The little voice

Well, I did it. I managed to get through another day while the little voice inside my head whispered at me all day that I might as well end it. It told me that I was a failure at life, love, and marriage, and that I would never amount to anything. From the time I woke up, all though the day and even now, I feel the dark cloud over me, trying to put a little doom and gloom into my life. It's a voice I'm very familiar with as I've heard it from my earliest memory, nagging at me, breaking my spirit, knocking me back down when I get too high or proud.

I woke up this morning determined to make it a great day. Took out my motorcycle, picked up a hot date, and spent the day driving, chatting, shopping, and walking before dropping her off and heading home to get ready for work. And all the while, I feel the despair creeping up on me, smothering me, making me feel like the tears will never stop trying to spill out. So, I turn my head, wipe my eyes, and try to push them back down. Try to think of anything else but my thoughts so I can laugh and feel good...but my thoughts keep returning to the blackness seeping out of my soul, and there's so much of it that it's overwhelming.

And the worst part is I can't explain it. I know I shouldn't dwell on it, and that I should focus my thoughts and energies elsewhere, but that's the problem - the little voice refuses to be quiet. Even when I am laughing at a joke or comment that someone else makes, it's there mocking me, whispering that it knows that I'm not really happy, that I don't deserve to be happy, that this is temporary, and I'll be sad soon enough, and that thought alone is enough to suck the fun away, make the breath catch in my throat and make tears well up in my eyes.

So, I go to work, and put on my happy face, do my job, and spend my breaks crying silently to myself in the washroom like the pathetic loser I am, wondering when I'll not feel like this anymore and scared that the answer is never; that the little voice will always be there to mock me and my life. I tell myself to hold on until I get home, and then I can deal with it better. Cry all you want when you get home, or worse if thats what you really want, but not here, and not now. That gets me through the night without openly crying on the floor.

But now I am home, and I need to get this voice to shut up. Because if I can't then I really don't see the point in going on. I told my doctor that I wasn't sleeping well, so he put me on medical marijuana to help relax me before bed. That is one of the only things that has ever worked for me to silence the nagging voice in my head that berates me constantly. So I smoke, and I cry, and wait for the first lift to hit so I can at least believe that my fucked-up emotions will be more manageable in the morning. I just don't want to listen to the little voice anymore.
So, Goodnight.

Sometimes you get lucky, and the voice is down to a dull murmur when you wake up; like waves on the beach, not the big crashing ones that inspire awe and make you pay attention, but the quiet calm ones that lap at the shore and barely register, so your attention can go elsewhere, and soon you're feeling good about the future and life in general. Maybe there can be some semblance of a normal life where things work out in the end and everyone lives happily ever after. Maybe?

Except the voice is still there today. And it's as loud as ever.

The first night

When Belle and I separated from that first kiss in the parking lot, I had a really good feeling about the rest of the night. My tension relaxed and I knew that we were going to have a good time exploring each other's world. We held each other's hand as we walked through the lobby to the elevator to take us upstairs, and nothing had ever felt so right. I was sure there would be no regrets.

Being with a new lover for the first time is the best feeling in the world. The Foo Fighters put it best in their song Everlong with the lyrics:
"And I wonder
When I sing along with you
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again
The only thing I'll ever ask of you
You gotta promise not to stop when I say when"

That first time is glorious. It's Christmas for grown-ups. You get to open that package and see what's underneath the wrapping. Unfortunately, she was wearing a god-awful habs jersey that I insisted she remove as soon as we entered the room. From there on, I don't remember the clothes being removed. I am not bashful, and I'm sure they weren't on for longer than 30 seconds after we closed and locked the door, paying careful attention to putting out the do not disturb sign on the outer handle.

