Post by danikat13 on Nov 25, 2011 1:42:39 GMT -5
I remember being in the passenger seat,
as I often was at that time in my life.
We were driving down a long and winding dusty back road when he suddenly stopped.
The only thing I noticed was his attention placed briefly onto me.
Onto my body.
He told me to recline my seat,
so I did.
I did whatever it took to keep his attention.
The attention I never had and never knew before.
The attention of a desire that must be consumed.
And then he consumed me,
in the way that I would allow anyone giving me attention to consume
my body,
my thoughts,
my hopes
and all of those f***** up fantasies I had about what love really was.
Love was in body in the bucket seat of a 1984 Toyota Corolla on a dusty back road with a boy that knew not of love,
but of physical need
and of opportunity.
Somewhere in the back of my mind,
that part of my mind that knew reality but did not allow my consciousness to believe it was possible,
I knew that this act, this physical need, was not about me.
It was about him.
When the seat back was raised to its full and upright position,
my body was wet with sweat
and other fluids I tried to ignore.
Gathering my clothes and my modesty on the side of the car,
he drove off,
leaving me
all alone
on that long and winding dusty back road.
In reality, I was still in the passenger seat.
However,
a part of me that I would never see again
was left back there forever.
And so the process of being a passenger in my own life,
that degradation of
self-image and
self-confidence, became habit.
I lived not for myself,
but for the immediate and urgent feeling that I thought would fulfill me,
by allowing my body pleasure.
Not pleasure for me,
but pleasure for others.
Wasn’t it natural to want to connect on a non-verbal level with another being?
Wasn’t it natural to want to be so close that you feel the heartbeat of another through your own?
I thought it was,
but I now know that that was not the way to do it.
That was not the way to expose my vulnerability.
That was not the way to feel validated in this cold, cruel world
where users will use those willing to let them use them up.
Then,
like anything,
dispose of that thing that is no longer useful.
I was no longer useful.
Moving onto the next glimpse of light,
of feeling,
of becoming lost even further in my quest for conquests,
I unexpectedly allowed myself to hear that little voice that had been so irresponsibly placed on mute.
I allowed myself to feel the true emotion
I had suppressed for so long.
It was not physical love I desired.
It was emotional love that I truly longed for.
And then I was sad.
I was broken.
I was broken due to the detour I had allowed myself to take.
I was broken due to the pieces of myself left on the side of the road,
in the bedrooms of tall and handsome strangers,
in parties of ill-repute,
and in the filthy bathroom of a dive bar in Deep Ellum.
I was broken to the point where I had no idea if I could be fixed.
And then I did something I could never predict:
I cried.
For the first time in my life,
I cried with whaling sobs of unexplored emotion.
I cried with trembling lips.
I cried with heavy heaving in my chest.
Then I cried softly,
and softer still,
until the tears ceased to drip down my black-stained cheeks.
A new calmness fell across my body.
The realization that I could feel,
that I could feel something real,
washed over me.
I took a deep breath
and I exhaled a long,
exhausted
sigh of relief
for the perpetual angst which had released itself from my weary soul.
I then opened the door to the drivers’ seat,
and I drove away.
Happy.
Happy in the solitude.
Happy in the control.
Happy in the knowledge that
I would never hurt myself again
in the way I had been doing for so long.
as I often was at that time in my life.
We were driving down a long and winding dusty back road when he suddenly stopped.
The only thing I noticed was his attention placed briefly onto me.
Onto my body.
He told me to recline my seat,
so I did.
I did whatever it took to keep his attention.
The attention I never had and never knew before.
The attention of a desire that must be consumed.
And then he consumed me,
in the way that I would allow anyone giving me attention to consume
my body,
my thoughts,
my hopes
and all of those f***** up fantasies I had about what love really was.
Love was in body in the bucket seat of a 1984 Toyota Corolla on a dusty back road with a boy that knew not of love,
but of physical need
and of opportunity.
Somewhere in the back of my mind,
that part of my mind that knew reality but did not allow my consciousness to believe it was possible,
I knew that this act, this physical need, was not about me.
It was about him.
When the seat back was raised to its full and upright position,
my body was wet with sweat
and other fluids I tried to ignore.
Gathering my clothes and my modesty on the side of the car,
he drove off,
leaving me
all alone
on that long and winding dusty back road.
In reality, I was still in the passenger seat.
However,
a part of me that I would never see again
was left back there forever.
And so the process of being a passenger in my own life,
that degradation of
self-image and
self-confidence, became habit.
I lived not for myself,
but for the immediate and urgent feeling that I thought would fulfill me,
by allowing my body pleasure.
Not pleasure for me,
but pleasure for others.
Wasn’t it natural to want to connect on a non-verbal level with another being?
Wasn’t it natural to want to be so close that you feel the heartbeat of another through your own?
I thought it was,
but I now know that that was not the way to do it.
That was not the way to expose my vulnerability.
That was not the way to feel validated in this cold, cruel world
where users will use those willing to let them use them up.
Then,
like anything,
dispose of that thing that is no longer useful.
I was no longer useful.
Moving onto the next glimpse of light,
of feeling,
of becoming lost even further in my quest for conquests,
I unexpectedly allowed myself to hear that little voice that had been so irresponsibly placed on mute.
I allowed myself to feel the true emotion
I had suppressed for so long.
It was not physical love I desired.
It was emotional love that I truly longed for.
And then I was sad.
I was broken.
I was broken due to the detour I had allowed myself to take.
I was broken due to the pieces of myself left on the side of the road,
in the bedrooms of tall and handsome strangers,
in parties of ill-repute,
and in the filthy bathroom of a dive bar in Deep Ellum.
I was broken to the point where I had no idea if I could be fixed.
And then I did something I could never predict:
I cried.
For the first time in my life,
I cried with whaling sobs of unexplored emotion.
I cried with trembling lips.
I cried with heavy heaving in my chest.
Then I cried softly,
and softer still,
until the tears ceased to drip down my black-stained cheeks.
A new calmness fell across my body.
The realization that I could feel,
that I could feel something real,
washed over me.
I took a deep breath
and I exhaled a long,
exhausted
sigh of relief
for the perpetual angst which had released itself from my weary soul.
I then opened the door to the drivers’ seat,
and I drove away.
Happy.
Happy in the solitude.
Happy in the control.
Happy in the knowledge that
I would never hurt myself again
in the way I had been doing for so long.