Letting it all out.

How’s this for a thought? Perhaps the reason why I contunually get into relationships where I give more than that I receive is because I constantly feel like whoever it is I love is going to leave unless I give them everything I possibly can.

I think in a way that’s where this obsession with polyamory and open relationships comes from, where the initial moment with the Big Love happened. I just don’t feel like I can keep people I love. It’s fucked. I have loved so many people who simply took my love and walked away (well, 5 but that’s still a pretty big number). So I guess my reaction to that has been to give more than the other person could possibly expect, so that they won’t leave. But in doing that I’m hurting myself. I deserve to be loved. I deserve to have someone who loves me, not because I unselfishly give them everything they need but because they love me. For who I am. I am a good person. I’m intelligent. I’m pretty fucking strong in many ways. I’m just too fucking unselfish and that unselfishness doesn’t come from a good place; it comes from a place that feels like unless I’m constantly giving all that I can, unless I’m making someone else happy, they’re going to walk away from me. And that’s totally fucked.

I’m so confused. I’m the most ridiculously bipolar person at the moment. And it’s because I don’t really want to listen to myself. I don’t like the parts that are telling me that I hurt. I ignore those parts. I seem to be able to ignore the bits that tell me that I am enough on my own, that I deserve to love myself, because you can never really love anyone else fully if you don’t love yourself. All that happens in those situations is that someone gets hurt. Usually me. And I expect it now. It’s like I expect to get hurt, I expect people to leave me. Too many times have I invested myself completely in someone who has up and walked away. No notice, no explanations. Just left. And the fucked up part is that so many of those situations have come about with people who I know still loved me when they left. But they walked away anyhow, and I had no power over it. But trying to keep those people in my life by allowing them to see only the happy bubbly side of myself, and futhermore giving them free-reign on anything they want, anything I can give them is purely self-destructive behaviour. How is it that I can repeatedly allow myself to get into situations where I give more than I am given? And it’s not a matter of taking, because I don’t want to take. I just need to know that what I am giving is being reciprocated. I need to feel valuable, and not just because I’m generous. I need to know that I’m appreciated because I’m a great person, because I’m the person that they want to spend time with. It’s a fucked up feedback loop that I create myself. I give so much so that I can make sure that the person in my life wants to be with me, but then I feel like the only reason they want to be with me is because I give so much, so in order to keep them in my life I just have to go on giving. It’s fucked. Totally and utterly and truly fucked up.

I hate to sound like the cheesy self-help type, but I guess the only way to get out of this cycle is to learn to love myself. I need to give more of my love to myself than to anyone else. That’s one of the biggest mistakes I’ve been making, and it’s something I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember. I can’t remember a time when I haven’t had an object of affection onto which I can pour my love. Whether is was a best friend or a partner, I’ve always had someone who I’ve taken care of, feeling like my life is more meaningful because I’m making theirs better. But that’s a totally masochistic way of thinking, because inevitably in all of those relationships I end up losing, becoming emotionally drained, lacking in resources. Plus, the person in question becomes accustomed to receiving more than they deserve, per se, and then expect it. But it’s hurting me and I shouldn’t be giving it and not getting any back because that’s not how things work. I need to keep some of that nurturing energy for myself, or like now, I’m going to end up massively fucking hurt. And confused. And messy. And telling myself the most ridiculous lies so that I can continue along this path of self-destruction.

BAH!

So I don’t really know what to do. Thinking about all of this stuff is totally draining, but at the same time, ignoring the issues is not really an option right now. I’m completely emotionally erratic. Shit, all you need to do is read over this blog. I sound like a textbook manic depressive. One day I’m flying and happy and everything is amazing, and then next I’m fucking cutting myself and wanting to crawl into a little hole. But this is avoidable. I just need to stop looking for attention in all the wrong places, and I need to start expecting the love that I give out to be returned to me. It’s not a one way street. I’m not going to be this amazing, selfless, fun person who makes you feel good all the time, who strokes you when you feel shit, and then just suck it up and accept the fact that you’re not willing to give back. Fuck that. I’m much stronger than that. I’m not going to just sit by and let other people drain me for my resources, and then tell me on the odd occasion when I ask for something in return, that I’m used to getting things my way and that I’m spoiled. I’m not used to getting things my way. Yes, when I ask for things people external to my life, people I’m not intimately involved with often do give me a lot. But shouldn’t the people receiving my love and affection be the ones reciprocating, the ones who make me feel like I am fucking special and that they’re lucky to have me in their lives and not just the other way around?

