And yet's Open Salon Blog

I Am Done Now

Fri, 28 Aug 2009 09:08:08 -0400

I used to teach writing at a women's prison. Just as a volunteer. Nothing very formal, and I wasn’t trained as a teacher. Mostly we worked on journaling and letters home to their children and their families. Sometimes a woman wanted to work on a short story, always presented as fiction, and then, during a reading when she would be overcome with tears, she would say, "This actually happened to me."

I learned so much out there, about their lives of course, but more about the power of words, of a sentence, a title, the perfect beauty of what is left out and not revealed in black and white. As many teachers say, more often than not, I was their student.

There was a big lesson, of course, one that I think of so often and one that continues to shape how I interact with people at work and personally, even over the internet.

They were writing about their families - kids, their parents, a boyfriend or husband, the ever-present EX, whomever they chose. I had them work on the same piece for a few classes, longer than some of them thought necessary. My goal was for them to make the person, the image, the memories multi-dimensional. "What else did he do?" I'd ask after reading about an ex-boyfriend who used drugs. Did he work? Visit his mother? Was he an athlete in high school? Did he sing? What else? Sometimes those questions worked and an essay suddenly became a true picture of a full person, a real man or child, a grandmother. As writers, they started to get it.

One week, a woman who was in prison for murder and had a life sentence wrote a piece about the mother of the person she had killed; a short piece that showed just a trace of what this mother might be living through after the murder of her son. I pushed for more. "What else?" I asked. "What else might she be thinking? How are her nights? Her mornings?"

I had gone too far. Asked much too much. The inmate, there in her faded polyester 'denim' work shirt looked up at me with tears and said, "I can't. I can't. Don't make me. I can't put it down. It will kill me to write it." Not sure what to say, I went with trust. I trusted her. "Ok. Stop with this. This is enough then."

I wondered about her that week while I went about my life on the outside. I wondered if she thought about the idea that writing had helped her in the past. She had seen, week after week, that writing gave the women a sense of empowerment, a feeling of control over something, their words, their stories.

The next week when I saw her, she discreetly handed me a letter she had written to me. (Volunteers were not allowed to ever take anything from an inmate.) She was so quiet in class that night, but I didn't push. I trusted. When class was over and I got to my car, I finally read her letter.

She thanked me for volunteering. She liked the class. She liked improving her writing skills and her letters home. She liked hearing the other women's stories. She appreciated that I pushed and showed them the power of words through the books and tapes I brought in. But. There was something I would never understand. Never. Because I didn't live at the prison, because I wasn't locked up, I wasn't an inmate and only visited as free person, I would never understand. "Please trust me," she said.

She said that when I asked her, and sometimes others, to go deeper, it was emotionally dangerous for them. The risk and toll it took to reveal their pasts, their failures, their losses, their regrets.... it was too much. In the class, for one hour once a week (unless a guard cancelled our class) it was relatively safe. But once class was over and they had to walk out into the prison yard, anything could happen. Another classmate, who had promised confidentiality to her in the class, might change her mind and reveal something she had written and shared. A treacherous piece about past abuse might haunt her while she tried to sleep or work, and there was usually no one, literally no one, to whom she could safely go for comfort. Writing about missing children, sometimes children who had not visited in years, was so deeply painful that it could undo all the strategies and mechanism an inmate had created within herself to get through her life in prison.

The example she used for me was this: outside the prison, at an AA meeting, someone might talk about something that was really hard and painful for them. After the meeting, they could go to coffee with other group members, or call their sponsor. They had another group the next day. They could find support over and over again. That's how it should be when one goes deep into their pain and uncovers a truth. But in prison, it's not like that. The women were up against too much. Rules, guards, different housing units, poor conditions not conducive to sleep and peace. There was no real place to recover, to regroup after such a deep reveal. It just didn't exist there.

I'm at that place now, here. I can't go any deeper with my writing here. I've dredged as much as I can dredge, at least publicly. This is not a life many of you can and should ever understand, and I am unable and unwilling to go any further, publicly, to explain it. I shared what I was able to, and tried to do so in a way that might help others who struggle with this. Every time I post here, it hurts, physically and emotionally. And though many, many of you have been so kind and gentle with me, there is still no real place I can go for comfort and peace after I post. Thus, I feel too vulnerable and exposed, and honestly, I have no reserves to deal with it anymore.

I will continue to answer messages, so if you are reading these blogs for the first time and you want to contact me, please do send me a note. I will respond. Or, contact one of the commenters on these posts. Many of them are people who understand. I only have one story, one perspective. There is likely another that will mean something to you.

Thank you for reading.

