Sizeable Seashell

I think having faith, allowing people to come to their own conclusions about things, is what allows those conclusions to stick. Well, I was going to write about how much I'm lusting over you, but there's no point in it now.

Maybe I should be mad at you. Maybe I should have my guard up. This would not be very conducive to having sex with you, which is what I'm gunning for.

for the ghost crimes you committed

for the last time you fucked me

In the ass

Even though I asked for it

It wasn’t rape

In the same way that the opposite of joy isn’t sadness

It’s depression

There was a lack of feeling-

a moment of “oh. It’s over”

Nothing

Why do I write? Because I love to. How do I know that I love to? I just do.

Recently, I've been feeling sad and dislodged. I have just enough wisdom to know that that invisible accomplishment just beyond my reach, that hollow flight of stairs, are illusions. There is no pre-requisite for happiness. I was gifted that knowledge. However, I feel like I've regressed.

I had someone who loved me, and now I'm alone again. This was by choice. I think I want to date women, but I freeze up, shut down, feel nothing. Keep going- keep trying. But rejection feels like a heavy blow, and I need to learn that I'm fine as I am. That I'm acceptable and worthy. I don't need to change. I don't need to prove anything. I am quite alone now, though. I have friends, but I don't see them regularly. I don't want to get caught up in a death spiral about how alone I feel. The fact of the matter is that I need connection. Connection is the marrow that binds life together. It's the sinew of love.

Goodbye Elliott. I'm really sad it had to end this way. The way when you accuse me of seriously considering committing statutory rape. Sorry I said those things. In the sequence that I sad them. Maybe I just wanted to get through your head that I'm not perfect. That I'm fallible. That I like young girls, and by young girl I mean this one specific 18 year old that I met in college.

Goodbye Elliott. Goodbye all the amazing things about you. Goodbye your unending generosity. Your spicy popcorn. Your gentle back scratches. The gentle tracing of your finger. That one time we were in the car and we were legitimatley belly laughing. "This is nice," you said "I'm glad I can laugh with you." We hadn't laughed like that since we were just friends. And fuck you, by the way, just a little bit. For accusing me of seriously considering committing statutory rape. First of all, it wouldn't be. To which you would say "oh," are you gonna be that "person" who nit picks legalties to defend their creepiness.

I sat in that car with you and I confessed my creepiness. I confessed the weird shit I've thought (not all of it, because I mean. You don't need to know the intrusive thoughts I've had about performing cunnulingus on my sister, or sleeping with my 16 year old cousin- because they're just thoughts. They are thoughts. I've had weird thoughts.) I can imagine a world where I am so sort of Czar, and someone would present me with a 14 year old bride. "Great" I would say "Thank you. This is normal." But then I am acutely aware of how freakin young 18 year olds actually are. How they talk about college admissions and group halloween costumes.

They know things I don't I know things they don't yet

And yes. And yes there was that girl. That one thing. That dark awful night that I would give any good thing I have to take back. But I can't. And I'm stuck with this. I'm stuck with this knowing that I have the acute potentiality for darkness. For committing dark things. For abusing power. For casting aside harm for desire. For denial. For doubt. For grey.

Something about that feels fake.... it's.... the disagreement we have. The fundamental disagreement. I'm almost 27. On my dating, I have 21 as the youngest.

There's a sting but sitting on a bundle of cloth in my room that hasn't moved for 48 hours. I think it's dead.

21 as the youngest, but it's not a "deal breaker" Do I feel bad about dating younger people? Or do I feel shame because of the shame you've thrown on me? If you think it's creepy, do I have to abide by your definition of creepiness? Or am I allowed to experience. Make judgement calls on my own? Can you trust me to trust myself.

That night. That dark night. I was high out of my mind. What happened felt wrong. I didn't want it. As it was happening, it felt like a nightmare.

With the 18 year old, in college. We met when I was 25. She'd be 19 and a half now. Anyways. She felt young. I resisted. I wrote a stupid song to help me get through it.

Was my push back, my draw, my texting. Was it rebellion from what I saw as an unjust regime? Your judgment calls on my life?

You would say "It's about the victim, it's about the person who could be potentially harmed." I agree.

Could you trust me to know what feels right? Could you trust me to consult with others? Why does the blanket of your shame feel so oppressive? Why does it feel like it's smothering me, pushing me out in directions I otherwise wouldn't go in?

I can be your black sheep.