I guess in a big way it’s a matter of control. I feel out of control, especially in terms of relationships that I have and have had in my life. Unfortunately it stems back to issues of abandonment from when I was super young with my grandmother, and I can’t ever change the way that things went then. What I can accept now, however, is that after she turned her back on us, she didn’t fucking deserve my love any more. I need to learn to take my love away. I have done it a few times — not many, and usually not without prompting, but there have been situations after unfortunately extended periods of giving way too much and receiving nothing in return that I’ve revoked that free access to my stores of love and happiness and positive energy. I need to learn to do that more frequently, to stop feeling like once I’ve given my love to someone that I can’t take it back. I need to learn that it’s okay to feel bad and to ask for something in return. And most of all, it’s okay to say no. It’s okay to say that something doesn’t feel right, and you know what? If you’re not happy with this, then fuck you because that’s the way I feel. I am enough. I am more than enough, and I don’t deserve to believe that people will always look elsewhere because I can’t fulfill them. If they are looking elsewhere it’s because they aren’t whole people of their own right. It was not my fault that I couldn’t keep the Big Love’s attention. It’s not my fault that he fucking cheated on me. It’s his. He did that because of a part of himself that couldn’t ever feel satisfied with what he had. And I should have been strong enough back then to just turn around and say fuck you. That’s never going to happen again. Instead, I fucking sacrificed my own happiness because I believed that his happiness was more important than my own, integral to my own. But it’s not. The only person who can actually make me happy is me, and until I learn how to be happy with myself, until I learn to listen to myself, to my intuition, to my emotions, to the nagging voices way inside there who occasionally whisper to me, and every now and then start yelling about how unhappy I’m making myself, it’s never going to change.

I have this determined desire to find love, to feel loved, but how can I ever find true love if I don’t even love myself? That’s not love that I’m looking for, it’s attention, it’s a desire to feel fulfilled by someone else because I don’t seem to be capable of feeling fulfilled myself. Except that I’ll never be fulfilled by someone else’s love until I start taking my own. Ack. Not easy. Actually ridiculously difficult. I’m so emotionally drained after thinking about all of this that there’s no way I’m going to get the work done that I’m meant to. But I can’t ignore my own happiness, so fuck it. I have to stop feeling like I deserve to feel this way. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve just allowed myself to get to a place where I stopped believing that I’m enough in and of myself. Funny part is how much better I feel now that I’ve got this out. I mean, I have no idea whether or not I’m actually going to change my behaviour, but now that I recognize it a little better, I can be more aware of the way I react to situations in my life. Most pertinently situations that are staring me in the face right now, but I’ve been too scared to really approach. To ask the questions that are important — of myself and others. Because fuck, if the people who I love don’t feel like I am enough for them, then they can go screw themselves, because I damn well should be enough. If you love me and want me to be with you, then you have to give me as much as I’m giving you. And it’s not your fault that things thus far are the way they are, because it took me up until today to recognize why I’ve been feeling so weird and down lately, but I do recognize it now. I want to be loved, for real. I want to feel like you want to be with me more than you want to be with anyone else, and if you don’t? Well, then we can’t do this any more because I’m too good to be secondary to someone else’s whims. I’m sick of allowing myself to be a fucking doormat. This ends here and now.

mmmmmmm

I just ate so much meat I think I’m going to have a heart attack. My body is really confused. It doesn’t know whether to be happy because it just consumed more of it’s share of bloody carnage than it should it a month, or if it’s terrified that I’m going to put it through the mortification that is digesting ten different types of meat ever again. I’m buzzing and falling asleep all at once. I can actually feel my heart struggling to beat.

It was an awesome time. It’s Hot Asian Girl’s birthday. Surprise party. She turned red like she her enzyme-lacking relatives when she walked into the room. And then she turned around and pretended to leave. That combination of happiness because all of her friends were sitting in a room watching her blush, and hatred of all said friends for lying to her for weeks about the party she had no idea was going to happen. Awesome.

Long fucking day. So much school. Can’t wait for the program to be over, actually. I’m starting to get pretty excited about the prospect of a summer here. Scantily clad ladies, mid-afternoon sangria drinking, bike rides, stoned hikes, partying my ass off. And working on documentaries. Sweeeeet. Need to get my guitar back in order (broken string) and teach Emo how to play his, so we can sit on our balcony like the lame Plateau-dwelling wannabe hipsters we are, and play Indie rock songs and make fun of all the scenesters walking past. Then I’ll cry myself to sleep for letting Emo influence my life so much. Ha ha.

Oh, and then on Sundays I can walk to the mountain and go to tam tams by myself, all stoned, and dance like a freaky hippie with bare feet and a little pixie dress on. That’s the shit. There are so many amazing things about this city in the summer time. Running across the Champlain bridge, and along the South Shore, purposely going out in a thunderstorm so I can yell at the top of my lungs as I make my way back over the Victoria bridge feeling like a fucking demon.

