My Storytellers

I recently got my first tattoo.  It wasn't an impulsive choice; I've been scribbling on myself with a sharpie for over a year to be sure of the look and placement.  Deliberately on my forearm, near the crook of my elbow, force feeding me my purpose, the final bolt on the door to my demons.  It's the 10 year anniversary of my brutal rape, the cord-cutting of a destructive, long-term yoyo relationship, and a commemoration of a separate journey, the reclamation of my body from a shame spiral of years of booze and self-destruction.

The first time I intentionally drew blood, I was 13.  I had a small wart on my thumb that I would dig out with a pocket knife every time it grew back; I loved to watch the blood run down my arm and pool in my elbow.  But, when I was 16, I became intoxicated by the raw blade against my forearm, a scarring sear that instantly birthed what choked me.  Marking, cutting, carving, scarring, mutilating, branding, marring; they all bide the same result, but that result is rarely (if ever) about death or suicide.  Cutting on yourself is like breathing extra deeply.  If oral pacification (alcohol/food addictions) is suffocating ones emotions, then this is the direct opposite.  It's a purifying emancipation of your feelings, and its own addiction.  You can almost hear the rushing of demons from the flesh like bats from a cave as your eyes roll back and the high washes over you.

Though naive in the beginning, I'd studied suicide enough that I knew what not to do: Do not slit across the tendons if you want to die slowly, slice, using a sharp blade, vertically along each side of your carpi and digitorum to release the veins without paralyzing your arms (leaving the job half done).  But I never really wanted to die, instead I carved on myself with a dull, serrated steak knife, handle brittle from years of dishwasher abuse.  Dragging the jagged steel back and forth, across and over, I bullied the soft, rosy flesh inside my arm.  It was a hack-job, but my perfectionist self almost wanted it to be; I needed it to tell on the damage inside.  For as stuffed full of pain as I was, I was that same free the instant I saw the mangled lines prick up little bubbles, tiny blossoming buds that flowered then spilled.  I kept going, and the more stinging and burning I felt, the deeper I could breathe. And once you find the drug that cuts through the molasses-thick pain, you are a junky, hinged to it for what you believe is survival.

I'll never forget the smarting brand of that first carving session and the scabs that pinched my arm for weeks.  I did it in winter, too, when I could hold my secret smugly, burning inside my long sleeves.  My high school boyfriend cried the first time he found the crusty dark lines, made me promise to never do it again.  I agreed, of course, but being a proper mistress, the knife would seduce me in my darkest moments, promising purity, release from the curdling cries of my pain.  And like any good addict, I would fall into her when I couldn't stand on my own any longer; a hard reset unlike any other.  It worked, too.  I'd have a carving session, bleed a little, scab a lot and then feel relief for months, sometimes even years, finding temporary solace in other addictions until I simply could not quiet the betrayal trapped in my body.

The last time I cut on myself was May 2013.  I took a very dark spiritual trip with my former Dom down a deep well of sinister intentions.  The experience deterged me by fire, but it's not one I would wish on my enemies.  He held my head under the emotional current until I died a death of my former self.  It was acutely repulsive and then brilliantly profound.  I never realized how heavily shackled I was until he drug me under, and then suddenly, I could breathe alone.  The well of my darkness became instantly shallower, and I could see the light at the top in a way I can't remember ever knowing.

I've never been quite able to access my darkness since then.  I try to slide down, along the inside of the well, and my feet hit an early bottom.  I feel around, convinced of a trap door, but this is my new bottom, a bottom that can see the top.  And since I can see the light on my own everyday now, I no longer fear drowning under the weight of my demons.  I stomp around, securing that the new base is sturdy, leaving me one final hatch to seal.  A seal of compassion and forgiveness and peace, a permanent cross over the door of my past, demanding reverence for the ghosts and clearance for the next.

I used to fear losing my rawness if I released my darkness, and in some ways, I have, but when I look down at the fresh, fluid green script, all I feel is hope.  The calming knowledge that I have a new skill, the ability to tackle fear and the awareness that nothing can suffocate me again because, now, there are so many ways to breathe.

"She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom." - Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

JN

Hercules and The Wagoner

I have failed you, dear readers, but moreover, I have failed myself, for I had lost the courage to blog.

I never realized just how much courage it takes to fully open up and tell my stories to the world, but it requires much more than I realized.  My paralysis was so prolific that I'd even stopped writing for myself.  The more I knew I needed to write, the more I clammed up; I barely even journaled.  It was as if I had been blindly walking a tight rope across a ravine for ages, never thinking anything of it and then I suddenly looked down and completely froze.  Last year, I even took a creative non-fiction course to try to get some traction around my book chapters, but I barely participated!  To make it worse, the class was being led by one of my favorite and most respected authors, yet I couldn't put one letter in front of the other.  Such a coward.  I was so afraid of my stories being read out of context, without proper representation or explanation from me.  I was afraid of being misunderstood, of being judged, perhaps even pitied, in some cases, that I became completely frozen with fear.

The worst part of all of this was that I didn't even realize I was being cowardly!  I went through the standard "too busy, no time" blahbitty blah blah horseshit horseshit excuse excuse, but it wasn't until I read this essay by the very same favorite teacher/author that everything came together and punched me in the gut: Essay-A Kick in the Butt from Melissa Febos.  I realized I was my own worst enemy, my own hinderance, by lying to myself about why I wasn't writing.  I saw that I had never and will never be able to control the flow of information; I've never been able to give context to my stories or explanation for my actions because sometimes blogs are single snippets, read only once by one person and never again and never in order.