What I do remember is like a sweet sensual collage in my head of the various sights sounds and smells from that night all run together like a glorious tapestry of love and sex. I remember tasting her and thinking how good and pure and natural it was and how her taste reminded me of my own. I remember her mouth on me, and the different way that she slid her lips along my shaft sideways that I've never encountered before; it was like a wet handjob only with her mouth, and I knew I was going to explode soon if she kept doing it. I remember holding her arms down tight while I entered her and feeling her thrust against me with the same fevered intensity that comes from years of anticipation. I remember trying different positions and finding that she was enjoying them as much as I was. I remember her thrusting against me getting closer and closer to the edge and feeling a need to push her over it to feel her convulsing on me while she reached climax and picking up the pace feeling my own balls swelling and throbbing, getting closer and closer as I fucked her harder and harder until I was ready to come and then allowing myself to go over the edge as well and join her emptying my load deep inside her and collapsing on top of her to catch my breath

I remember being covered in sweat exhausted and feeling the need rising within me again. I needed to have more more of her; to be inside her again. I had asked her what her favorite position was and she didn't want to answer me but I assumed from that that it meant she liked anal play so this time when I worked her close to the edge I told her to make sure she let me know when she was getting close so I could drive her over the edge in the way that she wanted. And when she said she was close I pulled my cock from her pussy pushed up against the entrance to her ass, put lube all over the head of my cock and then slowly whispered in her ear, "I know what you want", as I pushed my cock inside her ass, all the while using my fingers to stimulate her clit until she was crying out in pleasure and once again I could feel my balls swelling ready to empty and when she told me she was coming I did the same, deep in her ass while crying out in pleasure..

It was a special night of lovemaking, hours and hours of exploring each other, finding out what we liked and there wasn't much that we didn't like. Nothing that I can think of actually; she seemed to be my twin sexually, echoing my likes being open to anything. We made the comment then that we were both pretty messed up for the things that we were into and I kind of laughed it off, thinking,"You have no idea how messed up I am." And I was right in that regard, but what I didn't realize was that I also had no idea how messed up she was.. It really was a night of shared experience and experiences

Feels Like The First Time

When people talk or write about a newly rediscovered hobby or passion, they use the phrase "feels like the first time", and in referring to sex, that's strange to me. I don't remember a first time for sexual contact, but only a first time with partners as I grew older. So for me to say that that first night I spent with Belle "felt like the first time" would be an injustice. It felt like the only time.

My mind racing, I arrive at the hotel at 8 pm. I know she won't be there until at least 10:30, so I had a few hours to kill. I checked the place out. I had brought wine, she had brought beer - a six-pack of Corona (my favorite); a good sign to be sure. I'd already had a few beers, so I didn't want to risk having any more and going down that slippery slope of being drunk when she arrived, so I decided to smoke a little weed instead. So outside I went, feeling the warm late-spring air and peacefully inhaling my preferred drug of choice, feeling it calming me and stilling my racing mind. Back inside I go and start some music on my phone, adding and removing songs from my "Fucktunes©" playlist, intent on setting a fun, playful mood if things didn't go well so we could laugh it off (hopefully). I knew that we'd both texted briefly about there being no pressure, just a night to get together, smoke and drink a little, and see where things ended up.

She texted me around 10 to say she was on her way and to meet her in the parking lot to help bring up some stuff. I met her there and pulled her into my arms after no more than a  cursory "Hi" for that first kiss.

I love getting lost in a kiss. The earliest kiss I remember is actually getting kissed by my older sister very innocently for some reason or other- a holiday peck, perhaps? And her saying "Ewww, You give very wet kisses" How was I to know? I don't think I kissed much after that until almost the end of high school, when I began to find that the kiss did more to turn me on than the actual sex did. Morality means no sex growing up as a teenager, and rough sex would lead to ostracization or jail if things went wrong. However, kissing is acceptable and even encouraged among your peers. Having already done the intercourse act long before my teens, it was the forbidden act of kissing that I took extreme pleasure in. I always loved the scene in The Princess Bride where they mention the ultimate kiss: to quote the narrator, "Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind."