God, I can’t wait for this snow to melt.

Finding my way back

I’ve been sitting on my ass writing all day. So much so that my ass actually hurts. Well, it’s more numbness than pain, but I can’t really imagine being one of those people who does this all the time. I understand why people’s bottoms get larger. It’s because they’re spreading out from the need for greater surface area.

The piece I was working on is about the man. I actually wrote it twice, which was a good process to go through but slightly annoying. Thank god for my music critic writer friend who’s been a fantastic help today. He’s damn good. Goes to show that practice perfects.

I’m feeling much better today. The sun was shining, and despite my seclusion in the house, I felt really rather good about things. I managed to get the desired work done. I didn’t end up talking to or seeing the guy I used to work with who wants to sleep with me but with whom I have decided I do not want to sleep. Emo and I went for dinner and chatted about the things that are great to talk about — relationships and tattoos — could there be anything better? I don’t know. It was just a pretty solid day. If I had gone to yoga it would have been perfect. My aims to be kinder to myself are being fulfilled.

New thoughts on life? Always. The walking contradiction that I am feels more comfortable now that I have accepted the fact that my desire for promiscuity has been abandoned. I don’t really feel like it’s me. I mean, hooking up every now and then with friends or people who I don’t have a really crazy connection with is all good and well, but it’s not something I want to do often. I do want love and fireworks and all that. And that doesn’t come when you’re just seeking validation by spending time with someone simply because they want to spend time with you.

I had a really wonderful moment this afternoon, smoking a cigarette out of the kitchen window, the sun shining on my face, the air not so cold that the sun didn’t warm me. I was thinking about the man and our friendship, relationship, whatever you want to call it. It’s cool because it’s all about mutual caring. I care deeply about him. I want him to be happy. I know that he feels really protective of me. Wants me to be okay. I don’t know where love comes into it, but it’s not like conventional romantic love — I mean, it’s not passion and that fervent jealous kind of love. It’s just nice. We have a great time. We care. Well, I certainly do, and he certainly seems to.

I just hope that things continue this way. Us hanging out, having fun, being silly. I feel like I’ve learned so much from him, am constantly learning things from him. He’s always buzzing, a million thoughts a minute. It’s quite incredible to watch him sometimes — it’s like I can see all of the thoughts spinning around in his head. I wonder if it’s ever been quiet in there? Ideally, one night this week we will just chill and watch a movie. We’ll see. If I get my work done like a good girl.

What’s up with that?

Someone was trying to fuck with me. It totally blows my mind that there’s someone who would go to the trouble of creating an email address in my name so that they could send the Catalyst an email telling him to read my blog (entitled with no less subject than “______ is all grown up”), but whatever they thought they were doing it didn’t work. It was the day after my posts about the foursome — clearly calculated. But who? It’s totally weird. There are so few people who actually know that I write this on a pretty consistent basis. And the few people who have the url aren’t people I’d believe would actually try to mess with my life. The stupid thing is that he’s had the link since things were really good with us — he could have been reading it the whole time. He wasn’t because as he said this evening when I told him that I didn’t feel good about us he stopped reading it (he’s such a cutie — said that he didn’t want to be reading about my life until he was a part of it again). But really, who the hell would do something like that? It’s just weird. I didn’t think that anyone out there disliked me that much.

Anyhow, that’s not really important. I’m over it. It’s weird, but I’m not going to go around chasing it.

This weekend has been a pretty intense emotionally. I had a really awful day on Saturday. I just felt really emotionally drained and couldn’t really figure out why. Then I spent time talking to Big Love (he made me feel a whole lot better) and then today I went for brunch with an old friend and talked for ages. And tonight I talked with the Catalyst, and that felt really good. What I’ve realised is that I was trying to convince myself that I was someone who I don’t really think I am. I’m trying to be all sexually open and free, when in actual fact what I want is so be loved. I have a weird thing about attention. I acknowledge this. But the answer is not to go around getting it from whoever is willing to give it. I need to cultivate the important relationships in my life. I’ve never wanted to just have sex for the sake of it. I want to have connections, spend time with people I love. None of this momentary ego stroking nonsense.

I’m going to stop here. I’m super tired and have a long day ahead of me. I feel much better now that I’ve figured a few more things out. I accept and acknowledge that I’m a walking contradiction. But that’s okay. I’m still learning to listen to myself. It’s easier said than done. Really.

Fine lines

Sometimes I really wonder about myself. I have this incredible ability to convince myself of things. Accordingly, when I’m feeling good, everything in my life is great, I’m making all the right choices and I feel invincible. When I’m feeling bad, then everything in my life is wrong, and I’m going about everything ass backwards.

