries? Did he not speak and understand english well enough? I can’t be sure of anything. He was very sorry he said. He said before you have said no and fake cry. I think this is the same. I’m sorry. And I think he meant it. He has been good to me.
So the next day. I call him again. We do the plans like we had already scheduled and we move into the next day of this “relationship” that I am in now I guess. Where I somehow gave up all my boundaries. All my rules to keep myself safe.
Even though my entire adult life thus far had been polyamorous. Now. I can fuck no one but him. He can fuck anyone. He can read my texts whenever he wants. And he does. He erases contacts and conversations he doesn’t “like” from my phone because they stress me. He takes good care of me.
Is it strange that he makes me feel both incredibly safe and incredibly broken at the same time?
So today is like any other. Except the pain when I sit or move. The welts forming across my back, ass, and thighs. The bruising already blackened in sizes larger than my fists. The foggy head full of doubt.
But we go on like nothing happened different last night than any other. Like it was just some disagreement we had over something minor. And maybe it is. I can’t be sure. I can’t trust my own emotions anymore. I can’t rely on my own memory. Was this a flashback that I blended into reality in a dissociative state, or did it really happen? I don’t even know anymore.
I am just a whore. A piece of garbage. So it doesn’t matter either way.

My reminders of lessons on prayer and gratitude (or the land acknowledgement I wish I had done)

A thank you to my sisters, those feminine spirits, regardless of their parts, who hold their fellow sisters high and remind us of our better natures. Nia:wen (nya. Wen). Miigwitch. tshinashkumitin (shin-ash-coo-mah-tin). Naqurmiik. (Nak-urm-eek). Wela’lin (well. Law. Lynn.)
If I could speak the languages of all your mother tongues, I would tell you that I thank you for the support you give in your communities. Noticing when another needs some love or care and offering that love through food. Through words. Through medicines, sharing, and personal wisdom. Through being the nutrients that nourishes the world around them. You harness the energy of light and carry within your extremities gifts you may not even fully appreciate until they are consumed. To those sisters who haven’t yet learned that success is only true if we are all succeeding, that a tree without a forest cannot stand, that our sisters are our roots who help ground us to our reality, and that roots communicate to share their plenty, sending water and nutrients to those around them, helping new life to grow so that we can all make it through, taller ones shading those who still burn in the sun, and listening to the beat that flows through the water in our veins and the music of our hearts. I know you sometimes feel jealousy and pain that your foliage is not as tall or straight or green, and that this manifests itself in ways that you can not always control. Remember that you are strong. You are beautiful. That flowers will bloom and leaves will bud and fall, even if the fruit is not ready to bear. You have made it through this far despite the storms that have passed, ripping you from your place, time and time again. Your roots will weather this disruption once more and re-balance each time so that what grows above in the coming years is more hearty and able to survive the future. More able to tolerate the fruits only pain, growth, and stability can provide. And the fruit may not be sweet this year, too bitter and withered for human eyes, but remember that the sweetest fruit can bloom full once again, with proper care and soil. I pray that you can join a network of roots who will support you when you’ve fallen. Who will nourish you in your growth, and share the song in your heart and the beat in the water that flows within you. That you remember that the crooked trees are the best to mark the way, and can still grow to full peak despite bends formed in all  directions. That they can still thrive through rocks or soil determined to keep them down.

A thank you to the grandmothers and grandfathers, aunties and uncles. The Elders who carry wisdom and ways of life that would otherwise be forgotten. And to those who bore the worst burden of our community’s pain. To those who made it through, despite the stack of time against them. And those who suffered some times violently from legacies of winds and shifts who sought to erase their very being, remoulded them to shapes barely recognizable in their new form. To those who faced the depth of those scars from their own family members or community, and have carved those lessons into the next generations through their fiery rage, I hear the shame you sometimes feel, and want you to know that it is not yours to bear alone. You cannot unmove the stone that has been turned, but you have the ability to hold up the land by your very being. The resilience to make it through. To be the strength of the world as many step upon your back. The blood memory of your ancestors that you have formed into your kin. Ages of pressure pushing against you to the point of volcanic explosion, the truth of the depths and violence sometimes spewing out from down below, but in the process, new continents will grow ideas that can flourish once the heat subsides. I thank you for the sacrifice you took so that we could make it through the landslides that nearly erased us off the map, so that we could still know our stories by the valleys carved into your backs. I pray that the wind and pressure does not break you but rather shapes more stable platforms where we can plant new seeds that have absorbed the wisdom of your soils through time, so that we may all survive the coming winds and that we recognize and respect its effect on you by the lines drawn in your surface.

