Good grief
Apr. 29th, 2003 08:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kyburgThat Dante's Inferno meme certainly was popular.
That said, moving on.
Know me well, know that I can be a true confusion at times. For while I will listen, nod and be very tolerant (to some, that means liberal...) - for myself, I am almost abysmally conservative.
Sexually, I like a lot of distance. If I let you touch me without my clothes on, you're one of only a handful I've ever allowed to do so. Do I wonder about changing clothes in a room full of of other women, oh hell yes. Why? If I'm embarrassed, I certainly don't want anyone else to be...yanno?
We'll get into the bisexuality aspects later. Suffice it to say, I was born too early for the idea to ever get safely to me. Consider yourself blessed if you can even consider it. Men who were gay were what I knew; gay women? Never knew one...and the idea of trusting another woman to get inside my personal space to get intimate was akin to pigs sprouting wings. Never happened, and why would it? That's another day.
There has been a lot of stuff floating this week about self-injury. Squick.
I play with my hair. Stressed, I will have both hands in it and not know it. I twirled it into knots with pencils in grade school. But tug on it? Gently, perhaps. Akin to having it firmly brushed - but gently. I'm told this is an active area in massage if you want to soothe someone. Give them a gentle, but firm hair brushing with a natural bristle brush.
But to cut? Scrape? Burn or twist? Oh, no.
I admire other's tats. I think pierced ears are cool and make the jewelry that much more effective. How others have piercings is a personal choice and I admire the effort and thought behind such creative acts of personal displays.
Will I do either? Nope. I have no desire, none whatsoever to even have my ears pierced...let alone anything else. You could draw something on me...as long as it washes off and doesn't involve being poked. To me, that seems right.
I've been depressed enough to consider injuring myself. That was enough to squick me to a phone and the ER faster than anything...ANYTHING...I ever knew. Why, I don't know. I just know it works. I know eyes are on me. And I've never been the kind to hide anything - just too dammed honest, I guess.
My mother pulls my hands out my hair when she sees me twirling it. Gently. It worries her, so I stop. There is nothing more to it than that. I guess that's what it boils down to. If I have pain, it is to be shared...I am not to hurt myself. Where that came from, I can't say - with only one parent and three siblings, that still got ingrained so deep I can't erase it. Was it Mom by herself? I think not. We all have it to some degree. I remember my older brother spending loads of time with me just wanting to know everything...for an afterthought, I was very valuable to my siblings, I think. But then again, Mom had her hand in that as well. She insisted we value each other - it was a house rule.
Don't hurt yourself. It hurts me when you do it. There isn't guilt there - it's love. That, and the complete acceptance of who I am - the love is unconditional. It's the awareness of it that makes self-injury so - alien. Pain...is not a pleasure. It's a warning that something is being misused or in danger of being injured.
I love being cuddled. Held while I drift off to sleep. Snuggled into the crook of an arm, spooning in bed after sex. Being cherished, touched, loved, held...safe. Anything else doesn't make sense. I love to play - why would I love to hurt?
At the end, I am all I have. My One lives inside my heart - I suspect that's why nobody else can get much closer to puppy-pile status with me. But I see myself as my last, best resource...and injuring myself just doesn't make sense.
But I'll put a band-aid on your hurts, listen to your problems and try to help you find your way through it, if that's your wish.
My wish being your happiness, of course. Just - don't be surprised if I pull your hands away, hold them gently in my own until you meet my eyes. I see. I care. It matters. It will always matter.
That said, moving on.
Know me well, know that I can be a true confusion at times. For while I will listen, nod and be very tolerant (to some, that means liberal...) - for myself, I am almost abysmally conservative.
Sexually, I like a lot of distance. If I let you touch me without my clothes on, you're one of only a handful I've ever allowed to do so. Do I wonder about changing clothes in a room full of of other women, oh hell yes. Why? If I'm embarrassed, I certainly don't want anyone else to be...yanno?
We'll get into the bisexuality aspects later. Suffice it to say, I was born too early for the idea to ever get safely to me. Consider yourself blessed if you can even consider it. Men who were gay were what I knew; gay women? Never knew one...and the idea of trusting another woman to get inside my personal space to get intimate was akin to pigs sprouting wings. Never happened, and why would it? That's another day.
There has been a lot of stuff floating this week about self-injury. Squick.
I play with my hair. Stressed, I will have both hands in it and not know it. I twirled it into knots with pencils in grade school. But tug on it? Gently, perhaps. Akin to having it firmly brushed - but gently. I'm told this is an active area in massage if you want to soothe someone. Give them a gentle, but firm hair brushing with a natural bristle brush.
But to cut? Scrape? Burn or twist? Oh, no.
I admire other's tats. I think pierced ears are cool and make the jewelry that much more effective. How others have piercings is a personal choice and I admire the effort and thought behind such creative acts of personal displays.
Will I do either? Nope. I have no desire, none whatsoever to even have my ears pierced...let alone anything else. You could draw something on me...as long as it washes off and doesn't involve being poked. To me, that seems right.
I've been depressed enough to consider injuring myself. That was enough to squick me to a phone and the ER faster than anything...ANYTHING...I ever knew. Why, I don't know. I just know it works. I know eyes are on me. And I've never been the kind to hide anything - just too dammed honest, I guess.
My mother pulls my hands out my hair when she sees me twirling it. Gently. It worries her, so I stop. There is nothing more to it than that. I guess that's what it boils down to. If I have pain, it is to be shared...I am not to hurt myself. Where that came from, I can't say - with only one parent and three siblings, that still got ingrained so deep I can't erase it. Was it Mom by herself? I think not. We all have it to some degree. I remember my older brother spending loads of time with me just wanting to know everything...for an afterthought, I was very valuable to my siblings, I think. But then again, Mom had her hand in that as well. She insisted we value each other - it was a house rule.
Don't hurt yourself. It hurts me when you do it. There isn't guilt there - it's love. That, and the complete acceptance of who I am - the love is unconditional. It's the awareness of it that makes self-injury so - alien. Pain...is not a pleasure. It's a warning that something is being misused or in danger of being injured.
I love being cuddled. Held while I drift off to sleep. Snuggled into the crook of an arm, spooning in bed after sex. Being cherished, touched, loved, held...safe. Anything else doesn't make sense. I love to play - why would I love to hurt?
At the end, I am all I have. My One lives inside my heart - I suspect that's why nobody else can get much closer to puppy-pile status with me. But I see myself as my last, best resource...and injuring myself just doesn't make sense.
But I'll put a band-aid on your hurts, listen to your problems and try to help you find your way through it, if that's your wish.
My wish being your happiness, of course. Just - don't be surprised if I pull your hands away, hold them gently in my own until you meet my eyes. I see. I care. It matters. It will always matter.
