Deep in its Slumber, the Heart Stirs
Every time I go up for the first time in awhile, I think, “Why the fuck haven’t I hung out with this one particular dude that I keep fantasizing about getting his consent to try Ponyplay and breaking him Western. I don’t know if he’s actually Southern or it’s an affectation, but he’s so much closer to giving cowboy vibes than Tiger ever did.
Tiger was fucking hot in a tight-fitting cowboy shirt, though, and the fella who’s caught my fancy has a sort of pudgy Dad bod going on- I wouldn’t call him fat yet, but he seems to be moving in that direction. And what is a fan of one certain Southern sport but needing a beer gut as the de rigeur body type- that or rail-thin. Huh, roleplayers/comic nerds/etc also seem to come in those two types. Interesting.
I see us in a meadow, and you’re nibbling apple slices from my hand in the center of our picnic, a delightful gleam in your eye as we do a form of public Ponyplay that would raise no eyebrows. As I understand it, doing full suspension bondage in public parks also raises no Bay Area eyebrows, and the resulting sunburns from the sillies who try this but forget sunblock are very pretty. One of the Bay Area kinky rites of Spring.
I would do more munches if I had a partner, or just a friend. I’m so embarrassed about the thing with my current local play partner that maybe I’m allowing myself to cast my gaze in other directions. Which is good, because I feel a bit extra-mean when I step into the Domme role since my separation. Maybe wailing a flogger into someone is one of the few ways I feel comfortable venting stress about this whole huge change in my life that I’m having some trouble adapting to? I almost feel less attached to Bay Area people every year, not more, but I know that’s not true. I haven’t made a thousand new friends, but I have some good ones. I hope I can start to conquer my issues that keep me from being a consistent friend.
But sometimes, I’m brave enough to say that I’m struggling to a friend who is also BiPolar, and they are always so, so sympathetic. All my flakiness is understood almost implicitly. I miss some of my New England people, I’m sure I always will until I’m living there again (or snowbirding, if I really get my shit together!) but there’s few who have such a huge overlap with my own mental struggles. And they’re a successful artist to boot, and so damn helpful in helping me figure out very ways to connect with the local arts communities here! Can’t wait to eventually have a booth at that local comic/zine con that they told me about many years ago!
I feel like I’m running out of time to start a particular graphic novel, but I promised myself I’d start sketching shit out before I turned 49. I still intend to keep that promise, though I understand I may need to stretch into 48 hours awake to access pure Flow state. But then, sleep as long as I need, with alarms going off annoyingly until I wake just enough to feed my cat. I once slept 24 hours because I’d been up 3 days straight, and that’s just unfair to Ramsay, as well as a very poor mental health decision.
Some nights are not for sleeping, though, and as long as I honor that (especially after too-long depressive spells like the one I just pulled out of), I’ll be fine. I’m much more afraid of my mania than my depression, which is odd considering that it’s the inverse that carries the highest risk of hurting myself. That’s not quite it- it’s that I had manic moments where I hurt friends and loved ones, and I’d much rather turn those claws inward.
Huh. I’m punishing myself by isolating myself to this degree. Daaaaamn. I want to video call the friend I‘ve been fighting with this week, because I’m starting to understand where that well of rage and sorrow is coming from. Like, “Didn’t I teach you not to fall for this Patriarchal trick? I really thought I did.” Maybe I can do it better through a graphic novel. Detail all my struggles, the brushes with both Bulimia and Anorexia, though thank fuck I had enough padding that those few starving months were short, unnoticed, and didn’t have lasting effects on my health.
And then I realize, it was feminism that saved my life. Otherwise I would be one of the millions on eternal diets, letting a scale determine my mood for the day/week. Feminism gave me the tools to be a lazy fat fuck instead. (Nah, that was all me- how did I live so close to gorgeous woods and stop exploring them?)
More to say, but I’ve got to start poking at dinner.