lines of
A man has two heads: the big one and the little one. The big one doesn't
always do all the thinking.
Last weekend the little head was doing the thinking. I met a girl and a
party. I quite liked her. One thing lead to another fairly quickly,
which is always nice. We were in the bedroom and getting ready to get
jiggy with it when the big head kicked in. I'd just met the girl and
felt really connected to her for some reason, but we hadn't gotten
anywhere near the point where I could show her the scars I've made over
the years, the most disfiguring of which were a reaction to psychosis.
The little head had gotten me to the bedroom without thinking about what
is necessary for me to do with any woman I sleep with.
Last year I got together with a girl and it wasn't as spontaneous in
reaching the sex stage. It took more than an evening to get to the
intimacy stage. It wasn't as intuitive as the lass at the weekend but I
came to love her. Our first night together started passionately. I think
we skipped dinner pretty quickly. She knew a little about my experiences
of another consciousness and she knew I was mentally ill, as was she,
but we'd not yet broached the converation about my scars. I didn't know
how to do it. Women put up with a lot negative aspects with a guy like
me. The drink and drugs. The never-listens-to-advice problem. The
problem of being totally wrapped up in whatever I'm into. The madness.
I've managed to find women who can overlook all those and accept some of
them. But the scars are the hardest thing.
That night I had to stop our passions and do the, "there's something
I've got to tell you." I wonder what was going through her mind at that
point. I had to show her my forearm. The scars are only on my left
forearm through there's a few small ones on my body. My left forearm is
lacerated on both sides. One side - the relatively spared side - has
cigar burns and a large gash that healed open. The otherside is even
more frightening and freakish. There are cuts upon cuts. Many, many
small ones and some large ones. Cuts upon cuts. New ones on top of old
ones. The aftermath of my battle with the non-corporeal entity. The pain
of the waking experience of psychosis manifest in physical form.
My last last year threw me out that evening. She was distraught. She
didn't know what to do or say, and I don't blame her. We were drunk and
in a night of pasion and a dropped a bombshell. I walked into the night
saddened but ok. I'd already accepted the loss of such much through
psychosis and severe mental ill health. It was a pretty horrible night
for me but it was worse for her. She got over it though, and though I
think it still freaked her out she managed to accept it.
I have no spontaneous sex life but there's a part of me that forgets the
reason why. When I'm in the moment the little head controls me but the
big one steps in before I go through a similar experience of rejection
for my freakish scars. I don't date and I don't want a relationship so
my sex life is virtually non-existent.
There are some people who can handle the scars though. I have to find
the way to tell a woman about my scars before we get passionate and I'll
think of something. And I'll find the positive to this part of my life
one day.
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