I don’t want to tell you what’s been going on for the past few months.
I don’t want to go back over all the things that have been happening, how I put my head down and worked and traveled from March, when my dad died, through August, and then kept traveling, despite having a little bit of a breakdown. I don’t want to tell you how that felt. I don’t want to tell you how much stress it put on my relationship—relationships—and I don’t want to tell you that I’m not over it. I don’t want to tell you that I can’t get ahold of grief in any real way, that it is a fog and I am stuck inside of it and it’s so thick I can’t always see my own hand in front of my own face unless my palm is touching my nose. I don’t want to tell you about how hard it is to travel and tour because I want you to keep thinking that it’s glamorous. I don’t want to tell you how I feel like I’m still hurtling thirty-thousand feet above the earth and I keep forgetting to ground. I don’t want to tell you that I’ve also been trying to learn how to fly in this year-long tantra training I’ve been undertaking, and that sometimes I purposefully do not ground just so I can keep feeling the flying. I don’t want to tell you that I have never really been a jealous person in my relationships in the past, but that I am struggling with openness, constantly, and in some ways it seems like it’s getting worse rather than better. I don’t want to tell you about that. I don’t want to be the poster child for poly or anything, and I do want to strive to be honest about my processes, but I don’t want to tell you about what’s going on when I haven’t even figured it out for myself. I don’t want to put it all out there for judgment and commentary before I have been able to really see around it, to know where all the holes in my argument may be, which has meant that sometimes, I don’t say anything at all. I don’t want to tell you about how hard it’s been to be in this Tantra training this past year, how I am totally broke and sick of criss-crossing the country. I don’t want to tell you that I don’t know how to date, or what I want, or how to pick people up, or who those people would be. I don’t want to tell you that I don’t know what to do with myself now that I am in this open relationship. I don’t want to tell you that it’s hard. I don’t want to tell you how much I miss my boy, over there on the West coast where the sun sets the right way, over the water. I don’t want to tell you about that, except that I do want to tell you about being in love and all of the amazing things I’ve been learning about myself—and Kristen, and our relationship, and how I know us so much better now, and it’s revealed all sorts of things, and I’ve been working on a piece of writing called How To Break Your Own Heart about poly and what happens when you do the thing that you think you cannot do.
I do want to tell you that I love you. And I mean that kind of literally, that I know that if we met I could find a part of me that loved a part of you, and who knows how big those parts would be. I do want to tell you that I love the kind of sex work I’m entering into, and I do want to tell you that I’m starting to do coaching and mentoring sessions, individually and with couples, and I have no idea how to ask for money to do this thing that I love but I need to. I do want to tell you that Tantra I is happening in upstate New York in three weeks and I hope it’ll happen and I’m not quite sure it will, and I am so thrilled to share these teachings that I’ve been devoting my life to with other people. I do want to tell you that I’m grateful that people still read these words even though I have been pretty terrible at updating things. I do want to tell you that I’m still in love, that I’m still scared to reveal vulnerable things to the fucking judgmental Internet. I do want to tell you that I’m considering chest surgery but I’m definitely not going to tell you that. I do want to tell you that on my run this morning—the first run I’ve gone on in probably at least a month—I found a bird wing and I brought it home and put it on my altar and I’m hoping my cats won’t tear it apart before I learn how to be a hollow bone, how to take flight, and how it is put together.
And also: Grief.
New personal writings on Sugarbutch about my current emotional state … grieving grieving grieving and being angry and fucking everything up. Or, at least, fearing fucking everything up.