One of the interesting things about blogging is the sharing of self -- thoughts, feelings, interests. Sharing with strangers. Sharing with friends real and virtual. And sharing with ex-lovers. My Beloved has the address to this blog, and I expect he has read at least one entry that I've pointed him to. It occurs to me that he might find it uncomfortable, reading about himself, and it occurred to me not to post, but this is one of my forums for self-expression, for processing, and I share it with the world because the world has sent me feedback saying "Don't stop. You find a way to say what I've always felt but never found the words for" and "Thank you for sharing this, it has helped me process my own feelings." And so I am writing this, doing my best not to let my awareness of my ex-as-possible-audience affect the tone and content. He may read, or not, as he likes, and I'll write, or not, as I like :)
When I was in therapy, I learned that, no, I wasn't crazy, that everyone has a little voice in their heads.
And then I learned that it isn't just one voice, but many; the voices of our ego-identities at various -- usually traumatic -- stages of our lives. I learned that these voices speak up when we experience something that provokes emotional echoes back to the first time we felt strongly that way, and if we are unwilling to 'hear' them, they hijack us from the level our subconscious. I learned that this is why I/we/people tend to revert to childish behaviour under certain kinds of emotional duress.
I have an inner child who is 9 or 10 years old, the little girl whose mommy abandoned her, and for years I refused to acknowledge her, and so for years she ran my life. I made peace with my inner child. I learned to listen to her concerns and address them, telling her it is ok, I'm grown up now, and I can take it from here.
In everyone's head is their own little world, their own reality with its own rules and landscape. In the shower today I heard my inner child crying and asking "why?" I went looking for her and found a long-forgotten place from a long-forgotten time -- on a little sandbar island in the Frying Pan river in Colorado -- squatting on her heels next to something she'd been building. It had been demolished by another child who then ran away, I remembered, though I could not remember what it was that I had been making. I think it is my earliest memory of someone destroying something we'd worked on together. It was a relief to find that my inner child was not crying over her missing sister, but my relief was also tempered with awareness of what she was really crying about. Our Beloved.
The demolished heap of sticks and pebbles symbolized my relationship with him, I knew. I told her that his answer to "Why?" was "Self-preservation." She didn't understand. I'm not sure I do either. I told her it was one of those questions that didn't have a simple answer, one of those questions that people made up common-sense answers to, like "Why is the sky blue?" but in reality has to do with the composition of the atmosphere and the scattering of wavelengths and the limits of our own vision. Sometimes it is easier to tell a child "The sky is blue because it is reflecting the color of the ocean." And so I comforted my inner child and told her that it was something he thought he needed to do to stop the hurting, like scratching a mosquito bite that itches. She understood that. Understood, too, that scratching that mosquito bite, no matter how good it feels in the moment, often makes it worse.
When I stepped out of the shower my lover was there, smiling shyly and looking like a satyr with his morning wood on display. He took me back to bed and we snuggled for a long while, kissing and touching, murmuring and talking. Reconnecting. I'd been distracted for a few days, and so had he. The scent of him filled my nose, the scent of sleep that spiked his natural spicy smell slowly changing with our heat, musky and pungent. His fingers strummed me just the right way, those fingers that stoke the keys of pianos and computers with equal deftness. I climaxed under those fingers of his, and as I did he entered me from behind, gasping into my ear. We moved together, slowly at first until I came on his cock and then it galvanized him, the feel of me cumming around him, and he pushed on me, pushed in me, pushed at me like he was trying to merge with me, pushed me through a succession of orgasms until I was hoarse from crying out and limp as I have ever been, legs trembling, pussy twitching, breath-catching... Eyes gazing into each other, heart-connected, soul-connected, cunt-and-cock-connected. This-is-love connected.
Later I checked-in with my inner child. She was still on the island, playing with her twigs and pebbles, humming happily to herself.
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