I know I sound problematic in this post. I feel problematic in this post. I don't know why I have such a profound capacity for darkness. But I'll never lie. Elliott said that he wished I would, but I strive for honesty. I strive to be seen.

Elliott left and I don't know if he's coming back. I wrote about this more in the brown leather journal. Basically, we had a fight about what age of people we think is appropriate to date. When I was 25, I met an 18 y/o girl in college who had a crush on me. I was conflicted, because she was beautiful but she felt too young for me. We flirted a lot, but nothing happened. I tend to agree with Elliott, that she's way too young. But I see the possibility. Potentially. Elliott doesn't. I heard from a friend she was leaving the country, and I sent her a message, and suggesting we hang out. It didn't come up in the fight, but I did message her. But it wasn't just that, Elliott brought up a bunch of other stuff. My emotional immaturity, my inability to look after a hamster, my poor stress response.

I fear this is the beginning of the end. It will likely be a quick and deceive end.

Looking at all of this, I feel gross and dirty and possibly harmful. Elliott's right. I'm thinking about my desire, but not of the damage I might do.

But that's that. That it is.

Elliott just messaged me. We're meeting at a coffee shop tomorrow at 6pm. Great. Coffee shops are the UNIVERSAL symbol for first dates and breakups. We're definitely not on a first date.

My emotions

I don't know wether to share this blog or not. What if I become a politician? What if X, Y, or Z? What if I'm in the public eye and someone finds this blog and then it's over. But honestly... I don't know. I could keep it shut. Not share. But I hate secrets. I hate secret shame. I'd rather be shamed in the open, than have skeletons in my closet.

I feel. Awful. Gross. Dirty. I feel angry. Frustrated. Alone. Tired. Hungry. Alone. Alone.

My eyes are a little tired I suppose. I suppose, yeah! From Rhythm Heaven. Y'know that game? It's a good one.

Anyways I'm sleepy. Suffering is overrated. Sometimes I feel like my sexual desire towards Elliott is like watching a snowglobe.

I see the snow falling, and it looks pretty- but I don't actually feel it. Do you know what I mean? When we're having sex, I notice the sensations- and they aren't bad, but they're not backed my some flaming labyrinth of desire. It feels... good. Nice... pleasant. But maybe something is missing... some key element that catalyzes sex from a fun pastime to a necessary experience.

I feel awful even admitting this. It isn't an easy thing to reckon with. Especially because I actually love him a lot. I'd love to start a family with him, have a life with him... but there's something missing. I think. Maybe. I don't want there to be.

We're in an open relationship now, which is great, because it means I can explore my attraction to women, which feels very natural to me. But... I don't know.

I've been getting pretty frustrated with her over the last couple classes, to the point where the other girl i'm teaching, Sylvia, picks up on my frustration and has been mean to Polina.

Anyways, today I introduce the skill and ask who wants to go first. They both raise their hands. I do this sort of eenie, meenie, miney, mo game I invited (because eenie, meenie, miney has racist origins a child informed me once- and she's right) and my finder landed on Sylvia.

Polina get's really mad and crosses her arms about pouts. She says "I know your trick. Whoever you point to first you'll point to last." And she's right! Because of the natural beats of the song, whoever I point to first ends up being chosen. Of course, that wasn't a conscious decision I made to choose Sylvia, but It's probably true I did choose her on some level because she's the easier kid.

Anyways, Polina is being angry and splashing me. I tell her she can't do that and eventually get her to swim across the pool. She's still mad when she gets across, she's diving down and avoiding me. "She's running away." says Sylvia, contemptuously. I send Sylvia on her way, swimming back.

