Mixed Dynamics
Marriage often makes it hard to know what to focus on. I try not to guess what is going on in my beloved's head, especially when I am navigating the manic edges of own issues. The mania makes me vulnerable to all manner of mis-direct. Trying to read other folks is extremely dangerous in this state. Even the reading of simple body language slides off into projection and conjecture with the greatest of ease.
But here we are. I am manic as a hurricane force wind and my husband is inspiring echoes from therapy circles about the addictive nature of hyper-sexual women. "An addict will protect their sources long after that source has dried up." I FEEL (not to be mistaken for knowledge) like he is trying to goad me into the manic levels which will bring on the volcanic sex of my sexual rage. The rage my battered sex organs and and post menopause hormones will no longer support. It doesn't seem to matter how often I explain it to him. When the woody begins its salute... He still does not believe I see his plight. I am supposed to be exerting the ignorant magic of my sexual rage, just like I did for the first two decades or so of our marriage. I have asked repeatedly for help making the transition from sexual rage to loving sex, but... I gave up in Peru, 2002. I test the limits every now and again, but still keep hitting the logics I translate as, "I just want to be the dildo in your sexual rage." And a mighty fine dildo he was! The Energizer™ Bunny has nothing on my man's woody. Still. Now if only we could connect the big head to the little head...
Of course, rage never confines itself to a single room. He does not miss the rages which left holes in the drywall before I disappeared into my therapy networks and/or desert landscape. I believe his intellect even grasps the fact that the kitchen rages are the same rage that made for that addictive sex, but the woody moves to its own intellect. Just switch me on and let me do my just thing. Use me, baby, use me. Just.
My morning inventory clearly indicates I am in full manic mode. Not a good time to be analyzing other folk. Especially not family. Still, all the signals are there. There will be button pushing and/or pointed silences as soon as his rising leaves the bed. The pain of the dysplasia is acute in my gut. It wouldn't take much to get him to drive me to help. It isn't the Mississippi River Valley, but the hospital is not here.
But here we are. I am manic as a hurricane force wind and my husband is inspiring echoes from therapy circles about the addictive nature of hyper-sexual women. "An addict will protect their sources long after that source has dried up." I FEEL (not to be mistaken for knowledge) like he is trying to goad me into the manic levels which will bring on the volcanic sex of my sexual rage. The rage my battered sex organs and and post menopause hormones will no longer support. It doesn't seem to matter how often I explain it to him. When the woody begins its salute... He still does not believe I see his plight. I am supposed to be exerting the ignorant magic of my sexual rage, just like I did for the first two decades or so of our marriage. I have asked repeatedly for help making the transition from sexual rage to loving sex, but... I gave up in Peru, 2002. I test the limits every now and again, but still keep hitting the logics I translate as, "I just want to be the dildo in your sexual rage." And a mighty fine dildo he was! The Energizer™ Bunny has nothing on my man's woody. Still. Now if only we could connect the big head to the little head...
Of course, rage never confines itself to a single room. He does not miss the rages which left holes in the drywall before I disappeared into my therapy networks and/or desert landscape. I believe his intellect even grasps the fact that the kitchen rages are the same rage that made for that addictive sex, but the woody moves to its own intellect. Just switch me on and let me do my just thing. Use me, baby, use me. Just.
My morning inventory clearly indicates I am in full manic mode. Not a good time to be analyzing other folk. Especially not family. Still, all the signals are there. There will be button pushing and/or pointed silences as soon as his rising leaves the bed. The pain of the dysplasia is acute in my gut. It wouldn't take much to get him to drive me to help. It isn't the Mississippi River Valley, but the hospital is not here.
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