When Love isn’t the right love, and you first realize that, there are no words to describe the despair.. this unforgiving, unbending, non – transparent road block that plants itself in your life, that stops you dead in the water, wondering how the hell you’re going to survive a life without any parole.

Nobody ever gets married, expecting to fail – not if they’re smart – and I ‘ll allow that there are some who have those doubts, but who are forced by tradition, or a warped sense of honor, or the weight of expectations to proceed, praying that their gut instincts might be wrong.   I certainly didn’t get married, all those years ago, with any thought in my mind, that I would come to a time when I felt ” indifferent..  ” ..

I guess if i’m brutally honest with myself, I will allow that I did wonder to myself ” is this all there is ?”, before the wedding.  I knew I had a lovely friendship.. I had, so I believed, a man who loved to touch.. hold.. cuddle.. A man who had the same work ethic.  A man who, like me, was a book worm.  One who allowed that we didn’t have to live in each others pockets, or spend every moment together  or cling to each other in desperation.  I did believe I Loved Him..

But, did I have romantic love?   No.. but I accepted that he was not a romantic sort of man..  Did he make my heart skip a beat?  .. No….  But I’d believed in love before, to have it come crashing down, and I’d given up on any belief in heart-stopping-adoration.     Did I dream of ways to entice him.. to lure him to my bed..  Did I plan clandestine pleasures for his enjoyment ?   No… and this one  – well it’s harder to explain.

Why.. you might ask..  It’s simple.  He didn’t want them. We began to live together, about 9 months before we married.  Before then, we had lived in separate cities, where , to see each other we had to either drive for 8 hours, or take an 11 hour overnight bus trip, to spend weekends together.  We filled our weekends with so much laughter and socializing.  We had a lot of fun..  and a lot of bedroom romps, so I thought, but in retrospect..  even then I should have seen the differences in us.

When we bought our first home, and then lived together for the first time, I remember clearly, reaching for him, in our very first nights.   I remember cuddling close, and whispering a sensual invitation to him…. to be rebuffed.   ” I don’t want sex to become boring.. ” .. he said.. I remember stopping dead… thinking about that, and accepting it. Looking back upon that now..  Gods, I have to tell you I’m shaking my head at me.  What was in my mind!!

How could I possibly think that sliding into middle aged familiarity, and not being worried about a disinterest in making love as a newly engaged couple was ok ?  So, the tenor of our lives became where sex was on his terms.  Once a week, barely..  No intimacy.  No cuddles, no holding hands..  no comfortable leanings on each other, while discussing things. Foreplay was pretty much a ” suggestion”  that I might want to ” lay down”.    Honestly I’m surprised we managed to conceive two children, somewhere in there, and I ‘m ashamed to say that everything I’m typing here, today, is a travesty of what I would have hoped for my life, if I’d known any better.

So, the question has to be asked..  Why did I permit this ?  What possessed me?.. It’s easy…

I .. didn’t… think… I .. deserved.. any… better…

I had been engaged in earlier times, to another.  A long .. sordid .. story..  First boyfriend.. Classic abuser behavior ..  i.e.  He isolated me from my family,  he relentlessly hit on my friends (so I found out later) until they all leeched away into the sunset – which I couldn’t understand at the time, but came to light later. I was a frugal, and ordinary bank teller, with a musical gig, as a moonlight job, earning great money, and zero debt, which descended rapidly into a world of his debt.. his whims.. his lies.  He “lost” his job, soon after we met, he lived at my apartment, he drank, I supported him – believing that he’d had such a hard time, and I had so much – it was the right thing to do.

He went out often, and when people identified themselves to him as ” my friend”  he would come home at 2 in the morning, and wake me and interrogate me, about my friendship with them making all sorts of disgusting allegations of things they’d said, but which I realized later – was simply the truth of the precept that if someone ACCUSES you of things that you aren’t possibly doing – its a damned fine indication that they’re doing it THEMSELVES.

