I just recently moved in with my man. We took our time, did everything right, talked about it for months, he played the game of push-pull, and we eventually made the leap after deliberate negotiations, counseling, and feeling into our bodies and the situation.
Since moving out at eighteen, I had lived with many men, but never had it been so deliberate. I would usually just wake up one morning to discover that the asshole had moved in, and then experience the fall out. But this time it's different. What I've wanted—pretty much more than anything—since puberty started to percolate, was to be partnered in relationship with my soulmate. By soulmate, I mean a man who has similar sensibilities in such things as faith, music, food, lifestyle, and such; but primarily I had a sense he would be one who I felt safe with, trusted, and had a deep (and deeply satisfying) connection with—the other stuff is ultimately superfluous.
Was this too much to ask? Apparently so.
After engaging in so many abusive relationships—both physically and mentally—I had all but given up, relinquishing to the fact that real Love wasn't for me. I took a year off sex (and men in general, really) because I was so terrified of making the same bad decisions, studied yoga and Jungian psychology, and moved out of town.
This place had been my home for over twenty years, it was a place fraught with trials and tribulations, and now it was time for something new. While cocooning at my grandparent's house for a while, I ran into an old friend who reawakened me to my mid-thirties sex drive, and who showed me that sex can be both magical and moving. He introduced me to orgasmic meditation, and showed me that one needn't be a dick-wad to give good dick. He had opened me, and I was ready.
Enter Adam.
For the first half of our relationship, everything was going so well I would think to myself, "There is no way this will work". I had been so used to fighting for affection that I couldn't see I was finally getting what I had prayed for.
It was during a Pleasure Course event when I realized what was happening—we were asked to feel into our earliest childhood memories, and an image kept appearing to me of when I was very little and my stepfather had asked for me to call him "dad". I must've been three or four, and from what I can remember, I threw a huge fit. This wasn't my real dad (even though he was the one raising me, and giving me the love and attention I needed as a wee lass), I didn't like him, and I wasn't going to do what he wanted! It was with this memory that I figured out my resistance to Adam being a potential "The One". He was attentive and giving me everything I wanted so he couldn't possibly be my real lover. The real one was someone who was aloof, unavailable, who would prioritize anything else over me—like my memories of my real dad. It was such an a-ha moment, and still brings tears to my eyes. It was with this memory, and all of the feelings that go along with it, that I realized I could potentially marry this guy somewhere down the road. Now, that was a scary notion! All of the other buffoons were ultimately safe. There was no way on God's green Earth that I would marry one of those suckers, no way I would ever have to commit. And now, here I was, getting what I wanted, and being face with commitment—yikes.
Well, I took the first step in facing my fears, and now here we are—cohabitating. So, if I'm so happy and getting everything I want, why am I crying? Once again, I am going to take my teacher's advice and do what I want to avoid—feel into it. I've been avoiding feeling these poopy experiences for so long, it seems painful to sit still and just be with this sacred yuck, to explore the quagmires, tedious to try and find the source of the burbling gurgling that might possibly set me free.
When I inquired within, I discovered another memory. At first I thought it had nothing to do with the current situation and I told it to go away. But, as I delved deeper and fully felt through that thought, I noticed a distinct connection.
When I was in sixth grade, life was pretty dang good. Fifth grade had been rugged (thank you very much, Mrs. Houston), but we were movin' on up! My mom and stepdad had officially been married, and now we were moving into a fancy new home we had built from scratch in a fancy new housing development, I was attending a bigger (and in my eyes, better) school, making new friends, and discovering boys. We had 14' vaulted ceilings, and for Christmas we rambled on a snowy expedition together, as a family, to cut down a tree which had no business being indoors—in fact, it put up one Hell of a fight getting in the dang house! This was the Norman Rockwell painting life was supposed to be.
Since moving out at eighteen, I had lived with many men, but never had it been so deliberate. I would usually just wake up one morning to discover that the asshole had moved in, and then experience the fall out. But this time it's different. What I've wanted—pretty much more than anything—since puberty started to percolate, was to be partnered in relationship with my soulmate. By soulmate, I mean a man who has similar sensibilities in such things as faith, music, food, lifestyle, and such; but primarily I had a sense he would be one who I felt safe with, trusted, and had a deep (and deeply satisfying) connection with—the other stuff is ultimately superfluous.
Was this too much to ask? Apparently so.
After engaging in so many abusive relationships—both physically and mentally—I had all but given up, relinquishing to the fact that real Love wasn't for me. I took a year off sex (and men in general, really) because I was so terrified of making the same bad decisions, studied yoga and Jungian psychology, and moved out of town.
This place had been my home for over twenty years, it was a place fraught with trials and tribulations, and now it was time for something new. While cocooning at my grandparent's house for a while, I ran into an old friend who reawakened me to my mid-thirties sex drive, and who showed me that sex can be both magical and moving. He introduced me to orgasmic meditation, and showed me that one needn't be a dick-wad to give good dick. He had opened me, and I was ready.
Enter Adam.
For the first half of our relationship, everything was going so well I would think to myself, "There is no way this will work". I had been so used to fighting for affection that I couldn't see I was finally getting what I had prayed for.