To the Young People Who Write Me About Sexless Relationships

Sat, 22 Aug 2009 10:08:37 -0400

Your stories break my heart. You all profess such love for your significant others, some of you are already engaged. Each of you think you are the only one who has written to me, each of you being so young, in your twenties and early thirties. Please know this, you are not alone. I have heard from many young people since I posted my 'sexless marriage' post.

My spouse and I have been together many years, since our late twenties and for those first several years sex was wonderful, fun, exciting. Illness brought the end of our sex life. Nothing else. There has been much sadness and guilt to work through, seemingly endlessly at times, but still, our loss of sex has been caused by illness.

All of you who write to me, how I hurt for you. Your emails carry subject lines like, "You wrote for me", "I live a sexless life, too" or "Will this ever get better?" and then I read how young some of you are, and in such young relationships - just four or five years, some even less. I'm honored that you choose to write and I wish to help; you all deserve more help and support than I can give over a few emails.

Each of you seem to be on your own paths, and I can respect that (I know I am on mine), but please just consider this: without a serious intervention, medical or emotional (that may not be the correct word), it will not get better. Because if you are already not having sex at such young ages, in such early stages of marriage or togetherness... this bodes very poorly for your future. You, dear young writers, will always ache for more, yearn for sexual sharing and intimacy, and eventually you will likely start to resent the dismissal of your feelings and desires. You may harbor deep and painful anger.

Some of you, the young women who write to me, suffer deep insecurites due to never being touched and craved by your partners. The young men who write are hurt and feel like failures due to what seems like an inability to communicate and improve the situation. I am impressed by how all of try and try to make it better. None of you want this life and each of you clearly still hope for more.

All of you also write about how embarrassed you are by this problem in your relationships. How you don't talk about it with friends or family. How everyone assumes that young, healthy couples who are in love all have good sex lives. Thus, the isolation you all feel is tremendous.

If your partner is averse to sex at 25 or 30, that may never change. And even if it does, miraculously, it may be too late for the two of you. The emotional toll this takes on a relationship is real and dangerous. If my spouse and I didn't have years of good sexual, intimate memories for me to rely upon, I honestly don't know if I'd still be here. None of you are creating those memories. Please consider that, too.

What I say to each of you is this: you are normal. Read it again. You are normal. What you want and desire and articulate so well is vital to healthy relationships. You are normal to want it.

I wish so much for all of you.

(Please trust that I will never reveal your identities or emails, but how I would love to facilitate a conversation among all of you.)

Can I Take a Pill for This? (sexless marriage)

Fri, 14 Aug 2009 17:08:20 -0400

How I hate to bring this up again. How I wish I had something else to say. How I wish things were different right now.

I ask this quite sincerely, does anyone know about a pill/medication I can take that will reduce or eliminate my sex drive? Anything that will make it cease and desist? Hypnosis? Is that a likely option? I've never tried anything like it, but I'm willing at this point.

After nine years, which I stunningly realized the other night, is now more than half the entirety of our relationship, with no sex... shouldn't I be used to this by now? Shouldn't I no longer feel the ache and desire for sexual expression and sharing? Shouldn't my body be basically shut down to the idea of sex? I can't understand why it won't just go away. I have tried so hard, so very hard, to will it away, and it won't go.

I know, I can have an affair. I can leave. I know. Those options have been seriously mulled over, in more ways than one.

But, what I really want is to just get rid of this sexual desire. Any ideas? Please? I am not being facetious.

Thank you for your good suggestions. I'm hopeful that there is something out there I haven't thought of yet.

She Is So Good and Kind to Me. Thank You, OS

Wed, 22 Jul 2009 01:07:11 -0400

I met her here, on OS. She contacted me via a private message about my Sexless Marriage post, our lives being almost identical in that regard. We've never met and likely won't, and we don't need to. We live in different countries, a different hemisphere even, and meeting is not much of a possibility.

I am not an easy person to know, to like, to relate to. I used to be giving and funny and even 'delightful' ( as I was once called), but no longer. I remember how I was, that friendly, kind woman from so long ago, and though I sometimes wish I could be her again, I know she's gone now. People who meet me now, I wonder, what is there here to like?

When we first started writing I was here to support her, to sit with her as she revealed the pain and sadness of her marriage, her loneliness, her anguish. She did and I did, and I think I might have helped her a little. My support and understanding made a bit of a difference to her, to her understanding of herself. It was good. But then she wanted more, more from me, more of me. Her messages brought questions, deeply intuitive and perceptive questions. The questions disconcerted me.