Then I sort of grab Polina so I can talk to her. I think about how I felt when I was her age, and when a teacher was acting frusterated with me. I said to her, carefully: "You know, I still like you Polina." "No you don't" says Polina angrily. "Yes," I say "yes I do. I think you're charming, and energetic, and cute. I do like you. Even when you're mad." I realized it was true. "No you don't." Says Polina again. "Yes I do." I say. Polina is tuned away from me a little, but I can tell she's listening. "You don't have to believe me, just know that it's true. I really do like you and care about you." Polina has her chin tucked up on top of her fingers, she's grabbing the side of the pool. "You're allowed to be mad and sad. You can't splash me. But you're allowed to be mad and sad. I still like you when you're mad and sad." "How?" said Polina. It sounded deep and sad, like a yowl. "People are allowed to be sad and mad. Everyone here feels sad and mad sometimes. When you're sad and mad you're still deserving of love and care." "No." Says Polina. "Yes!" I reply, vehemently. "No matter if you're upset, I still care about you." "How?" asks Polina again, in that same yowly tone. I can see she's almost crying "I just do. It doesn't matter how you feel." "My mummy and daddy yell or hit me or put me in a corner." Said Polina. Oh. That's the other shoe. Oh. "When you're sad and mad?" I ask "Yeah. The put me in a corner." "Oh no. That must feel sad." "Yeah." says Polina. "You know that's not your fault. I say. It's not your fault that your parents do that." "Yes it is." Polina says, with the same sort of wet sadness, that potent desire to be corrected, that was present in "No you don't." and "How?" "Sometimes, the people in our lives can't give us the love we deserve, and it's very sad. But it's not our fault." "Yes it is." said Polina. "No Polina, you deserve to be cared for. I hope you remember that." I say. At this point, I call over a lesson supervisor on the deck. As soon as I turn away from Polina I feel her pull away, upset at the all to familar sensation- I'm sure- of someone pulling away at her exhibiting difficult emotions. I tell her I'll be right back, I tell her I'll be quick. I ask the supervisor to jump in with Sylvia, so I can keep talking to Polina, but when I turn to look at Polina, the vulnerability has vanished. She seems extroverted again, bubbly to a fault. She tells me a story about her playing Pokémon cards with her friend and her dad getting mad. It's still about her suffering, but that rawness is gone.

She doesn't want to marshmallows them, I tell her it's okay to need help. It doesn't mean she's a bad swimmer. She thinks using them means she's still in level 1. We agree to use marshmallows 2/5 times.

After that, I can feel trust built between us.

We play on the boat and she accidentally gets trapped underneath. She starts coughing and crying. I'm sure Sylvia is rolling her eyes.

I hold Polina. She says: "When my Tesla gets broken into it makes a loud sound and I start shaking. It's like that now." "You got scared." I say. "Yeah." said Polina.

When class is over I approach her mom and let her know that Polina might've got some water in her lungs, and if she reports chest pain she should see a doctor, but I'm pretty sure she's fine.

Her mother seems a bit stern, a bit closed off, but maybe I only perceive that because of what I know now.

I only knew what to say because of Elliott, my boyfriend. My partner, in some ways.

When I get sad. Crazy. When I break down. Sometimes I act like I'm two or three. I act just like Polina. He says he still loves me, because of my imperfections, even when I'm angry and sad. And, just like Polina, I feel compelled to cry and yowl: "How??" "How is it possible that you love me even when I'm angry? Even when I'm sad? Even when I'm mean?" Really, Polina was testing me. The whole time. She was behaving difficultly because she wanted someone to love her and hold her through it all.

I feel... hopeful, that maybe my words made a little bit of a dent in her psyche. Maybe she can remember.

But I'm sad too. She's like me. She's missing something. I've concluded that independence is the unavoidable outcome to being loved and cared for. When kids feel secure to be who they are, they eventually reach and learn and grow. Kids that listen well, can only listen, because they're calm enough inside to do so. Of course, I'll always appreciate the virtue of rebellion. I think ideally rebellion stems from free thought (an off shoot of independence) and not because you're kicking and screaming because you want to be held.

I want to be held. So badly. When I went and told my dad about this whole thing, it hurt whenever he looked away from me and to the dog sitting on his bed. His attention, split.

The only man who healed me, was the man who held me. And looked at me, and focused on me, and saw me.

Love. Love really is the answer. She'll go back home. Unless her parents get help, she has ten more years, at least, of what she's suffering through. What's worse is that it won't just be at home. It'll be at school too. Other kids will see how she acts up and they might ostracize her.

At least now, I can share my compassion with Sylvia. I can say to her: "Do you think that Polina is acting a little immaturely?" "Yeah." she'll say "Why do you think that is?" I'll say "I don't know." Sylvia will say. "You know how flowers need water to grow?" I'll say "Yeah." Sylvia will say "People need love. Sometimes, when we don't get enough love, we struggle to grow and act maturely. So let's give Polina lots of love and patience, okay?"

Maybe that will help, kids can be surprisingly compassionate when they know the context.

I need to tell Elliott, that I need his attention because I need to be loved. That's why I follow him around and take up space. That's why I acted so "annoying" as a kid, I needed to be seen like I needed air. I wasn't too much. I was, I am, enough. My parents weren't capable of giving me what I needed.