Thing is, it’s not as easy as all that. I need to keep this in perspective. I have no idea what I’m doing. Of course I’m going to have good days and bad days. It’s not possible to be happy all the time, nor would I want to be. Happiness would lose it’s meaning if it were ever present.

I don’t really know what I’m doing with this relationship thing. I’ve been trying to figure out if I’m really doing what I want to be doing. This is because of feeling low and wanting to attribute today’s shittiness to something.

Can I really have interactions with multiple people at the same time and feel fulfilled by it? I mean, is there a catch waiting for me? Boys generally seem to be keen on non-commitment. Some of them, at least. But where does this put closeness and connection? I think the problem comes up when they like me more. That’s what makes me feel bad most of the time anyhow. It’s never me. It’s kind of weird, but somehow I rarely find myself in situations where I’m the one who’s more into it (except for with the Catalyst, and that’s yet another reason why that relationship is still screwing with my head). With the Man, things seem pretty balanced. I think it’s because we started off talking about sex and relationships and what we wanted before things even got close to going in that direction. Plus, we do like one another a lot. I mean — as people. I like him a whole lot as a friend prior to any sexual stuff that gets thrown in the mix. Do I do feel like we’re pretty balanced. Obviously there are moments (like right now) when I’d kind of like to just hang out and cuddle because I’m feeling shitty, but I also know that he has other things going on, other plans, and I don’t want to be a damper on that. I’ll demand cuddles some other time.

But back to the other issue of liking people. The former co-worker Spanish guy I hung out with yesterday: I like him. He’s lots of fun. But I certainly don’t want to get involved with him. And his telling me that he really likes me has got under my skin. Granted, my response to that statement was that he’d better not like me too much. But you can never tell people not to like you too much and actually expect them to listen. Hey you! Don’t feel that way!  It doesn’t work.

Bah! I just want someone to cuddle right now. And not the Big Love. That’s counterproductive.

Mmm…masochist?

I think I may be getting in over my head. I need to be careful. There’s only so much of me, and if I start spreading myself I’m going to lose it.

I’m confused this morning. I’m getting emotionally involved with too many people. Or already am? I only realized now that I spent a large chunk of last night talking about the Big Love with the man’s best friend. I’m still so emotionally involved with him, I care so much, that I do worry, and I want what’s best for him. He’s in rough shape and I want to be able to help. Except that I need to be careful not to allow myself to go too far in that direction. As much as I want him to be happy, I can’t actually make him happy. It’s not my job anyhow. I resigned from that position last Fall.

I sent a message to the Catalyst the other day. I know I shouldn’t have. He just replied telling me that he hadn’t contacted me because he was giving me my space, as I had asked. Why did I contact him? Why am I still clinging to that? It makes me feel bad. I don’t feel like I can be myself with him, and yet I can’t let go. Am I really this masochistic? It’s totally fucked.

And now there are more people coming out of the woodwork. And I need to watch myself. I love spending time with people, having fun. I love getting to know people intimately. I mean, that’s just the way I work. I’ve always been a one-on-one kind of girl. But now I realize that I have to be really careful about who I spend how much time with.

The Man just pointed out that yes, it is bad to be emotionally involved with this many people and that I need closure. I need closure with the Big Love, I need closure with the Catalyst. I’m no longer in relationships with these people. It’s over. With the former, it can be possible. It’s just that there’s still a part of me that can’t let go of that closeness we have. I still love him so much. BUT I can see myself slipping. We have fun together, it’s comfortable, and I actually enjoy taking care of other people. Right now there isn’t anyone else in my life who needs my mothering. However, that’s no excuse for me to be going right back to the same pre-existing pattern. And I know that he doesn’t want mothering — at least on a conscious level. But he is still coming to me when he’s down, and I’m willingly helping him because I still love him. It’s not healthy. As much as I want to spend time with him, I really shouldn’t do it until he’s much stronger and I actually know what I’m doing. The fact that I can still say that he’s the best person I’ve spent time with in my life and the only person I’ve ever been able to imagine a long term future with makes it pretty clear that I’m not entirely past it. Yes, I love him. Yes,  we’re great friends. But no, I can’t allow myself to be as emotionally involved with him as I’m becoming again. It’s bad for me.

So on to the Catalyst. Why did I contact him again? Because I was curious? Am I over him? Not at all. Does anyone really kick an addiction? I think it’s mostly a matter of will power that keeps you away. And clearly I have less of that than I had hoped. Is it because of the way he says he feels about me? Because of the way he makes me feel? I get knotted up just thinking about him. Did I ever really love him, or was it just an obsession? But then there is the issue of closure. There wasn’t any. I told him I needed space, and he gave it to me. I think need to see him in the flesh to get past it. Sex? Maybe. That’s the worst part. I still really want to sleep with him.