To the brothers, those masculine spirits made up of many minerals in many different ways, rocks that are living and full of spirit, despite their tough exterior, who stand against the crashing waves, day after day, I see your goodness and minerals worn down to sand and spread across a million miles of polluted oceans. I know the shell you may have created to protect you from the emotions that feel as if they could break you if you let them in, a small crack that could soon lead to shatter. That everyone depends on you, needs you to stand strong when you are tired. And that expectations have been put on you to be of a certain composition. That boys don’t cry, or so some have been told, but know that tears are sometimes the medicine your body knows to take and that when it flows freely, it’s telling you that you have missed your last dosage. That sometimes the rocks may break, but that they can form the moon if given atmosphere to breathe. The burden can seem overwhelming, but know that I have seen the soft sides you give when we are all alone. The vulnerability you show when you have the trust of the waters that will not judge your jagged shape, but smooth your sides through hearing your cries. I see the value of the place where the water resides, inside you, waiting to find it’s way out. These are not flaws. You do not have to hide it in your core. Softer parts deep inside sometimes form the gems that shines the brightest when cracked under pressure. Know that you are good enough and that you don’t have to prove your worth to those who would crack you open in greed and value only the part of you that they feel worthy. That I see your strength and softness and love both equally when they appear. I pray that you are able to find peace, in peace. That the scattered pieces of you find their way across the ocean to one day form a new whole. That you can lean on the sands beside you, building strength in numbers formed together over time, each grain unique and capable of building beauty for larger purpose.
To those who have the spirits of the world combined in ways that don’t make sense to the turn of the regular seasons. Know that the spirits of all those before lay inside us all, but that some are too afraid to hear. Sometimes we live in times of ice or fire, move into new eras of greatness and wane, but that slight variation of normality can be the bridge that previously couldn’t be passed. You are never understood in your own time, often seen as something different, to be feared because a lack of understanding of your direction. Only seen in history as the push necessary for the evolution of our souls and not appreciated until the full results are revealed. I pray that you are seen not as a destruction of the norm, but a reminder that sometimes it takes others getting wet before one can walk across the water, and that we can’t all be blessed with your holy gifts. That you see that you are necessary to disrupt the lull and that you will be loved and valued in time as the force that ensures creativity is never stifled. That someone will see your value and your worth, even if it seems only eternity is on your side.
To the Ancestors, the wind that blows across us gently, and whispers to us when we think we are alone. To the animals that call to us or come when we most need them. I hear your words and try to make sense of their scrambled messages that reveals to us what’s coming before it is too late. Who guide us on our journey and takes pride in helping us move in new ways, even when we can’t always see your grand design. I pray we follow your speed and the direction you push us, even when it’s tough to steer our sails and trust the waves are there for us to follow, if only we can read the signs.
I thank the seeds of the next generations. The young ones who wait in the cold soil until the spring when a new day will dawn. They will tell our stories, as we whisper the winds into their dreams. I pray we have leveled the ground beneath their feet, and nurtured the soils that feed their souls. And that we have done enough to root them in our grandfathers so that they can grow tall and strong, that they can know the beat inside their heart and the water that pumps through every vessel in their bodies, cleansing their souls with each breathe.
I thank the pieces of this world, this land, and all of those who’ve shaped it. I thank the nutrients of the soil, the foods, and the waters that give us life.
I thank the new steps on each shore for the lessons they teach, for those who don’t know the seasons of this climate, but respect those who have stepped here first and keep their sacred commitment to hear the grandfathers’ ways, those who listen to the lessons of the many seasons that came before. I pray that they take the time to learn each quay or coast, each line that tells a history fossilized in time for their education. I pray they can remember that they were given two ears and only one mouth for a reason, and that they listen twice as hard. That they follow the contours of the land and path that lay before them, instead of blazing their way through. I pray that they see that these ways, are all our ways, separated in the far directions and some more lost to their way home. That they are Indigenous somewhere and must read the land to hear its truth. I pray that they can find their roots and share in the bounty that our mothers’ provide.
I thank this legacy that I may not fully understand and recognize, or always articulate in clear ways, that no matter how long I learn, there’s always a new teacher behind every mountain and to be humbled by the lessons that I may not see until I clear the peak.
Nia:wen. Miigwitch. Thank you… For this gratitude that keeps me whole. For the earth that keeps on spinning, for the sun and the moon in the sky, and the water that still pumps deep inside my veins. Today, I am still alive, and I am grateful for this day.

