With a Sense of Poise and Rationality

March 2010 September 2010 November 2010 December 2010 January 2011 February 2011 March 2011 April 2011 May 2011 June 2011 July 2011

The concept of a Best Friend.

In the few days I spent at a friend’s house, we’ve both decided to take that term out of our vocabulary.

Being someone’s Best Friend is a fickle position. It changes with the wind, and implies being put on a pedestal to a degree where the fall from grace is both brutal and merciless. It’s a disservice to both parties, it’s the mutual creation of a myth.

I know I’ve had my trail of Best Friends, each changing with the person I happened to be at the time. It’s like a new pair of pretty shoes, or a fashionable bag. They all only last a season before things change, and they ‘re replaced with someone who ‘gets you’ the way you are at the moment, better than the previous person.

I was discussing the subject matter with D, and he said “Primary? Secondary? Why can’t you just be friends?”

I found it just really funny, because it’s impossible for me not to think of people in hierarchical terms.

It’s always been my Primary(s), then my Secondary friendships.

Primaries are the people closest to me who satisfy that need to connect that need for closeness, to bounce off ideas, and with whom I put up no barriers or very little distance. They’re confidants, they’re the people I feel ‘get it’ the most. There’s that intense empathy, or simpatico, as S calls it.

Secondary friendships can be friends of friends with whom you don’t have much of a relationship with, or simply people you get along well with, but the friendship is kept at a superficial level. There is no desire on the other person to give any depth or weight to the interaction, aside from lighthearted fun.

The problem with a Best Friend is that the moment the person acquires that title, a shitton of responsibilities and expectations are dumped on each other. They’re placed so high on a pedestal, and view through such rose-tinted glasses, that they’re put in a position where they can’t help but fail.

There’s also this notion of Best Friends Forever, but really, none of them last that long, and the position is easily filled before the predecessor is even cold.

A friend and I came to the conclusion that we’re each other’s ‘constant’. We’re the thing that’s always been there though the years, undemanding, yet always there. It feels like a neutral friendship, but with all the qualifications of a primary. The depth is there, the weight is there, but no one dumps unrealistic BFF expectations or demands your typical BFF behavior, simply that general feeling of stability.

We also used the term ‘priority’ to qualify people who fit as primaries. So it’s not about having a ‘bestie’, it’s about the few people you give priority over everyone else, because they get it.

Unrealistic expectations are always the beginning of the end.

Interesting week full of bizarre, though encouraging experiences!

I know I’m the type of person who does generally good at anything I channel my obsessive personality trait into. But just because I’m good at something, doesn’t mean it’s the right road to follow.

Knowing that you’d be good at something differs greatly from actually being good at it.

And so for all my theoretical and practical knowledge on a plethora of subjects, none of it is worth much of anything if I lack the skills to actually help people through them.

Which has always been a great fear of mine.

Until this last week.

I’ve somehow been suddenly taken as a ‘personal consultant’ of sorts, helping people with subjects ranging from types of hormonal birth control, novice masturbation, to introducing kink into the bedroom, to holy shit actually teaching a novice how to top, as well as the psychological and emotional implications of engaging in safe D/s and pain play.

The thing that surprised me? Nothing felt out of my reach, and I delivered with all the professionalism of… well, a professional.

I knew what I was talking about, felt very confident about it, and I didn’t feel that panic I feel on written tests where I’m being questioned on my knowledge about something, and feel the need to bullshit my way through it.

This was no ‘practice exercise’ no roleplay inside the classroom, no testing the waters with strangers. This was the real deal aaaaand I nailed it.

Shit just got real, man.

The most gratifying thing is seeing the results and just how happy the people are.

The sweetest, most encouraging thing has been listening to people just thank me because if it hadn’t been for my constant talk about kink, sex and sexuality around them (which I’d just assumed fell into deaf ears), they wouldn’t know the things they now, or be where they are now.

The result? Sex-positive, self-aware, health-conscious and adventurous individuals.

In only one generation, too.

I’m actually good at this!
There are visible and tangible results.
There are actual testimonials from actual people!

It’s impossible to describe the thrill I get every time I get to help someone grow into their sexuality, clarify myths or misconceptions, or help couples adjust to each other’s kinks.

Now as for me? I’m growing, evolving, generally exploring.

My current headspace? I feel I’m over submitting, over the Masochistic Top, and going into Sadistic Top headspace.

Very, very excited about it. Mainly because it implies the Happy Sadist Dance

I've had wonderful, wonderful teachers (and victims to practice on).

