A Scar Means…

“I ask you right here please to agree with
me that a scar is never ugly. That is what
the scar makers want us to think. But you
and I, we must make an agreement to defy
them. We must see all scars as beauty.
Okay? This will be our secret. Because
take it from me, a scar does not form on
the dying. A scar means, I survived.”

—	“Little Bee”, Chris Cleave

Laudanum Daydreams

These days I cannot help myself from the fantasy draw of laudanum.

I have watched From Hell a good four or five times in the past three weeks.

Read every novel I can find that involves an addiction (The Kitchen House is one I most sympathize with).

I am lost. I ache. I writhe. I am too sharp in this world and I cannot handle it well.

If only I could fade.  Even slightly.  For a time…

My doctor has recently stopped prescribing me any painkillers for the crippling side effects related to the ongoing malignant hypertension struggle.  He states that they only cause more of a yo-yo effect.  I understand where he is coming from, but the pain from this illness is so very difficult to handle with anything over the counter.

I cling to the remaining two bottles of painkillers prescribed in the past.  But I keep swearing to myself that I must save them for when the pain is bad enough to have me crying.  Which still happens too often.

I am given endless supplies of Phenergen and Ativan.

I admit to the occasional self-medicating with these.  Anything to just make it stop.

The doctor is still focused on this fantasy of getting me surgery.  But every single surgeon and anesthesiologist has refused to agree.  They say I am too high risk.

But I can’t keep living as I am.

Next month I go for an in-depth sleep study to prove the neurological and physiological effects the illness has on me, especially during the night.  We are hoping this will be hard enough evidence for some more drastic action.

Perhaps dosing me before surgery.  My doctor has theorized about this possibility.

And I daydream about laudanum.

Bisexual Shame

Last night my phone let out the familiar bing sound stating I have a new Facebook message.

I did not expect it to cause a spiral of shame and self-loathing I haven’t felt in years.

The message was from a male acquaintance of mine.  He’s one of those “friends of a friend” that I stay connected with on social networking because I like the feeling of being involved in a group.  Even if it isn’t really an honest feeling.

I’m just going to summarize the message and most subsequent conversation because I really can’t even deal with having all of it here verbatim.

He stated he was offering me “the chance” to have sex with his fiancée so that she may get “girl sex out of her system”.

I was floored.

1.) I have not spoken to this man for over a year.

2.) I have never met his fiancée. Or spoken to her. Or seen her.

3,) He and I have never, ever discussed my sexual habits or tastes.  I assume he found out from our mutual friend that I used to be in a relationship with a woman.

I tried to be delicate in my initial reply and stated that I was uncomfortable with his message, being as I’d never met his fiancée.  I further explained that I am not comfortable with the whole sex with someone else while in a committed relationship.

He replied accusing me of thinking his fiancée is ugly and that “girl on girl does not count as cheating”, especially since he’s perfectly fine with it. He then said that he wouldn’t even “have to watch” if that was my “issue”.

At this point I’m sure I should have just stopped replying, unfriended and blocked him.  But some little part of me just wanted to see why on earth he would think this way. And perhaps educate him on how “girl on girl sex” is not different from heterosexual sex.

So I followed up with obviously I could not be commenting on his fiancée’s appearance, being that I’d never met her.  Additionally, that I wasn’t referring to his own comfort with his fiancée having sex with a second person; I was referring to the fact that my own boyfriend would not be okay with said experience.  And that it was flat-out offensive to think that a lesbian experience would have any lesser meaning than a heterosexual.

Here’s where I just reeled.

I didn’t mean lesbian. You’re bisexual. You have sex with both. I’m offering you this awesome no strings attached opportunity with my fiancee, who is definitely hot, and you can do whatever you want to her. Bisexuals love that stuff.

I just…

I don’t even have words for that response.

Only shame. I hate this stigma with bisexuals so very much. So much.

I hate that it caused me to sob in my living room because of some person I’ve met two times in my life.

I hate the assumption that just because my body and mind isn’t capable of boxing attraction into a single gender that I must be a slutty desperate bit of flesh that anyone can just call up whenever they have some itch that needs to be scratched.

And I hate that this experience has upset me so much to cause a strong enough urge to update this blog after weeks of silence.

I’m just stricken and shamed and so very sad.

(Note: Sorry for the silence. I haven’t had much to say and I couldn’t bring myself to publish any of my inane drafts of bullshit updates. My health isn’t changed [besides additional ER visits].  My work or personal life hasn’t changed. I have nothing interesting to say and didn’t want to bother you all with mindless chatter. Hope everyone is well.)