Kissing is one of the most intense acts of coupling for me because it involves all 5 or the senses, each combination unique. I remember planning to give her a quick peck on the lips; a "Hey, how ya doin'?" kind of kiss, and then feeling sledgehammered by my senses: smoky cinnamon taste, soft firm inviting lips, scent of fragrant perfume that has been driving me wild for years, beautiful blue/green eyes with long red black tresses, soft throaty moaning as the kiss deepens and expands, feeling her mouth open to me, her tongue reaching out to meet mine and going beyond it. Then I was lost in it and I am exploring her universe, lost among the stars and black holes into cosmic nothingness. When the kiss is perfect, that's how it feels for me. I lose myself in time and space. And this kiss was exquisite.

Statues

While waiting at a red light today, on my travels, I happened to see a statue just inside the graveyard fence, and it made me think that we are all statues in a way; born fresh-faced and newly-carved, brought forth in love and with caring attention, with doting parents, fawning friends, and celebrations. As we grow older, the erosion begins, features grow less sharp with rounder corners, pock-marked and discolored. Sounds depressing, but it's important to remember that even as we erode, fucking amazing things still happen that make life worth hanging on to.

Sex in my marriage went as the seasons went. Hot and passionate once woken, as if we could not get enough of each other, steamy and intense through its maturity, and tapering as it ages, eventually withering and dying as you wonder where the time went. I'd learned early in my marriage not to ask for what I really wanted. Talk of sex outside the ordinary was all met with negatives, and after a while, you fuck harder just to hear her whimper in order to get off. The last year, I could count on one hand the number of times we had sex. We stopped communicating except to say what needed to be done around the house; what mundane chores were required to be completed and by when, what the kids needed, upcoming appointments, and such, so when the day came that she told me she wanted out. I wasn't surprised. I had heard only criticisms over the past year, and had not been hugged or kissed in forever. I could tell she hated me. So we separated, bedrooms at first, and then houses.

A month later, I was texting with a female friend. The same one I had exchanged flirtatious text messages with at the end of my marriage. The same one that I had very nearly cheated with. And the same one who was now in a committed relationship ; such is my luck. The texts were blunt and to the point: Fucking tinder won't send me a code that works. I need to get laid. The texts back were equally as blunt: Belle X is single and horny as a rabbit. I wasn't sure. She was a coworker, a hot coworker, but still a coworker. The potential for disaster was there if things went wrong. She was the shy, demure, sexy, sultry type that wears her red hair down and messy. Petite, mature, gorgeous, with flawless skin and the greenest eyes: A fucking smoke show.

My friend assured me that she was into me. Told me that Belle had confided to her that she had had quality alone time with me in her fantasies. Enough information to make me feel comfortable in approaching her to see if there was something we could do for each other.

So, a day or two later, there I stood, a month after my moving out, next to my coworker but scared to death to make a move on her because of the possible repercussions. Technically, I was her boss. Sexual harassment could lead to my being fired or worse. So, I stood there and made some small talk about our lives. I forget what was actually said. I remember the blood rushing in my ears as I thought of how to word it, and I finally blurted out that I had split from my marriage and hadn't been laid in over a year. And yet, I still couldn't get up the nerve to ask if she might be into some casual sex out of fear of offending her. So the night passed, and I walked to my car alone to drive home, all the while kicking myself for my cowardice. But fate was to intervene this night, for no sooner had I entered the house when my phone buzzed with a Facebook message from her; "I wasn't going to go there, but you did, so *phone number* just say when and where. I immediately texted back "Now" but it had to wait one night.  I was expecting to be given an address to meet her at and I knew she was working the next night, so I was shocked when she directed me to a location to find something. It was a hotel key with the room number on it. Her instructions were to be there at 10 pm, as she could get out early that night.

