This is My Diary

by chakrubs

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Phases get longer as we grow older and the only way I can save myself is to rebel against my own ideas. I am on a race to figure something out now to be able to enjoy my life for the rest of the possible 75 years at best. When I was a virgin I still wanted to be an actress. I remember feeling like I had potential, I knew I could express my heart out on the stage, but I didn’t get the chance to, I said it was due to circumstance, and understanding my potential for greatness and not being able to achieve it was death. This is what kills us.

I haven’t been a virgin for a while now, and I am bitter about having to say I lost something. I want to change that. My entire life people have told me I am special, and I want to figure out if they are being nice or if maybe I do have some sort of potential that they see. Because, like my old feeling that I could be a great actress, there is something I feel is possible within me, and I am going to die trying to reach this potential. With sex, with love, with success. How we do one thing is how we do many.

Virgin used to mean “not married, not belonging to a man, a woman who was ‘one-in-herself”. We do not lose anything. We gain access into our power. The power that allows men to see where they come from. Where we all come from. And it should feel good.

I want it to feel good so bad. I know my body is meant for greatness, and at my age, I am so lucky to have been given such a beautiful body. I have large breasts, a curvy ass, long wild dark hair, and a small waist. I love my body, and I want it to be seen and adored and worshiped. If it were not for this desire, I would be fine with continuing to pleasure myself – alone with god. But I want to show myself before I lose my aesthetic beauty.

When I die I will be alone. I don’t want the comforting words of a friend, and at this time I cannot conceive of being comforted by a future child or a husband. I want to be alone with God – everyone else is too awkward. It isn’t their fault, I am also awkward. I only want something beautiful and elegant. And every day that passes the gracefulness of conversation dwindles…

All I’ve seen of course is what’s come before me, so I really don’t know anything. But  I am dying alone, it is my most precious time. And I want to be by myself. I want to have my last words with God, and I want to feel at peace and prepared. After I die, then they can all come adorn me with flowers.

I don’t know what other people’s relationship with God is like. But I feel like I’m onto something about it. I know that it is within me, and it doesn’t matter if I’m crazy, because this is my experience and all that matters is my personal sanity. My perception is my universe, and I have to build the self-trust within my universe if that last  breath in my beauty big breasted body will feel justice.

So when I fuck. It is the base. It is the core of being a human. We come from sex. I have a built in mechanism to feel epicurean pleasures. I am supposed to feel this way. Just as I am supposed to piss, shit, eat, and grow hair, I am supposed to get wet, and find ways to relieve my arousal. And I can’t help but feeling like there’s greater and greater fucking pleasure to be felt. When I am alone, I make myself feel so good. And yet there is something to be desired. That other skin, that strength around my neck, the mystery of a man and the feeling of vulnerability. The awareness that there are tantric rituals that people practiced for thousands of years. It’s the awareness of the potential, and I need to know if I am being lied to, if everyone is lying, if I’m not really special, if the atheists are right.

I would be perfectly satisfied with going crazy as I try to prove myself (and the people in my life who have told me I am special) right…because in that insanity I will believe that I am reaching potential, that I am feeling really fucking good, that I am special. And there is that voice that tells me, it’s a fight worth fighting. Figure out how to feel really good, figure out how to break through your walls and become a success.

I was singing once on the late bus heading home from an after school program. Quietly to myself, Fiona Apple’s “Criminal.” One of the popular kids who often raised his eyebrow at me came over and in all sincerity said, “Are you going to be famous? Like, a famous singer?” I nodded and said “yes.” He nodded back and sat down in his seat. There was nothing unordinary about this.

“Don’t give up.” “Keep going.” “You have something, really.”

But what does anybody know. Everyone can be lying to me. Maybe I have a mental disability and people take pity on me and want me to feel good so that I feel good. They don’t know any better. I don’t know any better.

“The Special One.”  One of the most influential people in my mother’s life wrote a song titled that. That is what he called me. He died of Lupus, the song is on tape somewhere, I’ve never listened to it.

He was crazy. I loved him.

We are so easily breakable. We can break each other. We have that power. We can become vicious to feel powerful because we are so powerless. And we’re all afraid of the choices we’ve made, and we’re all afraid of ourselves, our potential, failing. Afraid now of even being afraid, for we may just attract what we fear.

I am so bothered by all of your quotes. Live by one and share it when you are in a moment with someone who will be affected by it. I am so bothered by these trends telling us how to live, when really, are we getting smarter? Are we figuring something out? I am. I am going to die trying, and I will be alone, and I want to be.

I was on vacation with my boyfriend of six years, soon before I left him for someone who would shatter me. Shatter. Not the right word. But it’s a great word.

We were at some hot springs and I went to get a massage. The woman towards the end of the massage said to me, “I don’t ever do this, but spirit is telling me to do this for you. Sit up and straddle the massage table. I am going to turn around and show you how to move. Do what I do.”

I did as she told me. She started moving her arms and squatting in a way that was like dancing. Slow, energy moving. She told me I have no choice in the matter. I am going to create. It is our duties as women. She told me many things. And I began to cry while feeling the most joy I have ever felt. I rested my head on the massage table. She said, “Isn’t it great when she shows up?” She meant, “Goddess,” and I am not sure how I know that.

After my boyfriend had his massage I asked him, “Did you experience what I experienced?” He said he had a good massage. My eyes were wide and filled with ideas and I felt special.

I have a great gift of making the men in my life feel invalid. I don’t know why it began, but I remember doing this even to my father, when I was learning how to draw lower case ’r’s in school. I asked him for help drawing something else, and he changed my lower case to an upper case with the kindest and purest of intentions. I threw a hissy fit. I whined and said “no!!” while stomping my foot. He got so angry he spanked me while calling me ungrateful. I’ve blamed my father for a lot over the years, and it’s only recently I realized that he is just another victim of my ability to invalidate the men in my life.

I’ve always had someone be in love with me. And most of the times, I’d keep them at a distance. When they profess their love I’d say something like, “You just heard that line in a movie somewhere. You don’t really feel what you’re saying. You just want to. And I’m listening.” More recently I decided to try to stop this trend, and begin to validate men’s feelings for me. I’ll say, “thank you” and be compassionate and understanding, and sometimes even try to fall in love myself. What I’ve learned is that…men want to love us. They love to love us! Women move men in such a way that leads to such wonderful creations! Forever we have inspired men, from arousing them to allowing them to be emotional. Men want to love us. And the thing I feel is, we cannot simply be muses. We need to inspire because we are inspired. And to be inspired…we need to love ourselves, too.

Another great way I’ve invalidated men is through orgasm. My lack of orgasm when they fuck me. They want to love us, they want to pleasure us, so badly. I want to feel good so bad…but my body has refused to orgasm with another person. My number of orgasms with a man can be counted on fingertips, and I often cry afterwards because I want to feel good so bad. I want to figure this out.

I study. I study love, sex, intimacy. I study myself. I don’t travel much around the world (yet), as my current form of travel is within people. I have submerged myself into various people. Become close. It’s all apart of my work. My work I am desperately doing in hopes I will figure something out so I may stop thinking and enjoy as best I can the potential 75 years left of my life.

I want something to happen, I want to love myself in a way that unlocks my potential so I am successful in a career that serves others, so that I can allow someone to love me who I will love back, so I can feel at peace on my deathbed in the last moments in my mind with my learned perception with God and can leave feeling like I did a good job.

I want to do a good job being a human being.