I’m About to Get Personal Whoa Shit

Getting Intimate with You Guys.  Thanks for listening/reading:

Tonight I’m wondering about what love really is.  Did I have it?  Are there different kinds of love?  I’ve always avoided writing about love, because I have this outer shell that believes it’s ridiculous.  Hmmm.  I had someone.  A keeper.  I grew into loving him.  Is that really love?  It is a genuine kind.  But then there’s the love that strikes you dead in your tracks and makes you uncertain of yourself and your heart pounds.  I was thinking, with my fiance of nine years–we didn’t have really any intimacy.  I’m a virgin to it.  I don’t know how I’d react if I ever encountered such a thing.  I never let him in.  Why?  I’m listening to “Slow it Down” by the Lumineers over and over 

I feel naked what I’m aiming to write.  It’s so easy for me to write about mental illness and shit like that, but about love?  Intimacy?  Way private for me.  Almost humiliating.  With Justin it began with his persistent pursuing of me, and I was just dealing with my dad’s death and panic attacks and a first mental breakdown, but he didn’t give up.  I wasn’t ready, even way back then, to give myself to anyone, because I didn’t have a self.  And he didn’t really either.  I refuse to believe he has no self, but its like, even now, he has no interest in seeking who that is.  What did we build our relationship on besides great sex and comfort, habit, not being alone.  I’d write and write and he never read a thing.  I’d ask and he’d say “That’s Nice.”  Just wasn’t  his thing.  The more I think about it, and this has been such a huge hurt for me for a long time–the more I think about it I realize I needed more, so much more.  And he did too.  He needed a wifey to come home to that took care of him and that was responsible and intimate.  Intimacy, he was shy, but I’m assuming capable of it.  I hope he finds himself.  I hope he finds love.  He truly is a good, good person.  Rare.  A gem unpolished.  And what did I need?  Well, mental help.  Haha.  We had good years.  We wanted what everyone wants–love.  But there was no magic.  It started for him like an accomplishment, and I wanted to learn to love him.  We never really really talked about the big things, the secrets of our hearts and minds.  Yet he was always there for me–he’d hold me when I got bad and make me tea.  But I couldn’t tell him anything.  His expression would be blank when I went mad with psychotic, terrifying episodes and PTSD flashbacks, like he shut down.  I needed a hero, guess I found that in myself.  Did it scare him?  Did he not care?  Was he human?  Afraid to even touch me.  Afraid to even look at me and I knew it, and I was already afraid of myself.  But after eight years and his amazing proposal ( yes, I was that girl–I cried my eyes out and I hate romance), I thought that time alone was enough to keep us strong.  Like time was a crutch.  Maybe because I hated myself, and maybe because I was so dissociated from who I was that I didn’t even think of something as great as intimacy–I didn’t deserve something so high end on the human scale.  There’s something here I’m not saying and I don’t know yet what it is because I’m just discovering it in myself.  I’m just wandering around my feelings seeking.  As usual.

This is the slowest I’ve ever, ever written a post.  What would it be like for someone to know my soul and to want to love me for it?  Does anyone ever really get that?  Very few I bet.  Isn’t that the gold we all search for in this life? I feel like the only people that know my soul are you folks, because I’m as honest as I can be without getting close to you–because you can’t really know the person I’m like in day to day life, because I bare my soul to you and you respond.  All I want is a response in this life, an acceptance.  Approval.  Does that mean I haven’t found myself yet then?  I tell myself I need approval from no one.  Maybe I confuse approval with acceptance.  Maybe that’s why I blog?  No.  I blog because I love to write and I only know what I’m feeling if I write it down.  Thank you all of you for being here, reading me.  I feel oddly intimate with some of you, and we’ve never met, which I think is why we’re so honest.  Because it’s safe here.  I don’t have to see your face and behaviors and watch for signs and tics that you don’t care for me.  I guess I’m a very insecure person.  Yes I am.  But I don’t really care about that.  Because at least I know I’ll survive.  But survival fades and it comes down to love and the human condition to want to share that love with others.  I can’t do that, can I?  You can’t be alone forever.

I will say this–after the worst of my illness was over, I began (my body began) to wake up for the first time in my life and the last time Justin touched me before he left was my first time actually feeling it.  So I did experience what it actually felt like to be touched without cringing.  It was so intense and like a pink explosion in my brain.  Sadly that was the last time and it was my first.

“….slow it down, Angie, come back to bed…” are you listening to that song?  It fits the mood of this.  It’s like love poems.  I HATE HATE HATE love poems.  Now I know why.  I’ll write more later, when I figure out more.  Anything you guys want to say to aide and abet me in this?  I love you all.  Take care.

Amy Jo

12 thoughts on “I’m About to Get Personal Whoa Shit

  1. “But survival fades and it comes down to love and the human condition to want to share that love with others. I can’t do that, can I? You can’t be alone forever.”

    Just one if the many gems in this… and really there were so many. I too “hate” love poems but looking back I see that so many were. Not just the puerile roses are red violets are blue that I wrote for my first muse but almost every poem I’ve written since because at the core it’s really ‘I want the love that others have. I want a mind that doesn’t go so deep. I want the happiness of innocence.’ I too project myself as a survivor, in many themes, but in the end what it comes down to what is survival if not to be loved. What’s living without feeling alive?