I tried. I responded to each message, mostly answering what she asked and deftly, (I'm so sure it was deftly) avoiding what I didn't want to say, what I didn't want to see in black and white on the screen. She let this go on for a few messages, telling me more about her life, her aches and wants, but then she'd ask again, pushing for more from me each time.

Eventually I answered, dreading the actual typing and tapping of the keys. I sent my words like bricks through the post, heavy like wet sod. "No one could answer this," I'd think. "This is too much, too sad, too ponderous, too forsaken. " And then... after a few days, another message from her, challening my thoughts, questioning my reasoning, and offering her best hopes and wishes for me. She has never misunderstood me, nor let me minimize a feeling or a fear, a desire. She calls me "Dearest" and sends me "sustaining embraces". My pulse jumps a little when I see a message from her. I know she is here to push me hard, and to catch me, too. She wants me to try out new ideas, new scenarios for my life, to imagine, to dream. It scares me and intrigues me. I adore it and turn away from it all at once.

Last week was particularly harsh for me. I didn't like much of anything in the world. I avoided her messages completely and for longer than before. Finally, yesterday, a message came from her with a subject line that said, "Let me hear from you". My response back was thoughtful but unappreciative. "I can't. I can't be your friend. I have nothing, nothing to offer. Life here is hard and I cannot be a friend. I will make you sad and I cannot bear it. Please don’t ask more of me. I cannot do it. We must rethink this friendship."

This afternoon, her response: "I am going to ignore most of what you wrote here. Especially the part about us no longer corresponding." She signed it with a sustaining embrace.

Of course I had hoped and somehow trusted that she would answer that way, that she wouldn't run. Of course I want her words to keep coming to me, to sustain me. I have no idea what I ever did to deserve such a friend in my life. No possible idea.

May one thank a web site for this? For bringing me such a lovely and giving friend? I think I must. So thank you, OS. For her.

The Opera. I Wish To Go.

Thu, 9 Jul 2009 08:07:37 -0400

The opera season here is brief, just a few weeks long. However, it is acclaimed and always exceeds the expectations of critics both local and national. I wish to go. At this moment I have the ticket site open on my computer screen; I could purchase a ticket. One ticket, for a Saturday night performance. I wish to go.

I haven't gone to the opera in years, at least six, and I ache for it. I know little about the genre, but that doesn't prevent me from losing myself in it, romanticizing it, and reveling in every note, every step across the stage. The stories thrill me, offer a true escape, and stretch my mind to accept and sort out an art form that challenges me.

My spouse's illness prevents us from going together and therein sits the rub, the glitch, the chasm, the unending dilemma that I face. I say "I" because my spouse no longer sees or comprehends this issue like I do. Perhaps this is due to the illness, the medications for the illness, both of those things, or something else. I don't know. I don't think 'why' matters anymore. It just is. Over the last few years this loss of comprehension, the inability to perceive much outside the day-in and day-out, required me to adjust and change my own life in response.

A night at the opera lures me. I think about the details. How I would prepare for the evening: dressing in my new black summer dress, black heels, styling my hair, choosing my favorite jewelry. I’d drink a glass of crisp white wine as I readied myself. At a restaurant downtown, I’d sit outside in the evening sun, order hors d’ oeuvres and watch the crowd as I relaxed and participated, even singularly, in the city’s nightlife. I’d take my seat in the theater, the program in my hands, sharing anticipation with the crowd around me.

But while I was gone, my spouse would be unable to unwind, to relax, to sleep. No matter how many times and the ways we’ve tried for me to be away for the evening, it never seems to be a good idea. My spouse rests more easily when I am here. That is a fact and denying it feels cruel. Whether I am needed to provide physical or emotional care or not, my presence in the house conveys tranquility and brings rest, sleep, and comfort. In many ways that is an honor. I recognize that.

A night at the opera would mean hours away; hours wherein I would enjoy, privately and without my spouse, the intense feeling, the passion, the artistry of the stage. My breath gasping at the fervor, my hands clenching at the high notes, a soft moan from me when the lovers finally touch, all experienced alone. The music would stun me, startle me, and ultimately, soothe me.

Scoring the balance between enjoying such an evening away and reconciling it with the next morning still eludes me. I would come home with the experience fresh in my mind, my senses heightened, and my desire re-awakened. Bringing those feelings into the house is not a good idea. The increased sensitivity, I’ve learned, makes the next days and weeks hurt more than necessary, more than either of us has the capacity with which to respond. Somehow amends must be made to myself, to the construct we have here, and I’ve not yet figured out how.

The opera. I wish to go.

I apologize for the self-indulgent tone of this piece when so many here are struggling with much more. I am very aware that this is a minor issue and that it too shall pass. I just needed to write this and get it out.