Friday, November 9, 2012

and now for our regularly scheduled programming

So, I've had a hard time writing lately because there's so much that I don't feel 100% comfortable sharing on this blog. Not because of my readers, but because of family or acquaintances from my past who may be judgmental or gossipy. I worry a lot about what would happen if someone were to find this blog and tell my parents about it.

I mean, I've told them about it. At some point, before I started sharing personal stuff that went against their beliefs, I even gave my dad the link. But, clueless as he can oftentimes be, he lost it, and my secrets have been safe.

That said, I have relatives who are friends with me on Facebook, and my blog used to feed directly onto my Facebook. My greatest fear is that someone will decide that it's their business to gossip to my parents.

This used to happen to me all the time as a kid. Obviously, it made more sense then. But, if you knew me, it didn't. See, telling my parents just drove me to hide things more. They were the worst people to tell. Now, it really doesn't matter what they know or how they'll react because I can leave. I have a safe place. I should own up to everything I don't want to tell them because it would make me stronger. . 

But I'd rather not. I'm a pussy. I don't want judgement, or tears, or talks, or having to get mad at them, or having to try to reason with them, or getting up and exercising my right to leave. It makes things messy.

I am my mother's lifeline. I hate it. But, I can honestly say that she very well might die with out me. Like, if I were to say, "hey, mom, you kind of fucked my life up a lot and I hate how you excuse it by saying that everyone makes mistakes", and then I left, she'd curl up on the couch and probably never move. I hope I'm exaggerating. I might be making this up. But I have seen her fall apart and I have heard her tell me that I will be the death of her, and that I will cause her heart to stop and her mind to break too many times to dismiss her words. 

So, to recap, I am terrified of my parents finding out about my blog and "you like girls?" "you smoke weed?" "you hate us?". . But, that said, it's really hard for me to not say what's on my heart. And there's a lot on my heart.

This blog is sort of my sounding board. I love it when people read it but I would keep writing if no one saw it but me. This is how I straighten my ideas out. This is how the clusterfuck tumbleweed that is my brain starts unraveling. I get stuck when I can't blog about things. 

So, for my own sort of peace of mind, I'm going to offer a disclaimer here: If you don't want to read about my fuckedupness, leave. If you're related to me, you do not want to be reading this. Why would you even be here in the first place? This is the corner of Bad Childhood and WTF Boulevard. If you decide this makes good gossip and I hear about it, then karma. Don't fuck with it. Also, I might just fucking decide to go all Kali witchy on you and if I do, it will not be pretty. 

I've been debating writing this blog for about a year and a half. Forgive me if I stall or repeat myself.

Lately I've been feeling broken. Abnormal. Even unfixable. I see the world and how it reacts to things and I feel so far removed. I don't/can't enjoy sex. 

Let me pause a moment and elaborate on how fucking embarrassed this makes me feel. As I mentioned, it makes me feel broken, but to make matters worse it's not a normal type of broken. When I was depressed or suicidal or had an eating disorder I guess I subconsciously took some sort of solace in the fact that this was normal. . At least for people my age. It wasn't that wierd. But this is. 

I sat on the exam table at my gynecologist and tried and tried to figure out some way to mention it offhandedly or even grow the balls to mention it straight up, but instead I just made small talk and told her that next time she should take me out to dinner first.

I pride myself in being an open book to pretty much anyone but my parents, people who tell my parents things, and my relatives. Anything. Seriously. Rape? Cutting? The shame I felt while binging? I find that the less secrets I have the less complicated life is. I also find that it opens people up to me and allows them to feel more comfortable asking for help or relating their own horror, or not horror, stories.

But this is haaaaaard. This is the first time I've really had to force myself to share. 

I'm not going to get into the details, because that's fucking weird, but it's forced JP and I to take a step back. Before we even started talking about marriage, we knew that we had backed ourselves up into a corner, and the only steps were to take the exit door or fight the Orc with the bulging forehead veins. So, we're at this point where we're fighting for our relationship. We're either going to fix our problems and start fucking like bunnies and get married, or we're going to take a step back in our relationship, at least for a period of time.

This has caused me a lot of anxiety. I realize that there's really no way out of this. I also realize that it isn't either of our faults. But it breaks my heart because my romantic, air balloon dreams of the pre-engagement, engagement and wedding period of my life have turned into this weird, awkward ultimatum. 

Sometimes I think we're being too intense. I've had people tell me that sex isn't everything, and I wholeheartedly agree! But, promising to be with someone for 80 years without an orgasm is daunting. There are greater women than me out there, obviously, because I couldn't do it. I would try, and I would, but after a few years I would get bitter and frustrated and we'd end up leaving each other anyways. 

We're young. And though we're each others best friends, partners, confidantes, and are always there for each other, there has to be more than that. At least for me. . .

I've struggled a lot about why I don't enjoy sex. I started going back to counseling, and ultimately have been dragging JP with me every week. There has been some talk of going from a regular ole grad-student-in-psych-interning-at-the-local-health-department to a full fledged sex therapist. 

There have been theories tossed around, from plain jane trust issues to remnants of sexual abuse to the weird way my parents raised me and how they completely refused to tell me that humans are sexual beings. Who knows what caused it? All I know it sucks really, really huge balls.

Now, the fact that this makes me feel abnormal and broken does not mean I'm depressed. I mean, yes, I am depressed about this certain topic, but for the first time in my life I am dealing with a major problem and not letting it control my entire view and way of life. 

I am fine. I enjoy life. I'm happy. I laugh, and play with Willow, and absolutely annihilate JP at Mario Kart on the '64. There are nights when I feel really, really sad and really, really broken. But overall, it's just a bump in the road. I finally feel like I know myself well enough that I am confident that I will beat the living shit out of this problem. I've been through worse. 

So, now that that's over, enjoy this not depressing picture:

You're welcome.

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