That day took forever. I woke up that morning with delicious anticipation; hit the gym to pump up a little, showered and shaved, and was still hours away from meeting her. Nervousness  was setting in and all the doubts started creeping in. What if she was a prude in bed? What if we didnt click? What if I couldn't get it up for some reason, or even worse, lost it as she lay there like a cold fish?. On top of that, I hadn't been with any woman but my wife in 25 years. Fuck, I was nervous. One of my friends played in a band that had a gig that afternoon, so I made the short trip to see him, hang out and kill a few hours. I met up with two other friends there, and drank a little, just enough to take the edge off, but my mind was racing in anticipation. I realized that I had never made an appointment for sex before. I was no novice in bed, as I burned through women in my University years, but that was always after a bar scene, where you have a few drinks, make some conversation, and steer her back to your bedroom or hers. This was cold. So, with mixed feelings I left the bar after my friend was done and headed to the hotel room.

Nihilism

Counting this blog, I've written my suicide note quite a few times over my lifetime. I have a copy of my most recent one on my phone under the title "In the event of my death, read me". I've always thought of it as going out on your own terms rather than being a bad thing, but I guess that's not how most people see it. My first note came in my first year of university. Lonely, empty, and unfulfilled, I wrote it up, explaining as best I could how I didn't really feel a connection to anyone or anything. "I've felt dead inside my whole life, so why not make the outside match" is the most poignant line from that note. I'd always known that I didn't have any true feelings and just kept a mask on that was what I wanted people to see. I was studying Sociology at the time, and came across a definition of a sociopath.

In Hervey Cleckley's The Mask of Sanity, Cleckley distilled what he believed to be the 16 key behavioral characteristics that defined psychopathy. Most of these factors are still used today to diagnose sociopaths/psychopaths and others with antisocial disorders

Superficial charm and good intelligence
Absence of delusions and other signs of irrational thinking
Absence of nervousness or neurotic manifestations
Unreliability
Untruthfulness and insincerity
Lack of remorse and shame
Inadequately motivated antisocial behavior
Poor judgment and failure to learn by experience
Pathologic egocentricity and incapacity for love
General poverty in major affective reactions
Specific loss of insight
Unresponsiveness in general interpersonal relations
Fantastic and uninviting behavior with alcohol and sometimes without
Suicide threats rarely carried out
Sex life impersonal, trivial, and poorly integrated
Failure to follow any life plan

I realized that I fully possessed most of these traits. I was not shocked or surprised by it. Long as I remember I could mimic other people's emotions and provide the appropriate amount of empathy. Did I really feel anything? Not often. I could watch things happen to me without an emotional connection, hiding my true face from everyone. However, being a Sociopath doesn't mean I'm going to go find a gun and kill everyone. I just don't connect to people on an emotional level. Love, happiness, jealousy, pride, even anger aren't the same for me as other people.

If asked to define my world view, I would describe myself as a Nihilist. Nihilism is a philosophical doctrine in which one lacks belief in the meaningful aspects of life. Thus, life is without objective meaning, purpose, or intrinsic value. I guess feeling like you are alone in the universe at a young age leads you to believe in nothing. Being raised Catholic was a contrast in values. The teachings of the church were in stark contrast to what was happening in my personal life, and I learned that my personal life was the real thing, and the church prophesies and teachings were the fabled pie in the sky; Pretty to look at and hope for, but like the saying goes, wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first. I did my part in the church so that people had a positive opinion of me: I actually did the readings during service, learned the Catechism, when to stand and kneel, what words to say and when. But for all my outward appearance, words, and actions, they rang hollow, and were said with no conviction. To this day, I still don't understand how anybody can believe in a God who lets terrible things happen daily.

Another aspect of Nihilism is the idea of no inherent morality, and that accepted moral values are abstractly contrived. I truly believe in this. I've always thought it stupid that our dos and don'ts were based upon a book that was written by people much dumber than you or me. My basic philosophy is to accept anybody's behavior as long as their right to do it doesn't impinge upon the basic rights of those around them. You want to fuck in the park? As long as there are no kids around, be my guest! That being said, I am not a rule breaker. I did a few things in my youth that involved police activity, and learned to stay below the radar after that. The tallest reed gets cut, as the saying goes, and my youth became all about blending in, and not being singled out as different.