So there it was.  The big, hairy, ugly truth that I'd been dodging for months, maybe years: I had become a turtle, hiding in my shell, a complete chicken.  And what's even worse is that I'd become something I never ever even knew I had in me--risk-adverse!  I suddenly was giving a shit about what people thought of me?!  Of my choices, of my life?!  How did this happen?!  Talk about a shame spiral.

Since then, I've been weaving my way through my many fears, the semi-unknown, somewhat unactualized.  All this gut work should translate to real words on the page so that now, hopefully, I will have even more of myself to share with you, if I can muster up the courage to do so authentically.  Vulnerability is no joke; it takes a shitload of courage.

The other primary factors at play have been multiple career changes and, most importantly, the relationships I've been navigating around, two of which have been the most metamorphic in my adult life.  In my 20's, I had so many opportunities to meet and date a cornucopia of individuals, many of whom, I am grateful to say, are still in my life in varying capacities, but two very special people from these past few years have changed my mind, my heart and permeated my soul in unique and profound ways, some of which I will share with you.

Hanging on my mirror is this reminder for me, a quote by e. e. cummings: "It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are," and this is what I am learning to do, and in doing so, I know I will be even more authentic here, to all of you, for better or for worse.

jn

Fetish, Fantasy or just Preference?

First things first. Everyone needs to listen to this link; it's just 3 minutes and explains the differences between Fantasy and Fetish. (and, no, I don't like Oprah, I just love Dr. Laura Berman)

www.oprah.com/oprahradio/Fantasy-vs-Fetish-Audio

What I'm going to dissect, though, is far more of the gray areas in between. I hate to even call it a Fantasy or a Fetish, I'd rather call them Preferences. Most of what I have encountered/experienced/studied, is more of a Preference: not something required to get aroused or reach orgasm, but something desired to make sex hotter some of the time/most of the time/occasionally/ideally.

Everyone talks about "Fetishes" but mostly incorrectly. Foot fetishes, hand fetishes, choking, biting, beating, spanking, flogging, golden showers, anal play/penitration, cock rings, piercings, stockings, heels, lingerie, white cotton socks and panties, cross-dressing, sex outdoors, sex in public, sex in uniform, and the other ten thousand turn-ons people have are mostly just Fantasies or Preferences. The real difference between a Fetish and a Fantasy is whether or not the person MUST have the object or scenario in order to actually reach orgasm. At that point, the point of necessary, it becomes a Fetish that can isolate and impersonate your partner. Sex becomes about the need, not about the interpersonal experience. And while there is ALWAYS going to be something in your partner's Preference/Fantasy category that makes you squirm (if they trust you enough to tell you), it can be an awesome opportunity for intimacy if you allow yourself.

Lately, I know of a few people that have taken Preference and feared it into Fetish, only to realize that they are afraid of what it could become, not what it actually is. For example, a reader described her partner's Preference for being dressed as a woman when they have sex. He's not gay or closeted; he's simply very aroused by the nurturing, welcoming, feminine penchants of womanhood. Now, he doesn't need to be dressed up in order for sex with her to be marvelous, he would just like to incorporate it every so often, and if she's uncomfortable with it, then he'll gladly take care of his own needs when she's not around. She would prefer that this Preference of his simply not exist, but even more so, she'd prefer that he feel serious shame about this desire, too. The biggest problem has been that she's gotten to where she's almost afraid to talk about it with him because she hopes that by ignoring it, maybe it will go away, fade into the past and not be part of their future together. Maybe he'll just forget that he was ever turned on by that in the first place! Bollocks. By not addressing it, openly, in the daylight and with acceptance (even while afraid and uncomfortable), she's slowly shutting the door on the trust they've built; she's showing her partner that it's not safe to talk to her about his deepest desires and fantasies. She's showing him that she doesn't trust his boundaries, his ability to make it safe, keep it personal, keep it honest. And that's why there's a shame spiral... If you cannot safely talk about absolutely anything with your partner AND trust their reaction and willingness to hear you, then that's probably a good place to begin the work.

As we've discussed before, opening up about your Fantasies is all about trust. Everyone can talk about the "socially acceptable" Preferences, it's when you get into the sticky and the dark that you stir up your own opportunities for growth in your discomfort, together with your partner and on your own. Not that everyone is going to pop open the wine and delve into the darkness right away, but when you do, or when your partner trusts you enough to open up, I encourage you to resist the urge to gasp or snort or make that disgusted, horrified expression and instead, just listen and ask honest questions. Don't shame your partner for their desires, embrace them for trusting you, and if their desires cause you fear or spark your insecurities, just be aware that that's coming from inside you, not inside them. And...most importantly, just because they are talking about what turns them on, that doesn't necessarily mean that they're going to jump off the deep end or open some giant Pandora's box of wild and crazy shit. If their desires start eating you up inside, seek third-party help if you want to maintain the relationship. The worst thing you can do is try to change your partner (or shove them back into the "perfect mate" mold you had previously bound and gagged them in). You can only change yourself and manage your reactions; please don't punish your partner for triggering your own insecurities.

Take a deep breath. Connection is why we're here; achingly trusting, open, possibility-for-judgement-and-likelihood-of-pain, real breathing-bleeding connection is what gives life meaning. It's our only real reason for existence, it IS the meaning of life, but it cannot occur without sincerity and trust and that takes extreme courage. I encourage you to grab your balls and open up to possibility...no one regrets taking the leap of faith, they just regret having waited so long to jump.

I'm curious to hear about your conversations and what bubbles up...

With a bite and a smack,

JN

(As always, send me your questions at: north.jillian@gmail.com with "JN Blog" in the title, and I'll reply personally and/or incorporate your questions into the anonymous discussions.)