I’m a masochist. Everything can be going amazingly in my life and yet I somehow seek out things to hurt me. So I can hurt myself.

It plays out differently in every relationship. At some times it’s more overt than at others. I think the way it’s revealing itself right now is far healthier than the underground ways of the past. I want to be hurt. So hurt my physically (with boundaries, obviously). But this emotional pain that I cause for myself is just so demented. The Catalyst makes me feel like shit, and so I gravitate toward him? How messed up is that? The Big Love is in rough shape, so I take his anguish into myself? What the hell am I doing?

Do I really enjoy feeling bad? Do I enjoy feeling jealously? Obviously I feel it. I mean, I care about the people I’m with. I really do care about the Man. I may believe that I’m not in any danger of falling in love with him, but falling in love and caring deeply for someone aren’t one and the same. I care very much for him. I don’t want him to get hurt. I don’t want to hurt him. And yet I sort of expect him to hurt me.

There’s this odd balance that we’ve started to maintain. Sometimes it’s sort of sweet and connected, sometimes it’s fucking intense, at other times almost like we’re nothing more than friends, and sometimes it just feels bad. But the times when it feels bad aren’t when we’re actually together. It’s only been good when we’re physically in one another’s presence. The times I feel bad are those moments when I consider him with someone else. Not physically — I don’t actually care about that. Emotionally. I don’t want to be unknowingly ousted. But whenever we talk about it, it’s pretty clear where we’re at. I think to an extent I actually relish the tension and fear. Part of me wants to get hurt, but the rest of me know that’s fucked up.

Falling into place

I’m feeling rather chipper right now. I just had an interview at a documentary production company for an internship in the summer and it went fantastically. Not only that, but the filming that’s going to be happening when I’m working for them will be on a series about Canadian writers, written by Canadian writers. Very much up my alley. (Yay!)

PLUS, the guy who heads up the company is pretty interested in my doc. idea for the summer, and told me that if I need any help, have any questions, need advice, that he’d be more than happy to give it. Booyah.

Now I just need to figure out what I’m going to write about in a fifteen page paper on some sort of media technology. I’ve been thinking that new media, web art, and/or some of the more current technologies are what interest me. I can’t help thinking about what the man is doing/works on is something that I’d like to learn more about. Plus a lot of the ideas he’s had that he’s told me about — things relating to computer graphics, music and live action footage, are all really interesting places to explore. It’s just a matter of seeing what’s already being done and if there’s enough documentation on it for me to analyse it in depth. Oh the joys of academia. Let’s take something you’re really interested in, then deconstruct it to the endth degree and see if you’re still so keen on it afterwards. Uh… yeah. We’ll see. Also, I think that the ideas that I’m more interested in are so current that there won’t be much written up on them. Although primary sources are always a really great way to go, secondary ones are what the academics seem to need in order to function. (We can’t be having original ideas and doing brand new things now, can we?)

So my mission for the afternoon is to find some outrageously awesome media artists, figure out what they’re doing, and see if I can frame their work in such a way that a rather long essay can come out of it. Wish me luck!

(p.s. I went to smoke a joint at my neighbour’s place last night and blew his mind with an update of the last month of my life. He kept on laughing and saying how nutty it is to be sitting in his living room listening to his neighbour tell him all these things about experimental life styles, living things the way you want to, not allowing the norms to define your behaviour and experimenting with power and sex and love and friendship and connections and jealousy… oh the fine lines we tread.)

I then went on to start a new blog devoted entirely to sexual fantasies. I think this may go somewhere. It’s SO much fun.

Fantasy

I’ve been sleeping all day.

So tired. And then there’s the horniness which doesn’t really help things much. I thought I was going to get some girl action tonight, but the Amazon backed out because the guy she’s seeing just got back into town. Alas, I must be patient. One of these days…

I haven’t been with a girl in weeks. Not that I should really complain, I haven’t exactly been wearing a chastity belt in said period.  Ah…life is good. I feel so in control of what I’m doing. I’m making choices that reflect what I want. Yes, perhaps I’m not being as responsible as I might in terms of resting properly and taking care of myself, but I’m getting my shit done. I haven’t totally fallen off the wagon, and when I slipped a few weeks ago, I did manage to catch myself.

And today is a personal day. Today I sleep. Today I read. Today I do other things in bed that involve only me and my imagination.

