An Open Letter to the Possibility of Radical Love
This weekend, I attended a polyamory/non-monogamy caucus at the 21st Annual Creating Change Conference in Denver, CO. I attended because, theoretically, I believe that a single human being can have multiple partners and multiple loves. I also believe that an individual can have a sexual connection with another human being, outsides the confines of his or her primary relationship, that do not take away from what is being built with a life partner. I am also a slut. I came out and was raised by a queer youth community, at the end of 1990s, that was politically and sexual radical, embracing polyamory, non-monogamy, and ethical sluttishness as celebrations and re-articulation of what it means to be sex positive.
I also, for the first time in my life, find myself in an open relationship. And all of the practiced rhetoric around sex positivity, all of my confessed beliefs around the possibility of multiple loves, and all of my talk about the beauty and raw sexual connection inside and outside of my relationship have come screaming up against the reality of my past. I grew up desperately abused. I grew up mentally hammered by parents that were working out their own hurts on their children. I survived sexual assault in college. I have a Father that could not be there for me, a Father that could have been there but instead beat me and then left, and a Father that could not survive the recession of the mid-80s and when things got difficult--abandoned our family. The three men that I called Father have all contributed, in their way, to a very real blockage in my ability to embrace the life that I know is right and true for me.
So the question becomes, how do I stay true to myself? True to the beautiful slut and openly loving human being that I am and that has chosen to live a life that embraces the ways in which sensual and sexual pleasure can enhance ones life instead of being a secret shame force within it.
To begin with, I have a ridiculously patient partner. He is older than I am, and he has had a decade more time to deal with his own issues in this particular area. He is careful to maintain his boundaries of terms of being able to exercise his right to have some fun now and again outside of our relationship, but he balances that with making sure that the fun he is having is not causing undue harm with us. We don’t always agree. There are very real limits that I draw in my play and in my flirting with other people that are not there for him. They are a grey area where neither of our approach is right or wrong. He puts me first and as long as that remains true, then those grey areas become less important to define. And this coming from the queen of rules, regulations, and clearly defined borders. There are and will be areas that will need definition in our relationship. Communication is one of our strong points, and it is something that we need to continue to work at. But, the truth remains that there is only so much he can do when it is clear that the real work is internal to me.
A strategy that I have chosen is to externalize my thoughts, feelings, and struggles as much as possible (while still respecting the intense need for privacy of my partner---something that I, obviously, do not share. My friends call me IRA: I Require Attention). I have found that when I am faced with feelings of jealousy, with feelings of insecurity, with feeling threatened, if I stop the moment and say out loud what it is that I am thinking and feeling. If I just put it out in the air, then I am able to look at it and let it go. The emotions can run their course and I come out the other side feeling fine. When the emotions arise, and I ride them. When I let them work their way into my psyche unchecked that is when knee jerk and deeply programmed self-protection behaviors kick in that served a very real purpose in literally keeping me alive and safe as a child but that now hinder my advancement as an adult.
There’s the kicker. The ability to recognize potential threats is intensely heightened in abuse survivors. It was once at the core of our ability to know when to exit a scene, (room, car, park, home) in order to reduce our chance of mental or physical harm. As an adult, that has translated for me into subconscious reactions designed to distance me from any and all individuals that would otherwise have the power to deeply wound me as my emotions and feelings for them grew. In the context of a deeply loving and supportive relationship, particularly one in which safety and feelings of support are freely given and nurtured, the threat of losing that is sometimes overwhelming and short circuits any and all attempts to cut off the deeply ingrained protectionist mechanisms of the past.
I am also going to therapy---what I can’t figure out how to fix on my own--I am unashamed to turn over to a professional. Also, zoloft helps ;-).
The one area where I need to give myself grace, and also ask for more grace from my partner, is that I am attempting to heal and reverse what amounts to roughly 28-31 years of abuse (self inflicted and otherwise). I am asking myself to unlearn and dissect almost three decades of behavior and feelings and ways of being. And I am foolish if I believe (and lately I have been trying to make myself believe) that after roughly eight months in a loving relationship, I should have or even could have moved any further along than I am and have with this process of healing and renewal.
Patience with oneself while at the same time pushing oneself ever forward and onward is the key to unlearning and letting go of those things that once served a purpose but now serve only to keep you from being loved and loving in return in the way that you so choose. In the way that I so choose: in a committed, deeply loving, beautiful open relationship with a partner that is lover and friend. I am doing this not for us, but for me. And by doing this for me, I make us stronger.
Showing posts with label Fathers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fathers. Show all posts
Monday, February 2, 2009
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Passing Fathers
The Fathers of two of my friends are dying. The Father of another friend passed away in the last three weeks. And, I found out today that the father of a man with whom I was to meet tomorrow is also deathly ill. In times such as these I find myself at a loss. I have no idea how you truly provide comfort and support to someone that has just lost or is in immenent peril of losing a parent. Frankly, I anticipate falling completely apart when the mortality of my Mother comes knocking. But, particularly with Fathers and death, I find myself confronting an entire host of complicated and conflicting feelings.