Not enough

I think I accidentally fell into a relationship.

I wasn’t looking and it snuck up on me.

We met and it’s great. He’s fun. He’s sexy. He’s witty. And I like him. A lot.

But this is not what I wanted. I don’t want to be committed. I don’t want to be tied down to just one person ever again. I don’t want him thinking I want just him and only him. I don’t want to hurt anybody either.

We’ve known each other nearly 20 days and spent 12 of those together. It’s too much. He texts me every day. Calls me. Part of me feels smothered. Part of me loves the attention and love. And I love the time we spend together. I am happy. I forget about the pain. I feel giddy and girlish and good.

Today he asked me if I would come on an adventure with him. Hitch-hike south like when I was young and go on an extended journey across several countries. See where the road takes us. It was kind of a beautiful thing and so directly up my alley…

I admit, it was tempting. But it also freaked the fuck out of me.

We’ve known each other just 20 days. That’s not enough to just take off and go on a several month’s adventure together. That’s not enough to be this close. He’s soo much of that internal checklist, but it’s still not enough.

I have been seeing two other people for a long time now. One of them for almost seven years off and on. I’m not ready to give that up. I don’t know if I ever will. Each person gives me a different aspect. A different intelligence. A different companionship. A different kind of love. Maybe I’m just greedy. Or maybe my heart has been broken too badly to ever give it away again, but it’s just something I can’t see wanting again.

He doesn’t seem to mind in the beginning and says he’s ok with polyamory, but then asks about my other partners and gets this look on his face like he cares. A lot. Like he just might throw up when I start to speak. He asks too many questions about them. He wants to know everything about them. He wants to know where he stands, whether he’s a better lover. A better friend. Whether I tell them the same things I tell him. I want to say, I’ve spent 12 of the 20 days with you, but this will likely taper off. I will get bored. You will no longer seem so exciting and interesting and my eyes will start wandering. I wish it wasn’t true, but the past doesn’t lie. I tend towards intense passionate relationships of this nature. I love being with you, but it’s not enough. But how does one say this without hurt when we are taught from childhood that each has their soul-mate? That that special someone will be enough and you just aren’t it.

When I bring him up with friends, their first response is “oh, you’re in love. You guys are going to get married” and all the stupid commitment things that “normal” folk do. I say no.

I’m not normal.

I don’t want that.

I want him to like me. Love me even. And I want to love him back. But it’s not enough for me. One man is just not enough.

Why can’t they ever understand that?

I can love and be in love with more than one person. I don’t have to get married and be in a committed relationship to be happy. I don’t have to have that one person.

I wish it was socially acceptable for women to have a harem of men.

Is it love?

Is it love?

I haven’t felt this way since him. My one true love.

That first lightning bolt to knock me off my feet.

The way he talks. The way he is. The way he looks at me.

His casual wit that leaves me laughing.

The instant rapport.

His eyes shining bright, staring into me. Seeing the pain and not pitying me.

I told him about the war last night.

The first time I’ve truly shared some things that happened.

The first time I’ve truly opened up about the worst pain. Why I can’t love my first love anymore. Why I can’t look him in the face without pain.

He held me. Told me I was brave. That what happened, shouldn’t have happened.

That the monsters are far behind me.

That he will protect me from their shadows.

His arms around me, I almost believe him.

Violence smiolence.

I don’t even care anymore.

Fuck it all. Out of my head.

Memories can fade.

Time can heal.

I’m falling in love. Well, lust.

Today I’m giddy. So fuck the past.

He fucks me right and so he can stay.

That’s all that really matters in the end.

I just want more.

Makes the time pass more quickly.