I keep on coming back to the fantasy that I got started on yesterday. I’m trying to understand where it comes from, but I suppose that it doesn’t really matter. What matters is the fact of it and that I’m unafraid to explore it. Actually, the Big Love came over to make me dinner last night and we talked about it — the times we explored those avenues together, the boundaries, the crossing of previously uncrossed lines. He was always careful with me because of the size issue. He actually could have broken me. I know how much the unintentional knocks hurt and/or bruised. It’s one thing to play, another to end up in the emergency room. Although, really, it would be a good story.

I’m not sure what I want exactly. I like the idea of being chased and putting up a fight. I want to be able to fight. I don’t care about bruises and scratches. Not sure how I feel about cuts. I like the idea of breaking things, which is unfortunately not really an option when you don’t have lots of disposable income. I can’t really afford to fuck up my apartment. And anyhow, it’s not big enough to get chased around.

Ripping clothes off is hot. Ropes and gags and blindfolds. Well, the props can only come in provided there’s an explicit exit strategy and implicit trust. Any of this really implies trust.

***

I’ve been followed for about a block. I’m certain he’s following me because I tried crossing the street a few times and noticed that he was shadowing me, always about ten paces behind. I pick up my pace. I’m nearing my apartment, but I don’t want him to see me going into my own building. I don’t want him to know where I live.

I decide that I’ll go up the street street beside mine to the big apartment building and hang out in the lobby for a few moments until he goes away.  I walk inside and the concierge buzzes me in. I make small talk with him about the snow we’ve been getting. I can’t help glancing at the door. The light outside is low, so I can’t see into the street because of the bright lights in the lobby. I’m not sure if the man is still out there, but I don’t really want to take my chances. I go to the elevator and press the button. After a moment, there’s a ding and the doors open. I step inside and press the button for the eighth floor.

I’m going to ride it up to the eighth and then walk down the emergency staircase.  The emergency exit for the building backs into the alleyway behind my house.

The elevator doors slide open and I find myself on the carpeted landing. The furnishings are gaudy. Blood red carpets, beige and gold rag-rolled walls. Someone must have thought it was fantastic in the nineties. I begin walking toward the stairs and the elevator dings and opens. I throw a look back over my shoulder and unintentionally freeze. It’s him. How the hell did he know which floor I would get off on?

I dash for the door and can hear him behind me. I slam against the emergency exit and speed down the stairs, trying as I might not to trip, not to waste time looking back at where he is. I make it down three staircases before I decide to try my luck at a proper escape. I grab the handle to get into the fifth floor. The fucking thing is locked. I run down another set of stairs and hurl myself through the door of the fourth. I can still hear him behind. He’s gaining on me. I speed past the elevators and turn right along past a row of doors. I have no idea where I’m going. I gasp in the sudden realization that I am trapping myself, that I’ve turned the wrong way, that there’s no emergency exit on this side of the building, that I should have turned left. I reach the end of the row and turn right again, running until I reach the last door at the end of the passage. There is no number on this door: it must be a supply closet. I try the handle and it clicks open. Thank god.

I’m out of breath, wedged in between a cleaner’s cart and a vacuum cleaner, inhaling the sickly sweet fumes of industrial cleaners, trying to be as quiet as possible. I wonder if he guessed which floor I got off at. If he’ll think that I just ran for the ground floor and somehow got out.

Five minutes pass. Then ten.

I slowly turn the door handle and push the door open just slightly. There is no one in the hallway. I take a few steps, impressed with myself for having gotten away. I wonder who he is, but reckon he’s just some psycho who liked the look of me.

I walk back to the elevator, still a bit wary, but gaining my confidence with each step I take. Elevator or stairs?

I decide to take the stairs. I open the door slowly and listen for a moment before walking down to the second floor.  I get about half way down to the first when I hear the door click below me. Oh shit. I don’t know who it is down there — hell, it may be a cleaner, a security guard. Oh, do let it be a security guard. I decide not to take my chances and begin walking back up to the second floor. I hear footsteps behind me. I look over my shoulder. It’s him.

I run for it. Through the doors on the second floor (where the hell are the people?) and down the left corridor. He’s right behind me. I try a door. It’s locked. I try the next one. Locked. He’s getting closer. Third time lucky. Always, right? I slam the door behind me but he wedges his foot in. I try to slam it shut, but he’s managed to slip his arm in too. He’s much bigger than I am. Stronger. He pushes his weight against the door and I can’t hold it, I stagger back, tripping and falling onto my side.

Fuck.

I scramble backwards, looking around me. “Help? Help!” Who doesn’t lock their door? Why isn’t there anyone home? The apartment is cluttered. It’s full of junk. Newspapers lying everywhere, pizza boxes, dirty clothes. Some fat slob with nothing worth stealing anyhow.

He’s standing by the door looking at me. I’m still on the ground, I’ve rolled onto my back, and have managed to back up against the couch. He edges closer to me. Doesn’t say a word.

