A life to write about or a life to live

I was thinking last night that maybe the first part of my life, up until 2 years ago, had been (for the most part) a life to write about, and it had then (2 years ago) started to become a life to be happy about. It is crazy like that in my head sometimes : the only way I can make sense of the ‘effects’ I experienced until about 2 years ago is that at the end I could write something about it. That’s not right. The reasons why I keep on going back to believe this is that I cannot pinpoint what it is that changed in me that brought on different ‘effects’ in the world. It is like I have pressed buttons on the Universe Vending Machine, and always got these... goods, and eventually, by pressing exactly the same buttons in the same sequence, I started getting different goods. Then, I am thinking, why is that ? I have not changed. Only aged.

So to make sense of it, I had decided that I needed these sad stories, and needed them at an early age because I was stronger then, I was able to live through these things, while now I would not be. Life has not made me more stronger, it has made me more careful, more vulnerable, more broken, but also more appreciative. I am the older woman now who says thank you while a man makes love with her. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you... it’s pathetic.

Still, in the unconscious, there is that narcissistic rage... repressed, from old times. That rage is saying to Life and not to anyone in particular : You owe me. Big time. (I hear that voice from time to time). It is the reason why I have taken myself away from the workplace, from the Whole Idea of Working. Inside, I knew that I had not been given enough, in all other aspects of life (other than work), and been taken way too much from. I experienced a deep sense of unfairness, and still, now, Life Owes me, big time. The thing about work is that it took Time away from Me, and so much of it, and I started to NEED absolute freedom.... So that I could wait for Her, that is, a Life that Owes me. I waited oftimes with anger, like a bride waiting for a husband to come back home from cheating on her at 5am, and she’s thinking that she so much wants him to fuck her, but of course she won’t be able to let him because she’s so fucking angry. As a man, I would buy myself toys and would have flings and play with other kids/men, drink a lot of beer, to get my revenge on Life, to force Her, to violate Her, to say I Refuse. This would be my rebellion. As a woman, in my current state, I cannot afford to buy any stuff (other than food), I don’t want flings, I have no playmates, and alcohol only works occasionally. I am so fucking angry. I want to fight someone. Only a man will do of course... LOL

The last guy I went out with, a couple of times I asked him to pin me down on the living room floor and not let me out of his reach, while I would do anything to break away from him. This was fucked up. I also asked if I could slap him. Not on the face (no worries...). I would hit him, and hit, and he was not hurt, it was nothing to him. I wish it had not been. I wish I would have been able to really hurt him. I wish I could find a playmate to fight with. Just like when I was a young kid with my favorite cousin. We had set ground rules so that it would be fair, there were a lot of things he was not allowed to do, things I was allowed to do to him, to my content. I remember that now. That was good, that felt great. Wrestling with him in the basement LOL... He never hurt me, as I recall. The only time he hurt me was not while we were playing, it was during a fight we had. He slapped my arm really hard.

I guess I should go work now. God I hate that.