As an abstract concept I understand the concept of Father. As a matter of fact, at one time or another, I have legally had four Fathers in my lifetime. In practice, there are two men that I have called Dad—my biological father William and my first step-father, and the man that raised me during the formative years, Clinton. One man my brother and I had decided to call Dad just before he abandoned my Mother and left us in Kansas City. My current step-father married my Mother two years ago and is four months younger than I am. He doesn't really fit into the Father equation. My birth Father popped in and out of my life every three or four years until I was a teenager, as he was in the military and moved around the world. At the feet of my step-father I can lay most of my psychological trauma—I wrote extensively about him on my old blog at www.itainttruthifitdoesnthurt.blogs.friendster.com. Look for the entry called Whose Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.
I have spent a lot of time thinking about my Father(s), the impact or lack of presence they have had on my life, the wounds that I have carried around that, at this point, are my fault and no longer theirs (at some point, as adults, we have to realize that though they may have wounded us as youth...the only way those wounds can keep bleedings is if we keep ripping them open), and the legacy, role, and history of black men and why so many turn out like my Fathers.
But, as I have engaged with friends---many of whom share a similar history of disconnection and dysfunction when it comes to their own fathers—I have found myself wondering at my lack of ability to offer anything more than surface platitudes and an empathy that is responding to their pain as opposed to their experience. Juxtaposed against the very clear idea that I have and the ghost hurt I have felt even imagining the passing of my Mother, my confusion, contradictory emotions, and awkwardness at connecting with loss or potential loss of a dad is sharply outlined.
I am at an age where friends are having babies and the parents of friends are beginning to die. This is a new stage in my life, one that illuminates ever more clearly that whether I am ready or not, I am moving into a generational experience where I and my peers are expected to take up the official reigns of leadership, care for our ailing parents, and begin creating, prepping, and educating the generation that will come after us. It seems ludicrous that in that context that I still have so much to sort out with regards to a parent(s), nor is it hopeful watching those I care about, some of whom are older, trying to grapple with some of the same issues as their Father is dying.
It is hurtful, to me, to watch friends have to set aside the wounds and pain and hurt caused by their dying parent in order to ease the passing of that individual. It is n honorable sacrifice on the part of my friends that they are setting aside their very real grievances and hurt, but it also seems to me that there should be, in the minds of these passing shapers of young lives, a corresponding desire and move to frankly evaluate their lives and attempt to make amends for their shortcomings. Ideally we do this as we live, but, it seems that the principle of Last Rites and Last Confession should be applied broadly in principle if not in practice: a final reckoning of sin and, if necessary, making amends with your last breath.
I don't necessarily have a point to this other than to share my confusion and to publicly acknowledge the loss to those that have lost and the love and honor that those who are losing are sharing with those that are dying. They should have that love and honor lauded by those that still live even if those that are passing are unable to do so.
As an abstract concept I understand the concept of Father. As a matter of fact, at one time or another, I have legally had four Fathers in my lifetime. In practice, there are two men that I have called Dad—my biological father William and my first step-father, and the man that raised me during the formative years, Clinton. One man my brother and I had decided to call Dad just before he abandoned my Mother and left us in Kansas City. My current step-father married my Mother two years ago and is four months younger than I am. He doesn't really fit into the Father equation. My birth Father popped in and out of my life every three or four years until I was a teenager, as he was in the military and moved around the world. At the feet of my step-father I can lay most of my psychological trauma—I wrote extensively about him on my old blog at www.itainttruthifitdoesnthurt.blogs.friendster.com. Look for the entry called Whose Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.
I have spent a lot of time thinking about my Father(s), the impact or lack of presence they have had on my life, the wounds that I have carried around that, at this point, are my fault and no longer theirs (at some point, as adults, we have to realize that though they may have wounded us as youth...the only way those wounds can keep bleedings is if we keep ripping them open), and the legacy, role, and history of black men and why so many turn out like my Fathers.
But, as I have engaged with friends---many of whom share a similar history of disconnection and dysfunction when it comes to their own fathers—I have found myself wondering at my lack of ability to offer anything more than surface platitudes and an empathy that is responding to their pain as opposed to their experience. Juxtaposed against the very clear idea that I have and the ghost hurt I have felt even imagining the passing of my Mother, my confusion, contradictory emotions, and awkwardness at connecting with loss or potential loss of a dad is sharply outlined.
I am at an age where friends are having babies and the parents of friends are beginning to die. This is a new stage in my life, one that illuminates ever more clearly that whether I am ready or not, I am moving into a generational experience where I and my peers are expected to take up the official reigns of leadership, care for our ailing parents, and begin creating, prepping, and educating the generation that will come after us. It seems ludicrous that in that context that I still have so much to sort out with regards to a parent(s), nor is it hopeful watching those I care about, some of whom are older, trying to grapple with some of the same issues as their Father is dying.
It is hurtful, to me, to watch friends have to set aside the wounds and pain and hurt caused by their dying parent in order to ease the passing of that individual. It is n honorable sacrifice on the part of my friends that they are setting aside their very real grievances and hurt, but it also seems to me that there should be, in the minds of these passing shapers of young lives, a corresponding desire and move to frankly evaluate their lives and attempt to make amends for their shortcomings. Ideally we do this as we live, but, it seems that the principle of Last Rites and Last Confession should be applied broadly in principle if not in practice: a final reckoning of sin and, if necessary, making amends with your last breath.
I don't necessarily have a point to this other than to share my confusion and to publicly acknowledge the loss to those that have lost and the love and honor that those who are losing are sharing with those that are dying. They should have that love and honor lauded by those that still live even if those that are passing are unable to do so.
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