It was during a Pleasure Course event when I realized what was happening—we were asked to feel into our earliest childhood memories, and an image kept appearing to me of when I was very little and my stepfather had asked for me to call him "dad". I must've been three or four, and from what I can remember, I threw a huge fit. This wasn't my real dad (even though he was the one raising me, and giving me the love and attention I needed as a wee lass), I didn't like him, and I wasn't going to do what he wanted! It was with this memory that I figured out my resistance to Adam being a potential "The One". He was attentive and giving me everything I wanted so he couldn't possibly be my real lover. The real one was someone who was aloof, unavailable, who would prioritize anything else over me—like my memories of my real dad. It was such an a-ha moment, and still brings tears to my eyes. It was with this memory, and all of the feelings that go along with it, that I realized I could potentially marry this guy somewhere down the road. Now, that was a scary notion! All of the other buffoons were ultimately safe. There was no way on God's green Earth that I would marry one of those suckers, no way I would ever have to commit. And now, here I was, getting what I wanted, and being face with commitment—yikes.
Well, I took the first step in facing my fears, and now here we are—cohabitating. So, if I'm so happy and getting everything I want, why am I crying? Once again, I am going to take my teacher's advice and do what I want to avoid—feel into it. I've been avoiding feeling these poopy experiences for so long, it seems painful to sit still and just be with this sacred yuck, to explore the quagmires, tedious to try and find the source of the burbling gurgling that might possibly set me free.
When I inquired within, I discovered another memory. At first I thought it had nothing to do with the current situation and I told it to go away. But, as I delved deeper and fully felt through that thought, I noticed a distinct connection.
When I was in sixth grade, life was pretty dang good. Fifth grade had been rugged (thank you very much, Mrs. Houston), but we were movin' on up! My mom and stepdad had officially been married, and now we were moving into a fancy new home we had built from scratch in a fancy new housing development, I was attending a bigger (and in my eyes, better) school, making new friends, and discovering boys. We had 14' vaulted ceilings, and for Christmas we rambled on a snowy expedition together, as a family, to cut down a tree which had no business being indoors—in fact, it put up one Hell of a fight getting in the dang house! This was the Norman Rockwell painting life was supposed to be.
Then came seventh grade. Somewhere near the middle of the year (I think), I came home from school to SD sitting on the couch waiting for me (I think). He informed me that he and my mom were getting a divorce. I can remember not quite comprehending what was happening at first, then the pain, followed by a wash of numbness.
Our home was breaking, the rug had been pulled out from beneath me, the painting was on fire.
And now I was experiencing the same sort of joys, moves, and family-making that I had experienced in sixth grade. No wonder I was sobbing. Where was this fancy rug, and when was it going to be pulled out, leaving me flat on my back?
My past conditioning had me gearing up for The Fall. Only, this time things can be different. I don't have to live out those memories from the past; I can rewrite this book, tape over that old recording. This realization occurred one night after The Man had come home from a private counseling session. He was asking in his coaching about all of the crap that was coming up for me (at that point, nothing had been verbalized by me. He was following his intuition and sensing a disturbance in The Force.), and feeling into his own imprints from early childhood.
While he was sharing about his session, and the advice that was given, I started bawling uncontrollably. That's when he did the best thing he could have possibly done—he allowed for my experience. He just sat there with me while I did some self-inquiry. He held me while I cried. He saw me as a perfect being in that raw moment. He loved me—for who I am, where I am.
Thank you, Love.
Our home was breaking, the rug had been pulled out from beneath me, the painting was on fire.
And now I was experiencing the same sort of joys, moves, and family-making that I had experienced in sixth grade. No wonder I was sobbing. Where was this fancy rug, and when was it going to be pulled out, leaving me flat on my back?
My past conditioning had me gearing up for The Fall. Only, this time things can be different. I don't have to live out those memories from the past; I can rewrite this book, tape over that old recording. This realization occurred one night after The Man had come home from a private counseling session. He was asking in his coaching about all of the crap that was coming up for me (at that point, nothing had been verbalized by me. He was following his intuition and sensing a disturbance in The Force.), and feeling into his own imprints from early childhood.
While he was sharing about his session, and the advice that was given, I started bawling uncontrollably. That's when he did the best thing he could have possibly done—he allowed for my experience. He just sat there with me while I did some self-inquiry. He held me while I cried. He saw me as a perfect being in that raw moment. He loved me—for who I am, where I am.
Thank you, Love.
Awesome my sweet friend! Awesome!
ReplyDeleteah, my dear, dear jenevie. You perpetual smile will prevail. I loved reading about your process, and I'm hooked. Do you have to have a good credit rating to sign up for this blog? Heck, It's the best thing I've read in my life.
ReplyDeleteStay raw, my dear niece. Never lose your courage to live your truth. Just promise me that you will always freshen your lipstick after a good red puffy face sobbing session. Ruby red mambos make a statement that you are rising up strong, courageous and eager for the next chapter. And I can't wait to read the next chapter!
Good credit, Bad credit, No credit—we accept all kinds! Just press the blue button in the upper right corner over members that says, "Join this site," to subscribe ;) Thanks!
ReplyDeleteBeautiful work, and on my sisters wedding to a man who promised my father to treat her like a Queen. I love.
ReplyDelete