Unloveable me

I am scared and alone. 

Tears stain my face, I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

My glassy eyes dart, desperately searching the room, in vain, for familiarity and soft eyes.

A warm buzz surrounds me, numbing my skin from the cold sterile, surface beneath me.

I feel light, yet weighted in restraint, 

like a helium balloon tied in servitude to an adoring child's wrist.

It grows dark. 

Terror dwells in my spine, and my body shakes to release its grasp, 

though I welcome even terror's touch.

I yearn to be held.

As if in response to my plea, I see arms reaching for me.
At first I am frightened, but cognizant that my fear is a product of my piggyback companion,
 I wonder if these arms may be able to help me.
To hold me.

I open my arms wide bracing for embrace...

The reaching arms meet resistance, colliding with a physical barrier, an impenetrable boundary.

The reaching arms do not retreat,
they remain caressing that which separates us, bated in hopes of uniting.

I know this will never be.

I am like a ship in a bottle. Stuck for eternity in the house of mirrors, in truth.

To get me out I must be broken, and once broken I am no longer that adored ship,
but rather a pile sticks heaped in
frustration.

With this realization I pull my knees to my chest, hold myself and drift off to sleep.

Sexual Substitute

Surviving sexual trauma is so hard. But what is the alternative? Not surviving? Though some days, I must admit, I wonder, perhaps even wish that I had died on one of those horrific satanic nights. Then I would not be this emotionally altered, dissociative, asexual deviant. But oh, the things and people I would have missed. Survival is better, most days.

Two nights ago, I am afraid I had a "dissociative episode" during intimate time with my husband. I "awoke" in the throws of passion with no recollection of how I got there.  We have not been sexually intimate in a long time as I am recovering from painful surgery involving my ass (dampens the mood, you see), so that in and of itself was odd. In the past, my husband and I have discussed that nighttime lovin' is a no-no because I usually awake scared, hypervigilant and basically re-traumatized, which is shitty for everyone. He has been very respectful of this fact, so when I "awoke" the other night I knew something strange had transpired, as I doubted that he would violate that trust. Plus, I was not scared or re-traumatized by the act, rather the circumstances, which left me terrified. On the contrary, I think I may have enjoyed myself, except....

Except I had no idea about the events leading up to our sexual reintroduction.

The next morning he was prancing around, happy as a lark, singing our praises from the previous night's escapades. I mustered the courage to ask him, "how did that happen?" He indicated that I was the initiator, and rightfully became a little defensive given the history. I reassured him that it was enjoyable and consensual. I am just not sure who consented.

In the past I have lost time during dissociative episodes, and recently even felt a "switch" from one day to the next. But what the fuck is this about? Do I have an inner sexual savant? Perhaps just a sexual substitute acting as protector? Was I just sleep sexing?

The saga continues...

Smell of Security

I love the smell of Amy's building. I do not know if I love the smell because of the safety and security that I feel  there (on a good day), or if I have always loved the smell and it is just one more reason that it is a good fit. It is impossible to adequately describe the smell. Clean with hint of spice. New carpet with a homey after-smell. Not stimulating. Just subtle and safe, an olfactory piece of heaven.