Eating Fear and Vomiting Self-Reproach

I am in a frenzy. The best-friend says I let Mr. Big read my journal because it was so very me to do so. I had wanted to place my heart at the tip of a stake and see if he would impale it, simply because I enjoyed the anticipation, the fear. It never occurred to me that way, but perhaps subconsciously, it was a reason. More then anything, it was done upon an absolute spur of the moment; Impulsivity is such a rule to live by.

I tell him (Mr. B) that my mind is going to implode upon itself thinking about what he felt, or thought, or might do. There could have been nothing, I will never know with absolute surety. But being a fan of melodrama, there was something about tormenting myself with thinking about the whole situation that I enjoyed. It wasn’t about the fact that I liked feeling distress and insecurity, but rather about the sudden, short-lived, shock of the extremity of the emotion.

All women are like that, we are all insane, that’s why we incite our men into telling us if we are the most perfect woman they’ve ever had, because we know they can never give us a satisfactory answer.

But He knows what I feel, god he does. And I am almost shocked at my predictability. He asks me, ‘What am I afraid of?’

I am shaken. He could have told me he felt nothing, or he felt ok, or upset, or absolutely indifferent or different. But it wouldn’t have helped. My fear would still be there, because what he felt wasn’t the problem, what caused my trauma was the uncertainty.

‘I’m afraid you’d think me a pair of soiled panties, and leave me for someone possessed of a greater sacredness of her body.’

I couldn’t have been more frank. Normally, my amoral values did not shame me, but because he had always striked me as somewhat principled, I felt dirty knowing that he knew all the little closets of my mind.

He told me he still loved my soiled panties. And I didn’t think there could have been a better answer in the whole world. Truth be told, I am often proud of my lack of morality simply because it made me feel less self-righteous then the people who were always judging based some convoluted spiritual law. (I know there’s an irony in that statement – I am being self-righteous about not being self-righteous. I know that. And I am. But it’s a self-righteousness I try my best to keep to myself, that is only often expressed as ‘let him who has not sinned cast the first stone’.)

In other words, I am a slut, and proud of it. What a lovely ring does self-reproach have indeed!

My mind had been out of control all morning, and if I could have screamed hysteria, I would. But I know I mustn’t. Because desperation looks so stupid to people who do not feel it themselves. Nearly comical. Desperation on your face and upon your lips that forces you down against the floor for someone who does not care for your desperation is the most ridiculous situation to be in. I always fear that. I always fear that I will be met by cold, distanced pity and disdain.

Desperation from one person feeds the other’s strength, the other’s power. I know it because I can be secretly evil to people I thoroughly do not care for, as their need for me makes me despise them. The Ex forced this reality out of me. He is the only person I truly do not give a shit for.

Bloggers, we are all fucking full of ourselves, and I am no exception. I supposed I had let him into all the little corners of me simply because I believed that even my flaws are beautiful in their own discolored, discordant way. I did not think he could want me any less, or like me any less if he did. Some part of me, in fact, had thought he might start liking me for what I wanted him to like about me. Which is everything I write about, essentially.

Of course I am still wondering what it was that he had liked about me in the first place, aside from the sexual bits, which, while I know makes up a big part of any attraction, cannot be all there is to it.

xoxox