Life was hell, but, I didn’t wise up until we’d broken up 4 or 5 times, and I’d requested finally a transfer to a city 1000 miles away – only to be tracked down by him, and convinced to give him one more chance, only to know immediately I signed a lease on an apartment that I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.  That was the beginning of the end..  when I FINALLY to get the balls to tell him to get out as soon as his behaviors started all over again..

So in my mind, I was NO authority on romantic love. I’d made disastrous decisions.  In between getting my freedom, and meeting my husband, I had partied HARD.   No holds barred.  Drinking.. drugs.. and very risky behaviors, which have repercussions to this day..

I .. didn’t .. think.. I .. deserved.. any .. better…

I had tried to tell my husband, at the very first that I wasn’t a good person to be with… He refused to listen…  How was I ever going to find such an easy acceptance again?  I settled…

I forgot the most important thing in the world..

If it looks like a rose, and smells like a rose, it’s a rose.

If it feels like a ” bargain”  and looks like a ” bargain” .. then where love and loving, and a lifetime partnership is concerned.. It’s not enough..

Loving shouldn’t be a bargain..  or an ” I can live with this!”.. Loving should be something that.. if you were to turn away, would be like leaving your heart and soul behind.. Loving shouldn’t be something that gives you a choice..  Loving shouldn’t have any doubts.. or second guessing.. or second thoughts..

Love needs to be a compulsion.. it needs to be irresistible.

Otherwise you end up with a housemate… and.. indifference.. if you’re lucky..

Or hell on earth, if you’re not.

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Being Fiction, Instead of Writing It

Source: Being Fiction, Instead of Writing It

This post above is amazing, and it is written by  ” The Green Study”  and, Gods, this person has captured a depth of me, that I too have explored, and procrastinated about ..  and longed to do for so very long.

Hundreds of plots.. Most of them very well fleshed out..  written down..  ready to become best-sellers – books of incredible erotica, sensuality, sexuality, all based around that incredible dynamic of attraction, and hunger, and lust denied – usually based around the lies we tell ourselves, insofar as  boundaries, and restrictions, and inhibitions.

Always..  spending hour upon hour on the working out of the plan, and the excitement of maybe this time, being able to set pen to paper, and not overthink myself, and give up in a heartbeat, the moment I hit writers block…

Second life has been the catharsis I needed, or , if I’m brutally honest – it has been a very convenient shield to hide behind, with the excuse that I’m writing novels..  interactions.. I’m living each of those plots, (or are those interactions the basis for my plots ? )..   and it is far easier to only have to write the ” novel ”   from the point of view of the heroine.   Suffice to say – the novels remain unwritten..  But , in defense of that procrastination – the reams of words that translate into physical breathtaking moments over the years are all still bubbling away, and gaining momentum in this fertile brain of mine.

God ! Why can’t I START the damned book!!   That FIRST paragraph..  why is it so hard ?   Will I choke at the second chapter!    Will anybody even want to read past the first chapter! What if I’m not good enough!  Ah-Ha!!  There it is .. ” WHAT .. IF…I’M.. NOT..  GOOD.. ENOUGH.!!! “.  How many intrepid adventures have gone to hide in the corner, in all of my years , because I’m afraid of not being good enough!  Because I don’t think I can succeed..  MmmmHMMM..  there it is!

It’s good to know I’m not alone..  But the real question is.. does knowing that I’m in great company make it any easier to write, now ?

Yet to be seen..

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Everybody comes with Baggage.

For a world so perfect as Second Life, one of the things we forget is that we all come into that life – as a refugee – for a reason.

For many people, it is a very unhappy home life. For others, its sheer boredom, or being trapped in an endless cycle of expectations, mortgages, budgets, plans, or in so many cases – being sick physically – and unable to get out to live satisfyingly in any way.