“Who are you?”

He says nothing. A blank expression on his face. He looks about forty. Dark circles beneath his eyes. He’s wearing a navy blue coat and a baseball hat. There’s a dark red scar above his left eye.

We’re just staring at one another, our eyes fixed upon one another. I draw my feet in toward me, and as I spring up, he dashes toward me, I roll to the side, just missing him and run toward the bathroom, he grabs my leg and I fall down, hard, on my front. I realize that I’m screaming. He grabs hold of my thigh as I wildly try to kick him away with my other leg. I’m reaching for the wall, for anything to pull myself away. I grab hold of the trash can on the floor and throw it behind me. It hits him but he doesn’t release his grip. His right hand is on my hip. Pinning me down onto the floor. I try to turn over, pushing with my left arm, flailing my right arm wildly, but he somehow manages to pin my body with his knees and grab hold of my arms. I’m wriggling madly, shrieking. Why the hell can’t anyone hear me?

He brings his hand in front of my mouth to quiet me, and I bite down hard. But instead of pulling his hand away he presses it down against my mouth. I can taste blood where my lips make contact with my teeth. I’m fucked.

I stop wriggling and try to think calmly. I feel strangely calm. Resigned. He’s got his knees on my thighs. His left arm is pinning me down, and his hand is over my mouth. His right hand is holding my right wrist. There isn’t really anywhere I can go, anything I can do.

“Ne bouge pas.”

He releases my right hand and I hear him undo his belt. Sick bastard. With all my strength I hurl my right elbow back into his ribs and his weight shifts backwards. I smash my head up and make contact with his face. He howls out in pain. I elbow him again, and he no longer has his weight on me. Kicking and elbowing I manage to wriggle myself out from beneath him. I run for the bathroom. As I slam the door, he smashes against it. I’m in. Its locked. He throws himself again the door. I can hear his breathing getting faster. He’s grunting as he smashes it. I know it’s not going to hold for long. I grab the porcelain lid from the back of the toilet and as the lock finally gives, I smash it down on his back. He howls in pain, but somehow staggers only momentarily, catching me as I try to slip past him, his grip like a vice on my shoulder.

I throw my right arm around, punching him as hard in the face as I can, trying to make contact with his nose. As I pull away he grabs my arms and slams me against the wall. I try to knee him in the groin, but only make contact with his thigh. He slams his bent arm across my collar-bone, practically choking me, and grabs hold of my left wrist in his right hand. He has his weight pressed up against me. My right arm is pinned behind me. His blood is dripping onto my face. His cigarette-stale breath nauseating me. I’m exhausted but I can’t stop fighting. I’m trying to get away, but his hold is too strong.

“Arret.”

I close my eyes and sigh deeply. I have to keep fighting. Don’t I?

I stop. His grip on me relaxes slightly, so I try to get away with one more burst of effort. Not a chance. He grabs hold of my throat and turns me around, clasping my hands together behind me with his other hand. I feel like a puppet. A doll. Should I give up?

He releases his grip on my throat and I hear the tinkle of his belt buckle. I feel something sliding over my hands, and wince as he tightens the belt around my wrists, crying out.

“Silence.”

Chasing

My mind can’t help but pop back to a specific line of conversation that came out last night. I’m not sure why it jumps out to strongly, but it’s been said and it’s there and it’s strangely comforting.

There were comments made about our not being one another’s types. How little we have in common in the way of interests. And he has a point: I mean, death and destruction aren’t exactly my forte. My response might have sounded a little harsh, but a very honestly phrased, “Well, I don’t exactly see us together in the future either” popped out of my mouth. It’s pretty liberating. In a strange way, knowing that we have a great time now but don’t necessarily see (or want) a future, has created a mood of pure present. And for some reason, if everything is now, then there need be no censors, no filters, no compromise.

I’ve started thinking about fantasy again, and the root of fantasies. I’ve had recent discussions with various people about comfort levels.  A close friend’s boyfriend is really into spanking. Both spanking her and being spanked. She was trying to figure out the latter. I told her to just relax and go with it and see if she liked it. Maybe coming up with a scenario could help. Props? It could help to get really angry beforehand. Angry sex can be good.

Which brings me to this visceral line that I can’t help but think of. I’ve crossed over it a few times. Not as many as I would like. Every time it’s been crossed has been insanely powerful. Or powerless. A feeling of complete submission that goes beyond the typical power dynamics in a couple. Or it’s fighting to attempt to keep or regain power. Fighting tooth and nail. Or not fighting at all and allowing my body to be used. To submit. Memorable.

I don’t know why, but I have this horror movie image running through my head.

