Is it real? I sat in my appointment with my therapist this morning and (what I thought was ‘unfortunately’) talked almost the whole time about things that had happened with GL on the weekend. Eventually I really got the point of saying how confused I was. How ashamed I was of keeping on going with what feels like a purely sex-driven relationship on one hand, and on the other hand feels like one of the most grounding things I’ve been involved in with someone… Then I started to cry. As I almost am right now, writing this. I feel pretty connected to this guy. Like pretty connected. In that we talk…heatedly all the time. And we do it to figure things out. Not to destroy… He seems to want to figure shit out. And then keep going. And I LOVE that. Cause I want to figure shit out too…

I think he wants to know that I am not a jerk or a narcissist or an alien…or someone with no consciousness of how to get along in the world.

I knew that I was going against conventional norms. I knew that I was doing something that was going to be completely of the map…by ordering my tea first. Ordering without asking him. Just taking my time and my space. I knew it.

I was trying to argue that what I was doing was ok…when…

  1. I knew others would think it wasn’t…or would wonder about it.   AND
  2. I knew that it was ok for me, to me, to do that.

convention, vs personal…ggrrrrr.


Man — that was so difficult a place to get to. That realization that there can be both. That there IS.

I was just afraid to take the liberty of doing and being myself…all of the time before…

Why do tears come when I think of this? When I realize the freedom I have? When I think of revealing that? Because it is a release. A relief…to feel like…I can have a reason, and someone else should be interested. And they can not tell me that I am a shit person, that I don’t care…that I don’t care about them? That I am unacceptable?

I have done less acceptable things in my opinion. Like gone over to his house in the middle of the night when he invited me. Like not leaving at a half decent time. Staying because I felt comfortable staying. And because I was trying to make the booty call thing less of…a booty call thing.

Of all of the shit he does with me that is…not within acceptable conventions. Conventions of what to do if you want to spend time with someone. What to do if you like someone. What to do if you want someone to know that you like them. What to do if you want to see someone again? What to do if you want to give someone a good impression? Or not give them a bad impression? What crosses the line?

He hasn’t asked me to do anything but come over to his place.

Why did he stick around and not leave Bampot? Why did he overlook it for the moment and then ask me for another date? Is his approach to me the way it is because he doesn’t know if I am ‘unacceptable’? Is he staying safe, at a distance, until he knows whether I will do that again?

Why don’t I care about convention when I am getting to know a guy? Why don’t I want to commit to convention? Because it all ends up in a girl being in the vulnerable dis-empowered position in the relationship. Everything ends up with the girl waiting. With the girl accepting and not being able to disapprove or express dis-satisfaction with something that is happening.

…I assume he is not going to respect me. I’m afraid of getting steamrolled. I am afraid to bending over and getting fucked. Or at least someone else taking all of the liberties. And that is what he is doing now.

I want to not respect him before he disrespects me.

He knows that it is not good, that it does not feel good for me to be that last thing on his list of things to do each week…or even less often. But he does it anyway. He never asks what’s going on with me and whether HE can fit in…

At least he is honest…(?).

Fuck — things just got real today. Letting all of that sink in. Something is real.

And the solution is always—creating an empowered, happy, fun life.



About wonderfulshantelle

Journey To My Wonderful Self

Posted on April 10, 2017, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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