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The Politics of Ruination

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(The proceeding interlude care of Norah Jones. Reflection and usual blogging to follow.)

You’ve ruined me now –
But I liked it –
But I’m ruined; do you have a plan? ‘Cause I’m in your hands.

You’ve ruined me now –
Though I liked it, now I’m ruined –
I had no choice when I heard your voice.

I know you said, ‘can’t be misled’.
Now I’m the one whose face is red.
You’ve ruined me now.
Though I liked it, now I’m ruined –
I’m trying to part with what’s in my heart.

You’ve ruined me –
And how I thought I liked it –
Now I’m ruined.
My whole world’s now turned upside down.

I heard me say, ‘I’m going away’ –
But now I write you everyday.
You heard me say, ‘I’m going away’ –
But I’m on the floor outside your door.
You’ve ruined me now.

You’ve ruined me now.
But I liked it –
But I’m ruined …
Do you have a plan?
‘Cause I’m in your hands ….

Yeah. Do I even need to add to that? Norah sums it all up rather nicely.

I couldn’t sleep last night. Again. So, I finally gave in and got out of bed, grabbed a snack, and reflected upon the evening’s events. That song popped into my head. Hadn’t heard it in ages; liked the melody. The lyrics seemed a bit melodramatic — what I knew of them; which was essentially the chorus and not much more.

‘You’ve ruined me’. Damn. That’s an intense concept, isn’t it? What a thing to say to a person. Definition is even dicier. What’s it even mean? To be ‘ruined’ — ? How?

While it’s indeed dramatic, it’s not undeserved. For numerous reasons, I feel rather ruined: recollections of my past history of abuse, which has been creeping into my subconscious, while other elements of that very precarious psychological space present themselves in sudden and unexpected ways.

I’d say I need to explore the submissiveness that’s slowly begun surfacing, but no one beckons that forth from me. So, much as Norah’s proclamation, I, too, am ‘trying to part with what’s in my heart’ — because the truth is, I have a wonderful husband who’s, really, uncommonly so. I know plenty of wives say their husbands are wonderful; it’s hyperbole. Mine truly is.

And so I conversely feel horrible. Terribly guilty. Namely, because he’s also submissive. Deeply, wonderfully submissive. And I’ve no idea where my dominance has gone. It’s either quickly reappearing, like a trusty shield, in the face of strangers and mixed company — or it’s just not there. Nor is anything in its place. Rather, my sexuality has just … checked out..

Except in those rare moments when it checks back in — just to fuck with me, it seems. Just to torment and to tease. As if to remind me that — yup, it’s still there; thoroughly buried. Except when it isn’t. And that happens quite randomly, but is easily handled (well — most of the time) through sublimation. Unless it’s a dominant sexual feeling. Oh, how I miss feeling THAT!

Ruined.

Yeah, suffice it to say. Though, I liked it, now I’m ruined. And he has no plan.

I tried going away. Much like Norah’s, it’s a work in progress with certain similar results. I have an unfailing pride which never allows me to flat out bear all in most cases. It has happened a few times — but we won’t speak of them right now. ‘Tis a bit more emo than I feel like getting at current.

And regardless of his ‘indecision’ and genuinely being driven as crazy and being completely flummoxed as to what to do — it’s still torturous at times. Well … recently. I’m not going to just forbid him to socialise with Mister P or the gaming group, with whom he’s become friends. So, what else I can do? Besides hide out various locations of the apartment? ( … Even if he finds me in said locations of apartment. Sigh.)

I’m civil. I had a normal conversation — about writing / work. It’s our patented fall-back. Any time we veer to close to having to discuss It, we can always retreat to work. (Except … when we can’t. Those’re the tricky times.) But there was plenty to discuss, and he was a complete space cadet due to having worked long hours on little sleep. Understandably, as he was about to crash anyhow, we suggested he do so. Away from the game, of course. (Mister P offered our bedroom, as it’s quiet away from the boisterousness of roleplaying and clattering of dice.)

He accepts the offer to nap — and decides to (wait for it) lie down over by me, upon the carpeting behind where I was seated at the dining room table.

… Sigh.

All right. Fine. So, he won’t stop blathering about all manner of things which make little sense to the point where I have to downright tell him to shut it and get some rest. Erm, gently, of course. Y’know. Nicely as it can be said. He says I’m ‘quite right’ and prepares to do so.

Whew. Just as I’m thinking to myself that perhaps, I’m overreacting; perhaps, this won’t be nearly as difficult as I thought, and despite his going through a similar sort of hell, he’s clearly managing it well enough to where all I have to do is maintain my own composure, and –

He grabs my hand.

I’m dumbstruck.

Doesn’t say a damned thing; not a bloody word. Just … holds it — and not idly, not softly, not delicately, not gently. Not quite for-dear-life, but with an odd sense of … not quite knowing what else to do. A quiet desperation. The stirrings, but not yet manifestation of, a kind of madness.

I just blinked. He just stared. I blinked again. Finally, my cerebrum has connected with my motor cranial nerves, and sent some sort of message indicating I should SAY SOMETHING –

– and before I do … he gives my hand a slight squeeze before closing his eyes, turning his head, and slowly pulling away. Silent after that. Completely.

I’m still blinking. I say nothing, turn back to the laptop upon the table before me, and attempt to concentrate — and not on the words emblazoned across my mind: WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?

As if a part of me I won’t acknowledge isn’t chiding from some dark place — oh, I know exactly what that was. And of what of it? (That’s the logical portion again. See, I argue with myself. Rather frequently. It’s … useful. Sometimes.)

What of it, indeed. What point does it serve? What does it even matter? Who cares what’s there if there’s nothing that can be done about it? What point does any of it serve if it won’t be expressed?

It … doesn’t. Not anymore.

You’ve ruined me now — and how, I thought I liked it; now I’m ruined —

My whole world’s now … turned upside down.

I wish I could get it back upright. He deserves more than this. A real wife, a real lover; a real partner. Not this broken, twisted-every-which-way version of what used to be relatively sane, quite straightforward, and capable of making all of his dreams come true.

Sigh.

You’ve ruined me.

… What comes next?


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