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  2. I tend to boil whatever I read down to its essence. There are so many questions in here, but I think maybe the one you’re really asking is “Does love require trust?”

    I would never try to speak for another, so I’ll say that I think my own issues with trust come from two things. The first is that I fear that someone else may not be able to love the parts of me that I do not love myself, or that maybe they’d find them just as scary or difficult to deal with as I do, and this will serve to push them away. The second is that I feel like it’s not worth the pain of opening up completely to someone, if that person will ultimately go away for whatever reason. I want guarantees. I want to feel safe in my belief that this person will care and that they will stay, but I have always had trouble believing in things without proof. . . .

    I think that love and trust grow in a symbiotic way, each helping to nourish the other, and that maybe perfect love cannot exist without perfect trust—but love can be pretty powerful without perfect trust. It can strengthen us in ways that nothing else can, so I would never pass on the opportunity for love because I didn’t think it could go “all the way.” I think that each time we love we learn better how to love and to trust; and that prepares us for the true and lasting kind, if we are lucky enough to find the right person to share ourselves with.

    It hurts terribly when I come to think that my trust in someone has been misplaced, but I don’t believe that loving someone can ever be a mistake. Maybe that contradicts everything I’ve just tried so carefully to say, but it seems to be true, nonetheless.

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    1. I agree very much Bukowski 🙂 To love IS worth it, and we do learn from each time. I also believe the people in our lives are meant to be in our lives–they each are here to teach us lessons, and we them. But I’m with you on the trust thing. I want guarantees too. Proofs. Are we hopeless? 🙂

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      1. Sorry I didn’t respond earlier. Thought WP would have notified me of further comments. I know what you meant by your last question, but the word “hope” is very complicated for me, too complicated to respond fully here. I like how things that you write will often remind me about things I’ve been meaning to write. I’ll let you know when I’ve written my “hope” essay. (I hope it won’t be too long!)

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  3. I was here a year or so ago…wrote a poem called “not yet love” or something like that. can’t seem to find it to share it with you. I finally began to awake to all kinds of emotions but not yet love. It comes, but for now you are right where you are supposed to be. It is a process. Trust the process (don’t worry about trusting people yet, just the process, would be my suggestion.) love you. 🙂

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  4. From what may seem like a million miles away, I love you. I have absolutely nothing to gain from you, so I’m not corrupt. I just see a soul, who kind of reminds me of me, and I know that I want to know that I matter, that I count. Amy, you matter and you count. Much love, el Moskowitz

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    1. You know I re-read your comments like, every day. I do. Love back at you, sincerely. I have nothing to gain either from saying it. Except to let you know you’re always in the back of my mind and when things get bad or I’m crying at night, I imagine the mirage of you

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      1. Thank you – but I’m not sure I like being a mirage – implies that I’m not real. 🙂 I am very real which is why you can trust my words. Mosk

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  5. And please forgive my horning in on your site, but when I read about trust, I wanted to share something that still haunts me- hope it’s not out of line.

    She Looked Me in the Eyes

    After a seven year courtship,
    we were married on
    Black Sunday.

    She looked me in the eyes
    and said:
    “I Do.”

    The day was cursed,
    her family
    wouldn’t speak with my family.

    The two-tiered cake falling
    during the first dance
    wasn’t a good omen either.

    Though she slept a lot
    during the day
    throughout our honeymoon,
    I kept thinking
    that my expectations
    were too high,
    and things
    would get better.

    Six weeks in
    I discovered she
    was secretly dating her
    C+ programming professor
    since before we got married,
    and she assured me
    that he was just a friend,
    but also somehow mentioned
    that he made $70,000 a year
    to my $29,000.

    On Day 141,
    I left,
    and she went to his place
    to drink champagne,
    slow dance and screw.

    Five days later,
    a flirtatious married coworker
    who pretended to care,
    offered me
    sympathy and fellatio
    anytime I needed it.

    I was aghast,
    but still heartbroken.

    After weeks
    of dreamless nights
    crying and trembling,
    I could no longer
    resist.

    She looked me in the eyes
    and said:
    “No One Will Ever Know.”

    I gave in
    and shot all my hate
    rage and anguish,
    into her sweaty
    debased body
    that August afternoon.

    Naively,
    I thought that might end it,
    not realizing that she thrived
    on such humiliation.

    The next day
    she offered herself
    as my slave
    to be used
    defiled,
    desecrated.

    Finally,
    my soul sent up a white flag,
    and I unilaterally
    ceased and desisted
    from seeing her again.

    She eventually
    broke her promise
    when she told her husband
    that I tried to rape her.

    So,
    when I tell you I have
    trust issues,
    it isn’t that
    I don’t know
    how to trust;

    I don’t know
    who to trust.

    – Moskowitz

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    1. Wow Mosk. That’s so fn sad and maddening and aweful. Goddamn aweful. I’m sorry. If only we could have met in the real world before our trust was taken, ya know?

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      1. And that wasn’t the first time my trust was taken, but it’s clearly the most stark one-two punch I ever had! Yes, February – July 1994 was an unholy, awful time. Yes, we’d be great friends in “real-life” (whatever “real-life” means). 🙂

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