Makes the pain seem less.

Makes the future seem more bright.

Come on baby, stay the night.

I might want more in the morning.

Continue reading →

Lust and love

I tend to fall in “love” too quickly though I’ve only ever truly been in love once in my life.

Lust and love sometimes intermingle in my brain. If he can fuck me right, my heart soon follows, and the rest of the flaws are forgotten.

Like most women, I’ve long had an internal checklist of the things that would make a man “perfect” for me. The particularities and quirks that I find most appealing.

Out of nowhere, he seemed to appear. This viking/lumberjack in scruffy armour ready to sweep me off my feet (we’ve all got our types). This man who meets every item on that internal list. “Love” in the strangest of places.

First sight was a double take. Extreme attraction. Wow. Sparks flying.

Then the smooth and almost instantaneous rapport of long-time friends, followed by one of the best nights and best first encounters in my life. Talking long into the evening. Making fun of each other for our quirks. Telling each other our secrets. Making sweet passionate love to each other all morning long.

Then three long visits in three days, he came to visit me. I can’t believe the connection. The conversations. The instant trust.

I am as giddy as a school girl and unable to stop smiling thinking about him.

It scares the living daylights out of me.

Part of me wants to block his number and pretend it never happened, I never met him; while the other is insanely screaming– text the boy! Phone him! Hang out with him again!

I don’t want to rush into anything, so today I ignore him. It’s just your hormones. It’s just your loneliness. Take it easy.

It seems fate knows when to dish these things out to me to fuck me up the most.

The day after I met him, the best friend of my ex-husband O called in a desperate state. He had never called me before and he was calling from overseas at a hefty price.

J is hurting. He needs you. Everything is falling apart here. He keeps telling me how much he misses you and loves you. You’re all he talks about. He desperately wants you to be his wife, but feels like all he does is hurt you and so is staying away to try and protect you. You have to come back here. You have to come back here. He needs you and you need him.

I haven’t even talked to him in more than a month O. He won’t even return my texts or calls anymore. We’re no longer friends.

You asked him not to. You told him if he ever loved you to leave you alone, no matter what.

Yes. I did, I replied.

How can he write you or call you back then? O asks me.

It seems convenient timing for all this.

Does he only want me now because I said I don’t want him in my life anymore? Wanting what he can’t have? Distance making the heart fonder? We’ve been on this back and forth roller coaster for years. He was my best friend.

I’m soo conflicted.

He was the love of my life. The man I fell head over heels for instantaneously. The man I have soo much history with. What am I supposed to do– just drop everything and run half way across the world to be with him once again when he doesn’t even return my messages? What do I do when I get there? What if O is wrong? What if it’s just lonely talk of a man in trouble?

And now. Someone who I felt that same kind of spark with. The same feeling of familiarity. Of knowing. Of being. Has come into my life unexpectedly. Maybe it will become something, and maybe I will get bored with him after a month. Do I just push that aside for a love that has already repeatedly spurned me?

I can’t go back to him. I know in my head, rationally, that I can’t go back to him, but the thought won’t leave my head. He is your husband. You love him. You want to be with him. He is my one true weakness.

Oh God, what did I do?

I promised to be strong and that faded at the thought of you.

You and I were once so close, we would stumble over each other’s words.

Now we’re two distant poles rotating in opposite directions.

I miss you.

I know you miss me too.

I keep trying to connect, but you ignore my messages. Ignore my calls. Ignore my existence.

I know it’s what I said I wanted, but I lied.

All I want is you.

All I need is you.

All I’m missing is you.

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I feel so disconnected. Disjointed. Dislocated.

Lost from the everyday, work-a-day, livelihood.

 

Seeking intimacy in the least intimate of places.

Rejecting the familiar and throwing habit to the wind.

 

No response. No cares. No love.

Lost.

Floating in Ecstasy without you. Waiting.

 

The tears.

I feel the piece of you still scarred on me.

Burned forever on my flesh.

Every time I look down at it, reminded.

 

Magnetic pull. Attraction of desire. Of familiarity. Of comfort.

Of knowing I don’t have to tell you.

Of knowing you will just know.

That I am broken and you are my glue. The shattered pieces scattered across the floor.

 

Put them together again.

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