I’ve been continuously interacting with people on a day-to-day basis for these last 20 days. What that means is that I’ve had little to no ‘alone time’ to recharge my social energy batteries.

On top of that, I’m not even going to lie, I haven’t been very good about my meds. Whenever something interrupts my daily routine, my meds are one of the first things to go overlooked.

I’m good, I mean, there haven’t been any relapses, but I began to notice the mild shift in my tolerance to the ‘little things’ a couple days ago.

My patience runs very thin, I lash out with a lot more ease, despite how polite I want to be about something, especially when people continue to do that thing that’s bothering me again and again.

It’s not their fault, really. They shouldn’t have to tip-toe around my triggers, silly and relatively insignificant though they are. But it’s hard to be polite when it’s the third time I’m telling someone to lower their tone of voice, or to just let me sleep.

This is why when people say ‘Oh lol, you don’t need meds, you can control it on your own.’ I smack them in the head.

I was reminded of a lot of my triggers those last days at K’s

-Children

- Noise

-Chaos

- Too many people around

- Not having my ‘alone time’ (this one was back at home)

-Closed spaces

-Invasion of my privacy (back at home as well)

- Interrupting my sleeping schedule

I didn’t mind being in those circumstances, I was running on enough lithium to handle it fine, but they are triggers, and something I have to keep in mind.

Being back home has also made me realize another thing. I like having my space and I don’t like sharing it. I like open spaces, and knowing I’m alone. If all of a sudden, people (in this case, the cleaning lady) start to barge into my room and start touching my things (even though it’s her job), I start having a panic attack.

Same with unexpected visitors (obvious low-maintenance exceptions aside)

Invasion of my privacy will make me lash the fuck out, as my mother had to deal with last night while going through my purse. It’s not like I have anything to hide— I just don’t take well to it.

And so it’s made me consider my living situation in the future.

Living in with my sister will be the ultimate test as to whether I can handle a roommate or not.

I did actually take after my mother’s control-freak tendencies, though only mildly to her neat-freak streak.

Kind of troubling.

Part of Dexter’s ending monologue in season five (no spoilers, K, you can… you know, not kill me for ruining it for you for the millionth time!) goes:

“They make it so easy, connecting with another human being. It’s like no one told them it’s the hardest thing in the world.”

I can actually empathize with that. Whether I have attachment issues, or I’m just very selective over who I’ll get emotionally invested on due to how powerful those selected few attachments are, I’ve realized something over these past 20 days.

I’ve learned quite a few things, actually, but that’ll be devided into different posts.

I just don’t want children for myself. I’ve flirted with the idea, I’ve let it just sit and marinate, and while I understand I’m only a certain age, and my bio clock hasn’t quite hit that ‘ohmygoshalliwanttodointheworldisbeamommy’ phase, it’s been as it always has been, in the sense that I feel no empathy towards kids.

My mother says I’ve always had this; I’ve never even remotely liked children. I never met them with that ‘aaaaw, so cute!’ reaction, and whenever I did, I was just going through the motions the same way Dex will go through the motions just to seem normal.

While I’ve always been vaguely aware of my reaction towards kids, I assumed I’d grow out of it, or just generally didn’t attribute it a lot of importance.

These last four days, however, have marked another relevant moment in my life in terms of realizing who I am, who I want to be, and how I want to live my life.

We went to an orphanage K’s volunteered for for years, and just seeing how she handled the children and how the children responded to her just triggered this very ‘this is not natural’ reaction in me.

As horrible as it sounds, I felt no empathy towards the children, no connection, if anything I shrunk back when they sought to establish any sort of physical, social or emotional contact, and even when I pushed myself to go through the motions, it was like being in an alien planet dealing with aliens.

I have no mothering instincts, no mothering nature, no mothering nurture when it comes to children. I see them as things, as ‘case studies’ in human behavior. In a way, lower than animals, because even though I’m a fan of analyzing animal behavior and how they socially interact among each other, at least animals I empathize with, and feel a connection and this instant bond and need to love and nurture.

That’s something my mother pointed out— how amusing it was that I can’t even begin to deal with children, but I’m a natural with animals.

I have a couple theories about it, revolving around projection, and connecting on a very basic emotional level I can’t with kids, but that’s not the point.

The point is, some people are meant to be parents. Some are not. I fall into the latter.

All the women I talk to have this vulnerability when it comes to babies and children and being mothers. I instead, get this instinctive feeling of revulsion and panic at the sheer thought of it.

