Leave a Message, I’m Not Here

I was up until 4:00 this morning masturbating to Penthouse Letters, eating far too much peanut butter, and sorting out the contents of my head. Mostly the latter.

Skyspook has been inordinately grumpy this past week or so, though for good reason. He recently had a root canal and has been inundated with work stress.

The root canal situation has been exacerbated by the fact that he’s not on anything high octane for the pain. We’re talking Motrin and/or Tylenol.

All understandable.

I was able to surf the anxiety a few nights ago when he got particularly snippy, not letting my face crack, not lashing out at him in retaliation, and not collapsing into tears. I maintained my separation, got him acetaminophen, and refused to engage when I knew it would just end in a bad dialogue.

And it was fine. It all worked out.

*

I don’t know why last night was different. Perhaps it’s just because it all seemed much less logical, predictable – how we traveled from having what I thought was a beautiful, profound conversation to being at odds with one another, both hurt and confused, without knowing exactly how we got there.

I left to take a bath to establish a bit of distance, and by the time I got back, he’d gone up to bed. He was fine, over it, but I was still sick with all the feelings that had gotten stirred up within myself, thinking about things I hadn’t thought about in years and with a completely new perspective.

And shockingly, when faced with my insecurities and failures and misery, what happened?

I became intensely, insanely aroused. In my tears and self-loathing, my body decided it was time to masturbate.

Story of my life.

*

I try to be good. I do. My body has other plans. It’s always wanted to misbehave, developing before I could give consent or even wanted that kind of attention, wanting to eat more than it should, piling on pounds that would inhibit both my movement and my ability to find a compatible partner and establish a family, developing in utero to be female and therefore make less money and be considered less of a professional force to be reckoned with in most industries.

Traitor that it is. My body.

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