For me, it was all of the above, and coming in to see Second Life was a whim, after viewing a program on TV , that spoke of real life money being able to be earned in this ” virtual reality world ” that had its own currency, which could be traded for real life dollars.. Trapped in a very unhappy real life job, my nirvana would be something that would enable me to never leave my home, but still earn enough money to justify my staying home.

Honestly – it was the scariest thing in the world to land in this ” new world ” … with a frighteningly cartoonish avatar, and a very limited wardrobe of clothes, and the knowledge that there were thousands of destinations – and all you had to do was type in a key word into search, and ” teleport ” (tp) there to begin your new life. The scariest part was knowing that there were a million people out there, and they were from every country in the world. The enormity of that – to an introvert, was staggering, but, I DID it!

I typed in ” Dance “. It was something I had given up, upon marriage, despite having a very healthy social life, and dancing at least three nights a week until the wee hours of the morning, along with drinking, and flirting, and the company of a healthy smorgasboard of young soldiers – as I lived in an Army Town.

I landed.. and snuck my way into the edges of a crowd of people.. and I watched, and watched, and envied and envied them their beauty , and their clothes, and above all their ability to dance so realistically, and in an atmosphere that made me long so badly for my younger , unfettered days.

A stranger ” IM’d ” me.. (private message).. saying ” welcome.. ” and we struck up a conversation. She was a woman, so I felt free to bombard her with question after question.. and, before long, she had handed to me some pretty hair.. a pretty skin, with makeup.. taught me how to wear it. Some clothes! Jeans, a white shirt.. a black leather jacket.. some black boots, I felt AMAZING!. I felt like ME , at 22 years of age, and all of the excitement of hitting the town was throbbing right there and then, in my veins!

The next thing I saw was a ” Dusty is inviting you to dance ” notification window, on my screen. She said.. ” come join all of us in the centre! ” so I accepted, and my most magnificent obsession was born.

Within three days, I had graduated to a gorgeously built , almost grecian in its white marble exterior construction, formal dancing club, where music from days of old, ALL of the most romantic and jazz songs in the world played 24 hours a day.. and men in tuxedo’s.. suits.. cravats.. would ask you to dance.. and lead you out onto the floor where you danced gracefully and ethereally with them. The addiction deepened.

The flirting began.. and Gods, I was hopelessly enthralled by conversations that were not about housework.. or grunts.. or the mundanities of life.. We spoke about backgrounds.. hopes.. dreams.. jobs.. what brought us there.. and what kept us here! We spoke of the stars above, that looked real enough to touch. We spoke of the oh so many sunrises we witnessed, dancing in a strangers arms, but feeling like there was nowhere else in this world that could ever be so beautiful.

I truly believed then, and I believe now – 7 years later, that the best minds in the world congregate there, and the written medium is the headiest, most exciting way of learning about people, that I have ever experienced..

I was beautiful.. For a matter of mere cents.. or pence.. you could purchase gowns that would cost thousands, or tens of thousands of dollars, in the real life. For a few dollars a week you could rent a home in there, and live in a palatial mansion. For a few dollars more, every single commodity, amplified, was at your fingertips, and before long I was believing in the Matrix like never before.  More than once, over the years, I have longed to find the plug I could pull that would trap me in Second Life..  Willingly, I would go.

The level of satisfaction, and joy that the hours in this world bring, can’t be matched outside, but, one thing I have realised is that by living with happiness in Second Life, it has helped me deal with the issues I have had in real life. I’ve rediscovered purpose. .. happiness. I have hope that I do actually control my destiny, now – unlike before. I have far more power in my relationship, whereas the term Stepford Wife was especially apt for me, for well over 15 years, before Second Life.

All I know is that the mind is a powerful thing.. The imagination is even more powerful. Every single event, thing, invention, or action in this world begins in the mind, and I choose , freely to explore my intentions in a world where ” I can do no harm.”

More to come.. Dealing with death, in Second Life..

Thanks for listening.

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