At the face of a pregnancy scare, my thoughts weren’t ‘Oh, I can work with this. Familial humiliation and social repercussions of pregnancy out of wedlock aside, I can re-frame and I will be a wonderful mother knowing all I know about parenting and child development. I will be the best mother I can possibly be.’

No, it was ‘Even if I was thirty, had accomplished all I wanted to accomplish in life, was self-sufficient, financially stable, and had the ideal partner to co-parent, I do not want this.’

So it seems I’m just one of those people who are just better mothers to fur-babies, than to their own kind. Which is fine with me, really.

I pick up my adopted feline child in a month, and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t get the best mommy he can get.

It’s been an interesting couple of weeks. I feel like that song, ‘Playground Love’ by Air. Just very chill and content. I think it’s pretty safe to say I’ve recovered the stability I lost since February and reached its peak in May.

Yes, it was attained through shameless escapism in the form of standard nymphet behavior (Best. Behavior. Ever) in what will soon be 20 wonderful days, but as always the price of happiness is being willing to pay with an equal amount of discontent.

It’s safe to say that that February-Mid-May span was a valid price for how happy I am right now.

I’m just happy. Genuinely happy. Not the chemical imbalance that is hypomania, just really content.

Everyone is leaving, everyone is moving on, I will more than likely won’t see everyone gathered in one same place again, and it’s OK.

Dynamics are changing, evolving, people meet, people part, people change and it’s all OK.

This year I lose the last generation of friends that still remained in high school and none of it stings. I’m thrilled for them, thrilled for myself. We're all moving forward, we're all getting somewhere.

For someone as emotionally invested in them as myself, it feels strange to say that.

I haven't had this much stability in all my relationships ever. I like this.

The voices are still quiet. The most bizarre thing though has been how life has been imitating art again. Dynamics, behavior, overall circumstances characteristic, and pretty much exclusive to them have been translating to my day-to-day life. It doesn’t cease to go over my head.

I love it.

I love how nonchalant my gang is, and how we all just somehow grew up to be nymphets and kinksters (with a bit of encouragement on my part, of course).

I love you guys.

I haven’t quite reached my balance yet. I’m prone to excess, so if the first 3 weeks were focused on dwelling in melancholy and despair, these last ten days, and the next ten to follow will have been sheer escapism.

These last ten days were spent with A’s family in the most epic and bizarre visit ever, characterized by its nonchalance over a variety of events that should have had us going “wtf?” but didn’t.

Nonchalance is awesome.

The dynamic in the group has changed considerably and we’ve all grown and developed so much that old prejudices and assumptions are no longer valid or applicable.

Getting used to dealing with loss. When I complained that everyone was leaving and I was the only one staying in the country, she pointed out that I did it first to them when I moved to Laguna.

And it’s true. I always leave first, and it’s only been until recently that I’ve had to deal with that kind of loss.

These last ten days made up for the bad rut I’ve been all this time. Again, it’s like that saying— how for every good thing you pay an equal price in sorrow; it’s not just ‘oh, for every good thing there’s bound to be something bad’. No, you have to be willing to pay for happiness with an equivalent amount of unhappiness for there to be a balance.

The move is going on. I’m excited for it. And that ten day break of fun and escapism was exactly what I needed to recharge my batteries and trigger back my motivation.

Now I’m eager to go to SF once I scratch out enough cash for it.

I have a bunch of people I need to visit. When I do Canada, it will probably be during the summer, and it will be a month long trip; 2 weeks in Winnipeg, 2 weeks in Edmonton, so I can see my girls. I want to kill two birds with one stone, because the damn VISA requirements are just such bullshit with their ‘Single Entrance’ nonsense.

K comes in on Monday, so I’m thrilled to have my K back.

I think I’m almost back to normal. Yesterday I watched the end of Wolf’s Rain again, and it triggered that obsessive compulsive thought pattern I get when I’m working on a story. Suddenly I found it relating to this really old Gothic Romance story I only wrote a few pages of, and started to discover new things about some characters.

I was very surprised to suddenly engage in that type of behavior again, because it means there’s a spark of creativity.

Just the plotting, the note-taking, going over potential scenes and overall structure in my head. That’s the initial part of the spark. Thinking in terms of visual imagery, of irony— this is what I missed. I missed my mind obsessing over something not related to me, in my head.

Because that’s essentially what the characters (who are still not talking) and the stories do. They take my obsessive compulsive behavior and channel it elsewhere. It takes the lime light off of me (which is exhausting) onto obsessing, breaking down and psychoanalyzing something else.

Almost over this.