Keeping it Real

I pondered on the prompt for this week’s Wicked Wednesday, unsure if I wanted to write or not. But the phrase used for the prompt (“I don’t want realism. I want magic.”) kept tugging at me. Did I want magic? What about realism? Where did I fall on the continuum of magical through to real?

Magic is appealing. It really is (and I read a whole lot of fantasy!). But for everything I considered where magic would be amazing, I could see what I’d lose as a result.

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“I cannot sleep”

The title is the first line from my favourite poem – but it’s also been distressingly accurate over the last month. While I’ve been getting to sleep just fine (the 3mg melatonin I’ve been prescribed for the last half-decade does the job very well), I kept waking up early. And as my various chronic ailments mean I operate best on an average 9-10 hours sleep? The 7-8 (and occasionally 5-6) I was getting was running me into the ground, and fast.

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State of the Dee

Where did I go?

It’s been weeks since I’ve updated. Given that there’s usually anything between one and four posts a week from me, to go over three weeks without any at all is extremely unusual. The last break I had of any length was actually the end of 2006, when I dropped off the radar for three months – and I wasn’t planning to do that again!

That time, there was no particular reason. This time there was. So, what happened? It started when I went into hospital, in extreme pain – we ran through a bunch of possible diagnoses, ruling out the appendix, kidney and gall stones, and the sacroiliac joint. Every time a new possibility came up, the surgical team, in combination with x-rays and an abdominal MRI, figured out that wasn’t it. And eventually, after three days, they send me home with wicked strong painkillers and orders for bed rest.

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I need to be able to let go – and it’s damned hard for me to do. Over the years I’ve had to hold on and keep it together for so long, that even awesome orgasms only bleed off a bit of it. Mostly I’m still holding on – those subconscious muscles are tensed, and often I can’t figure out how to relax them no matter what I do. Lucky for me, I have amazing partners who are there to help me.

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Pain versus pain

It’s been two weeks today since I took my last painkiller. Technically I am still allowed to take some – I could have taken up to four last week, and up until Sunday this week I am able to take three – but I haven’t needed to.

The last painkillers I took were on my flight over to Melbourne. I haven’t taken any since. This is a HUGE thing. Because remember that chronic, daily, never-goes-away-ever migraine? The one I’ve had for over six years? I take painkillers for that.

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Chronic Hope

In my photos you see me smile all the time – and that’s because I’m happy. I love being photographed, I like blogging, and I delight in the wonderful comments of my readers.

But being happy isn’t an easy thing. I am happy, yes, but it is in spite of a whole fuckton lot of things. Of those, three are the biggies, and they are depression, grief, and pain.

None of them are things you can see when you look at me, and see me smiling. But they’re all there, all the time.

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Hurt Me, Pet

When I discovered kink, I discovered submission. The notion of topping didn’t appeal to me in the slightest, and so for years I regarded myself as a submissive. All my kink partners were dominant and in control – the only other relationships I had were without the power exchange at all. Tie me down, take away my control, hurt me, love me – free me. That’s how I felt, that’s what I needed, and that’s what I got.

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Libido a-go-go

My libido has disappeared. Again. Has anyone seen it?

I like my libido – I like it a lot! So I make sure I take very good care of it – I pet it and feed it and treat it well and ensure that it gets all the attention it wants. So I am very sad that it’s gone missing.

Yes, I miss my libido. It’s kept me great company for the past 11 years, although there was a whole year before that when it was AWOL. I thought I was the only one that had ever lost their libido before – until I went to Family Planning and was told by a kindly nurse that it happens to most of us at one time or another, and that it would eventually come back. Which was small consolation at the time (for me, or for my boyfriend)… but ultimately it was true.

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Who am I?

Over the course of the various journals, columns and blogs I’ve written online, I’ve written more than a few biographies for myself. Some have been wordy, others brief. Some have detailed joys and disasters, while others are instead descriptive views of myself. Often, depending on the intended readers, it’s full of identifying details. In other places, they’re only identifying if you know me rather intimately offline.

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Life is Pain, Highness

I have a funny relationship with pain. As a migraineur, I live with it every day – it pulses behind one eye, or burrows down through my fontanelle, or ice-picks me in the forehead. The variegated tortures it can present are horrible, and I detest it. I spent a long time trying to bury it with pain-killers, didn’t work for quite some time (and only work part-time now), and I take a lot of preventatives (both prescription and herbal, vitamin and mineral) to help minimise what I live with.*

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