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Minikin's Journal

Routine Ramblings of an Occasionally Interesting Housewife

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Writing helps
Long and Rambly most garbage, but writing always helps.

I write for me, and yet I no longer ever filter. Reading may hurt, so don't. Writing is essential, if reading yields understanding then better.

There is an art made from pigments and water and oil. The oil keeps the pigments separate from the water and from each other, an agent mixes, the media takes an impression of the mixture, saving it in the colors that form from the pigments. As temporary as an easter egg, intermediate as stationery, permanent as the image etched forever in the mind of the artist.

What's inside?

What's on the top?

All swirled together, what to choose, what stands out.


The fear has been building for a lifetime, formed from bits, many thrown out as insignificant.

Yes, there can still be fear when there is trust, if the fear comes from inside.

I touched Flar. Friday night, I went to sleep after shedding tears, tears that I'd tried to hold back from him, tears he didn't cause, tears I thought he had no understanding about the cause. He held me, he whispered to me, kindness and love in his voice. Only care, no judgement. In the morning, I touched him. Stroked his back, scritched, then felt lower. He had said it would be okay that I had only to reach out, and here I was in no condition to complete anything I started, but he touched me.

And woke the fear.

I can't pull, but I can receive. And the energy threatens a door that should stay closed, it keeps in the blackness the darkness. Passion is dark, full of desire that is no mere wanting a need that is all encompassing and unending. Madness.

Fear of madness.

There was, for a long time, control. More and more control learned over time that encased more and more behind the door.

Release should be joy.

In the supposed wisdom of my far off youth, I knew that no one was normal, that to chase after normality is to deny ones self, an escape from reality that leads to madness. To embrace oneself and differences is to feel to live to breathe.

Darkness awaits.

There was an easy, care-free time. Loved by all, any for the taking, the time only for pleasure and joy and ecstasy. But ecstasy is madness.

For a long time now, I've held the madness inside, shaped it, controlled it, shared it with so very few. Intensity too dangerous for such treatment. How to explain that my body is on fire from nerve-tip to nerve-tip, that orgasm is merely some formal expression of release, but that for me the release is from consciousness, from all control. Only safe with someone who can take that control from me, be responsible for us both, keep our minds safe.

Calling myself a switch was a simplistic, convenient label. Thirst for blood, not the taste, but the energy of it, pulsing fresh from arteries, shedding life. The feel of flesh tearing apart under nails, tearing and ripping. Knives a necessity, for skin is much stronger than one would imagine, and teeth such dull tools. Twisting and rending and feeling my muscles strain against power and strength.

I know it hasn't always been like this.

I remember laughter.

Gushing with joyful fluids and sharing feelings of pleasure and unity and wanting it to never end.

The madness is need, and feeding it is an addiction.

One can stop smoking.

One can't stop eating.

I evaluate my health by many measures, some by accomplishment, some by serenity, but is there need for passion?

Passion that lures me, leads, leaves me wanting ever more.

I was afraid of what lay behind the barrier, and I find too many have the key to unlocking that barrier. Tired. Facing the daunting task of self-control.

I've wallowed in the luxury of turning that responsibility over to another for far too long now.

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Long? Not so bad. Rambly? Yes, and usefully so. Full of garbage? On the contrary, dear one, this may be the most important thing you've written since I started reading your journal again. I read all of the rest of the details of your life, the bills paid and the bowling scores, in order to read something like this.

I never meant as much to you as Wolf did. That's not a complaint or a criticism, by the way, it's just a fact. But you changed at some point. That's not a criticism in and of itself either, because all living things change over time, while remaining essentially themselves, until death. That's the mystery and the reality of life.

But the thing that I was tiptoeing for fear of, and I think the thing that Flar got distant for fear of, is that at some point you became much, much more prone to two things: looking for the worst possible motive someone could have for what they did, and then reacting to what they did with emotional levels far, far above what even that worst-case scenario would call for. And it baffled all of us who love you, because for the life of me I have no idea why you started doing this, or why you had such a hard time seeing that this was what you were doing?

"There was an easy, care-free time. Loved by all, any for the taking, the time only for pleasure and joy and ecstasy. But ecstasy is madness."
Ecstasy is madness? Who told you that? What did you do during or because of ecstasy that was actually insane? What did somebody else do to you because of or during ecstasy that was actually insane?

Did you conclude that ecstasy was no longer your friend, but a fearsome thing to be caged in and controlled and rationed and limited to the most narrow of boundaries? Dear God, that would explain a lot. I wondered how the happy, smiling, clever, witty, and so, so sexy redhead I knew got so angry, and that would do it. All that fear, all that anger, and nowhere for it to go? If that were so, it certainly would vent in random irrelevant directions, that almost goes without saying.

Madness? Really?

Wow. I thought that you never felt more alive and never felt more like yourself than when you had plenty of ecstatic experience in your life?

bald man has wisdom :)

as *you* do in your post.
You did change, and maybe you should try really hard to work on the 'why' - if you can figure that out (if it's figurable), it would probably help. It wouldn't miraculously change you back; but it could give you useful information and perspective.
I know I had a major change in my life almost 20 years back, and I've never figured out the 'why', but still mourn the loss of what I was.
I must go now, but I'll comment on you next post later.
huggles - love you

Wow. A very strong post, despite (or because of?) it being sort of rambly.

I think things like this are why you might consider seeing a professional therapist, someone whom you can be honest and open with and who can help you to figure out what has happened to cause this shift and how to best heal it.

Whatever else happens, you are loved. *hug*

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