Random Acts of Awesome

If you knew how fucking hard it was for me to have any self esteem at all? You wouldn't try so hard to cut me back down to size. I think, I HOPE, that if you knew how hard I worked for this sense of self, you wouldn't feel so goddamn threatened by it. Listening to you tell me I don't know what I'm talking about, listening to you call my hysterical, or haughty, or arrogant, or masculine... That shit doesn't roll off a well oiled back. It's been internalized since I was a little, little girl. Those voices are the ones I look for when I look for men. The words are the words I need to hear when I want to think someone loves me. If you knew how fucked up that was, would you stop? Would you let me be strong without needing to make me feel weaker than you? I don't have any patience for it anymore. I don't have patience for your "protectiveness" when I find a man who treats me the way you've always treated me. I don't blame every fucke

There is a certain kind of man who can use my sexuality against me, leverage like a crowbar to crack me open and leave me empty of anything but a ghost of himself, for a period of time. It's an addictive sort of interaction, for both of us. My sexuality is composed of many facets (like anyones), but the two strongest facets are need and power. The need of others, fulfilled. And the power of energy coursing under my skin brought to the surface to shine. Few of my own needs are fulfilled by this kind of man. I cum, and often. I crave the pleasure. But that's not what's addictive. Desire, be it physical or not, and need fulfilled... that's the addictive part. His needs, my ability to fill the cracks. This man can be faceless, but his needs are always the same. There is a powerful something or someone in his past, that took away his own sense of power and autonomy. There is a latent, burning desire to dominate. A physical craving, unfulfilled, to hold down and take, to

There's a Margaret Atwood quote I love, "Men are afraid women will laugh at them. Women are afraid men will kill them.". I love it because it neatly highlights the disparity in power dynamics between men and women in the world we live in. This weekend, I can't stop thinking "Parents are afraid their children will shame them. Children are afraid their parents will leave them." Maybe I need to preface that with "Witness parents" and "Witness children". My folks. Man. I love them. There's no but after that statement. I just love them, as I'm sure they love me. The disparity in the power dynamic between myself and Christopher and them, though, has been sharply highlighted. They grieve the fact that we don't believe what they believe. And we live in childish terror of being abandoned, left for dead, deemed untouchable. They mourn our worldliness, even as they revel a little in the freedom we have. We tiptoe around them,

SO many changes in such a short period of time. My body and mind are more than a little overwhelmed. I'm grieving and celebrating and trying to be practical and in the moment, all at the same time. I'm not good at ANY of those things, never mind all of them together. I'm glad I got to grieve. I'm glad I made myself say goodbye, instead of just walking away. I'm glad I lay in bed and cried in front of another human being, naked in more ways than one. I hated it, hated the loss of control. But I'm glad I did it. I think I broke the cycle of leaving being too hard, of loss and grief being unacceptable. At least for now. So, I am homeless, almost. I am staying with my brother and soon to be sister in law for now, till May. Then Arizona again. Then who knows. Not me. And that contributes to the celebration. Driving out of Portland yesterday, through the Gorge and into the hills of Eastern Oregon, felt AMAZING. Warm and right and good. Sitting here now, in a str