The worst thing about being a Nihilist is the general mood of despair at the perceived pointlessness of existence that one develops upon realizing there are no necessary norms, rules, or laws. That brings me back to the suicide note. Everytime I've written one, I always had a plan of action and a note to be discovered. Writing the note is therapeutic- it helps me to focus on the problem, and forces me to come to terms with the loss others will feel when I'm gone. This is generally what stops me from carrying out the suicide. At that particular moment, I remember walking along the waterfront, and thinking that I would jump in. The North Atlantic is freezing and unforgiving. Numbness as soon as you touched the water with your hand. Death would come quickly as long as no hero showed up to save you, and it was late at night with nobody around that I could see. What prevented me from jumping in the ocean that night? I had recently found out that my girlfriend of the time was pregnant. I can"t say I was thrilled at the idea of becoming a father, but I was intrigued by it.

My most recent note was written when my wife and I split up. Once again, I was tired, and not looking forward to the work involved in reestablishing a new life. Too many people to talk to, too much effort to pretend to care when I don't. Life is pointless; we all die; why bother with the effort? Much easier to walk to the Falls and go for a swim, or open a vein and bleed out. I gave blood my first year in University and all I could think while doing it was, "This doesn't hurt. It would be a good way to go." I have 90 blood donations to date, and I think it every fucking time. People think I'm altruistic and that I donate to help others, but the truth is, I do it to help focus myself, so that I remember what my options are. Nihilism.

How it begins

Starting is hard. Staring at that blank page while you sort through the dark past that you tried to bury so unsuccessfully for years. You can never keep the past covered because it creeps out of its hiding place and into your daily life. It darkens; it tinctures; it tints. There's no way to say it in nice people terms; to say it in a way that makes it more palatable to the mainstream. Even though I know I was taken advantage of, it still feels like I was a willing participant, because I was a willing participant on more than one occassion.

I don't remember exactly when the molestation started, but I remember the older male relative fooling around with the kids in our family at a young age. He would babysit myself and my 2 sisters and my brother while our parents were out. I remember the play wrestling where he would roughhouse and grab me by the genitals, claiming to have stolen my dick by sticking his hand down my underwear (as pants had to be removed for wrestling) sticking his thumb between his index and middle finger, simulating a penis, then making me prove he didn't have it by showing my penis to him.

Did he do it to the other kids? I know for sure he did to my sister who is 18 months older than me. I'm not sure of the rest because it's never been discussed. He warned me not to tell. He rewarded me with candy and money: sent me to the store with extra money to buy him things, telling me the extra money was mine for doing what he told me, and never talking about what we did. Because it wasn't just show and not tell; and not just on my side; there was full-on oral and anal sex play. I have memories of blow jobs and fingers in my ass, but it's like old pictures and freeze frames from an old movie. I remember him kneeling across my thighs to keep me still, having my arms held down while he was above me. I don't remember crying or struggling at all. It seemed like this was part of playtime with him. Just something you did and forgot about. No big deal. the important part was not to tell anyone. You see, he was a big believer in corporal punishment. Go cut a switch? Done it. Hold out your hand? Been there. Pull down your pants? Yup. Tell your parents? Never, cause if he said you misbehaved while mom and dad were gone, you'd get another beating when they came back.

And the religious culture was one that supported molestation. Sex was dirty and disgusting, to never be discussed in public. Keep those kinks to yourself and stay repressed and become perverted with your thoughts until they spill out and are played out on the helpless and the innocent. Rape the ones that lack power, exert dominance over them, threaten them with punishment, give them a lick or two to show them who's the boss, threaten them with more if you tell anyone, reward them not telling. It's so easy...so easy it made me ask my friends growing up about their experiences, but nobody else ever confessed to me, so I never confessed to them. I wondered about my cousins, but lacked the fortitude to bring it up.

