And now for some (poetic) repetition!

My apologies in advance to the three or so of you who read this blog (hi! *waves*) for this redux interpretation of what I posted 5 days ago. I’m still working through the best way to articulate a difficult feeling–and in the process, hopefully to exorcise it.

And if anyone is so inclined, I recommend that when you read what follows, you read it aloud. I think it works much better aloud.

Happy Friday, y’all!

[UPDATE: Who’m I kidding? Nobody’s sitting in their room, reading blogs aloud. So I went ahead and read it aloud for ya! Check out audio file below.]

about masturbation and other words I am forbidden to say

It is undeniable. I am feeling better. I am feeling possible.
Many days I feel downright good
Save that one rotten spot in the back left corner of my brain
That I keep prodding like a bruise to see if it still hurts.
It still hurts. And I still don’t want to know that.
No. I want to know how I feel possible and not get distracted by how
As the animal reasserts itself in health
I find myself hungry again for things I still cannot have. Continue reading “And now for some (poetic) repetition!”

In Which I Talk Shamelessly About Masturbation

[content note: self-injury]

Egon Schiele, Kneeling Girl Resting on Both Elbows (via)

A few months ago, I talked to my therapist about it.

I apologized first.

“I want to talk about masturbation,” I said and apologized again.

She assured me she would listen to whatever I wanted to say. That I could talk without concern for her well-being. We sometimes take turns reminding me that she can take care of herself in our conversations.

As I described the paroxysm of grief that had overwhelmed me the night before–how the gasp of orgasm had become a wail of sorrow, how sobbing overtook me and did not let go for a full half-hour–it occurred to me that she might not understand the particular shame I was apologizing for.

“I’m not ashamed to tell you I masturbate,” I said, head cocked to one side and eyes focused on her intently. “I mean, I’ve been doing this since I was a kid. I always assume most adults are the same.”

She cocked her head back at me and waited.

“I’m not talking about this like, ‘well, everybody masturbates,’ or a joke the way TV shows run laugh tracks when the guy pulls a vibrator out of the woman’s drawer. And not ironic or academic, either. Not like reading a study on whether lesbians prefer their dildos realistically phallic-shaped or not.”

I paused, then continued in a voice so quiet she had to lean forward to hear me.

“I’m saying it matters to me. I’m saying I do it because I like it, and I like that I like it. I like that it matters to me.

“And I care that I am now frightened of what happens in my head when I do.”

My therapist nodded slowly as she took my words in.

Continue reading “In Which I Talk Shamelessly About Masturbation”


7 days ago, I forced myself to move over 18″ towards the center of my mattress when I went to bed. I’ve done it every night since, as well as during the daylight naps I require on most days to function. The resulting change in my sleep has been unexpectedly freaky.

For starters, I now wake up to bedsheets arranged like this:


Think what you will about my not-exactly-PTSD-but-still-post-traumatic sleep habits up till now: at least making my bed was easy. Anybody who sleeps right at the edge of their bed because they’re scared of the person on the other side…let’s just say, even in cases where the frightening person is no longer actually there, you still tend to not disturb the sheets much.

Though I’m realizing you can create one helluva sunken spot in your mattress.