I’m standing in the kitchen. I’m in a large house in the suburbs. It’s my parents’ place, although I don’t live there any more. I’m house sitting. They’ve been away for weeks; I’m just there making sure everything is okay. Enjoying the use of a big tv,  gorgeous bathroom, sauna, hot tub.

I walk down the hallway. The only audible sound is that of the ticking clock. Light angles across the floor in growing diagonals through the venetian blinds. It is still. Almost too still.

I step into the kitchen. As with the rest of the house it’s dark, but for the lighting from the streetlamp outside. The clock on the oven reads 4:12am. I go to get a glass of water. A shadow drops past the side door and I hear the sound of smashing glass. I stop: motionless but for my eyes. I’m holding my breathe, waiting for something to happen, someone to appear.

I hear sound down through the passage. Footsteps on the wooden floor. They must have come in through the garage. I back toward the wall picking the phone up as quietly as possible. An unexpected giggle. I am amused by the stereotype. The line is dead. I’m going to have to get to my cell phone which is upstairs. Or out of the house.

I tiptoe back toward the stairs. I don’t think they know I’m here. Maybe it’s just a straight-up robbery. I pause a few steps beyond the kitchen, and go back in to grab a knife. It’s a carving knife. The long pointy one. As I step back out toward the stairs I feel as though I’m being watched. I can’t see anyone at the end of the hall. I’m noiselessly padding toward the staircase in the centre of the entrance hall.

I can feel someone watching me. But I can’t see him. There’s that moment of cold, bone-chilling realization. I know where he is.
That feeling of being watched, hunted, stalked like prey.

And then the chase.

I spring up the carpeted staircase as loud footsteps hurtle down the hallways toward me.  I slip near the top, and he grabs my leg, slamming me down onto my front as I kick him away. I roll over onto my butt and slam my feet into his chest, and somehow manage to scramble up the steps before he can regain his grip on my leg.

I run into my parents’ room. Slam and lock the door. Through the walk-in closet, out the other side into my own room. As I walk in, I realize my mistake. There’s a man. Dressed in black combats. He’s wearing a ski mask. He’s built. I can see that under his jacket. Looks like a criminal, but doesn’t have the air of a petty thief.

“Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

I’m clutching the knife so hard my knuckles are turning white. My heart is beating fast. We are staring at one another. I’m waiting for him to move. I’m not sure that I have it in me to stab him. He hasn’t technically attacked me. He simply tried to slow me down on the stairs. I inch backwards and he takes a step toward me.

“How about you give me that big knife. They can be very dangerous you know. I wouldn’t want to see you getting hurt…”

***

I need to stop. I’m getting too excited and I have other work to do.

Man, I wish I had a big house to play in.

Finding a path

This is where things get interesting.

People are by nature contradictory. As much as you want to be able to control your emotions, it’s easier said than done. You might think one thing, believe it, will it, and then discover that in fact it isn’t that way at all.

Maybe part of me just really wanted to know. I realize now that it shouldn’t have played out the way it did. We had agreed that we’d go home together and then I ditched him. My bad. Not cool. I didn’t actually think of it that way at the time. Alcohol clouds judgment. But it isn’t really an excuse.

I think I wanted to see how he would react. If he’s stronger than I am. If he’d feel the same way I do. If he cares as much as I do. If he’d be able to just overcome the jealousy. Or if it would hit hard and make him reevaluate where he is. If it’s really possible for this to work the way we want it to, or if we’re just setting ourselves up for a big ugly failure.

I was feeling vulnerable. I was. There’s this really funny emotion that can get things all tangled up. It’s very egotistical. There’s this bizarre sense that you’re not enough when someone you care about hooks up with another person. It’s stupid because spending time with other people doesn’t mean that the person you’re more intimately involved with isn’t enough, it simply means that you’re keen on exploring other avenues. And other avenues can be great. Love isn’t a zero sum game. People interact on so many different levels, and I want to be able to enjoy these levels with honesty and free of guilt.

Perhaps we got in deeper than we had intended, than we had realized? Perhaps we need to spend less time together. Perhaps we need to rethink what we’re doing, where this is going? I don’t have any real answers. We have an awesome time together. And I know that the way we feel is just getting stronger. So the question is can we do this?

I think it’s about honesty. I think it’s about accepting how we feel and taking the time to actually live the emotions. It’s not him making me feel jealous, it’s my own insecurities…and vice versa. There are times when you just have to suck it up and say, “Hey. This makes me feel shitty. I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t feel like I have any right to feel like this, but I do.” And then hopefully the open dialogue can lead to an understanding. And the emotions will pass. And things will be cool.

Oh, I do hope that can work. I don’t think it’s an easy task. But I believe it’s possible.