I do recall that there was quite a bit of sexual play between myself, my cousins and friends. There were long discussions about sex and what we would do to girls when we hit puberty and began actively seeking sex, and even some mutual masturbation, but I honestly lack a guideline to know if what we did is normal or as a result of exposure to sex play at a young age. I technically lost my virginity to the older relative at least by age six, and had sex with an older female relative at around age eight. I remember her coming into my room to climb into bed with me, removing all our clothes and feeling her naked body on mine. I don't hate her or blame her for it. It was all very gentle and loving. I honestly loved the attention, the comfort that I received from it. She stimulated me until I was hard, then showed me where i should put it. She climbed on me as well, in the all too familiar cowgirl pose that I still can't tolerate today. And that was that. Of course I didn't come; I was eight-years old, we just did it until she decided that was enough. She didn't have to explain to me not to tell anyone. I was a seasoned player by this time - at age eight, and the times with her were as beautiful as they were ugly, both of us searching for comfort in the thing that caused all the hurt.

He died  around the time I was thirteen. I remember being pulled out of school and coming home for the day and not really feeling anything - happy? sad? ambivalent? I remember feeling numb, like I couldn't process it. I just remember the day of the funeral sneaking off and going fishing instead of going to the funeral. I went to a spot on the river that has a great view and recall it was a bright sunny late spring day just past Easter, and just feeling free. Just knowing that that part of my life was over and done. Except it wasn't, because we practise what we learn.

I, in turn, lured my younger friends into playing with my penis; getting hand jobs at age twelve to fourteen from two of them that were about 4 years younger, rewarding with praise and attention, allowing them to hang out with me, providing treats. I guess His legacy lived on in me for those two years, until I was raped again, by a future girlfriend who was two years older than me, and her boyfriend who was four years older. There's a pattern of abuse here: the older preying on the younger. It was always there in our culture growing up. More than one time, I witnessed a group of boys hold down a girl and open her pants to see if she "had any hair down there yet.", or cop a feel on her way off the bus. Happened so often, it seemed like normal behaviour, and you joined in.

Getting a girlfriend at age sixteen was when my sex life finally took on a more normal tone. It was a school camping trip to qualify for a medal that required a 10 km hike and an overnight stay, in big tents provided by the army cadets. All the boys in one tent, all the girls in a different one, the two male chaperones in a third. She was two years older than me, and fresh out of a relationship with a controlling boyfriend.

We chatted side by side at the back of the group the whole way in about her previous relationship and what we liked, buoyed on by a nervous confidence in finding shared things we liked. When we got to the campsite we all went off to get firewood. except we ended up at the edge of the lake.  "Dare you to go in." followed by "Double dare you." was all it took to strip down to our underwear and go in. It was an ice cold lake in early June in our underwear, and I will never forget the hardened small nipples that were barely visible through that white bra. We took off our wet clothes back-to-back in the woods and returned to camp. After our campfire, everyone drifted back to their tent to sleep.

Not her though; she pulled me into her tent for some strip poker with the girls.
The level of excitement for a sixteen-year old boy to be playing strip poker with six other girls ages fifteen to eighteen was off the charts. However, when push came to shove, and it was time to show the goodies, everyone was bashful, and the final clothes came off inside the sleeping bag...except for her. she proudly flaunted it, and when I lost my final hand, so did I, as I remember being hard at that point anyway, and excited to show it off. When lights out came, I felt her hand take mine. She lead me back down the trail and put down a blanket for me to lie on. After some quick Oral by her to make sure I was hard, she mounted me and ground into me until she climaxed, and asked me if I had as well. I was terrified as I couldn't come in that position, not with her on me, with her legs touching my thighs, so I grunted and said I had. Just another lie about sex for me. No big deal. Besides, this was the same girl who had raped me with the help of her boyfriend two years previously. I think this was her way of trying to make up for it. But that's for another time.