Miss Demure Restraint’s Weblog

Sad Little Sister, what is it you think you have worthy of my stealing?

Your words?
The universe is full of words.
No need of yours, I have my own.

Your men?
Apologies if that sounds catty.
Men are many; I’ve made my choices.

Your renown?
Easily bought and sold, a con.
Not really worth a soul’s corruption.

Your darkness?
I danced with shadows far too long.
I’ve come to know, I prefer the light.

Lay down your sword. I’m not your enemy.
Raise your shield for some other if you must.

I am not what it would appear you think of me.
As surely, you’re not so shallow as expression seems.

My hand and heart open, should you reach forth.
No judgment harbored only acceptance and trust.

Pretense broken.
Waiting empty.
Needs unfulfilled.

Sad Little Sister, what is it you think you have worthy of my stealing?

It was confrontational and she was so desperately trying to “grow” past that. She felt threatened and really didn’t understand the other’s motivation. All she wanted was a simple life, a little peace and happiness this time around. So much of her life was coming together . . . finally. She had been truly happy and content for weeks now. It seemed she was realizing all of her dreams.

The 9-to-5 was the best it had ever been. She was making good money, didn’t mind the job and actually liked the people. Some she might even count as friends. It was summer. The glorious landscape and temperate climate almost made her forget the bone-chilling cold she wrestled with just a few months earlier. After years, she was finally settling into the house she’d bought, making it a home. She’d found an outlet for that which she held most dear . . . expression through her art. It was enough to share it and feel on occasion that it touched or was appreciated by another. She felt free to develop her craft, try new things, nurture her muse and express herself without fearing condemnation or taunting.

She was surprised to find she was for the first time in her life connecting with women. Associations with men had never been a problem. What few friends she’d had, had always been men. Friendships with the fairer sex always eluded her. Yet she now found herself on good terms with several females and even felt a soul connection with a few. She might go so far as to say she had a best female friend . . . a woman that understood her particular brand of crazy and suffered or had suffered much as she did . . . a woman she could talk to and that talked to her. Funny, that they still had not met in real life.

The most wondrous thing in her life was her lover. She basked in the radiance of a man that loved her without condition; taught her without demeaning; supported her without pushing; and safeguarded her without smothering. He touched her in ways she hadn’t dared to hope for. More each day, she felt herself grow closer to him. Much to her own surprise, she was experiencing love without pain, expectation, struggle or doubt. He was the first to satisfy her so completely . . . physically, emotionally and spiritually.

She’d reached a truce of sorts in the lifelong battle with her bipolar nemesis. She knew that was owing to a lot of hard work on her part, but also she gave due credit to the beautiful, calm energy the amazing man in her life shared with her, that and his acceptance without judgment. She thanked whatever entity or entities there may exist in the universe for being blessed with a man both authentic and sensitive; moreover, he was not another drama queen. One in a relationship is enough and she more than filled that bill. There had been no “hard crashes” since he had become part of her daily life. When she felt the monster trying to pull her down, she now had the tools and support to resist the descent down into the well.

She recently stumbled across a brand of spiritualism that made sense to her. A path she was comfortable following and natural for her. She could feel herself blossoming under this new dogma. Of course, as was her way in these things, she dined ala cart . . . never able to invest herself 100% in anyone else’s credo. She was even making in-roads with her “Christian-phobia,” the result of a less than ideal experience with that brand of religiosity as a child. At least she was making an attempt not to throw the baby out with the bath water. She was confident she was doing well in terms of the condition of her soul. Sure, she had a long way to go, but somewhere in the past year, she had turned a corner.

She’d attained a certain sense of grace . . . found peace within herself . . . was enjoying and living in the moment. No, everything was not perfect. Life just hadn’t sent any waves big enough to do more than gently rock the boat. She felt no danger of being capsized or even taking on water for that matter. She must admit the skies were clear with a breeze strong enough to sail through a glorious world of discovery and sharing, catalyst enough to be interesting and exhilarating. She was not trapped in a dead calm, stagnation threatening; but she was not overwhelmed by high seas either. A favorable wind filled her sails. She was making good headway and maybe even just a little reveling in the miracle of it all.

Now this challenge thrown at her from a totally unexpected direction. Yes, she still had a long way to go. Her first response was from the old, emotional, hypervigilant, defense tapes. It was not her way to let go so direct an assualt, ergo the “growing edge.” Her emotions ran the gammet, but she gave vent through the expression of her art. That creation was not a pretty thing, but it was truly what had been inside her for an instant. Still, she had not fired back as she would have at another time, in a different frame of mind. Instead she used her tools and drew on those that support her. This time she had the power to make a choice not to be a victim, not to have another dictate the state of her emotions, not to be pulled back to the old, destructive ways she so despised.

She drew in a deep cleansing breathe, grimaced and let it go.

I go along, thinking I’m making such progress and then life throws me a couple of curve balls to keep me honest. I just don’t know how to act or respond in a gracious and refined manner most of the time. I tend to be reactive, not proactive. So, when conflicted by a situation these days, I thought to try stepping back, but not out. Today, I made a realization about my “back, not out” strategy. It works, but as usual, not as I expected and most definitely not the same way each time.

There was a great tragedy in my man’s life recently . . . his sister was randomly murdered by a stranger. There were so many emotions and responses that welled up inside me. Outrage at the senselessness of the cosmic plan. Pain that the one I care deeply for had lost someone he loved. Lost in how to help him through his suffering. I stepped back and didn’t try to analyze it, feel it, control it. I didn’t act on or blurt out any of the random responses that scurried through my mind. Rather I let him do what he must and made sure he knew I would be there should he need anything. I let him go to process his feelings and make peace with his heartbreak.

He has gone off to both mourn with his family and deal with the business details of death. Though I want so to be the one that comforts him, I have been able to see that the relationship is too young and our time together too short. I’m okay with being the life he has to return to once he has come to terms with his loss. I learned that sometimes we have to release not only the ones we love, but also our own selfish needs. Its not enough to accept another without judgment. You have to be willing to let them follow their path even when it diverges from your own. He will return to me when he is done, no conditions or timeline. When he is ready, we will continue our journey together.

Writing is my outlet, how I purge the negative, contemplate the illusion, and celebrate the joys. I resolve through my writing. In crafting the words, I come to understand better both myself and my reality. Should my words touch someone now and then, it is a joy to feel that connection, that sharing, that momentary reintegration with the prevailing oneness. I write for the love of it and by the compulsion of it. Without it I am not complete, but it is still only a part of me.

Here in this blog I have exposed the product of processing my thoughts as I’ve dealt with them. The words are not a literal accounting, rather the means to evoke a feeling, impart an experience, share a knowing. This place is the time capsule that preserves the moments as they happen. I have not edited or held back to maintain a persona or keep from offending people that may see themselves in the words and misconstrue my intent . . . until just recently.

It was stupid really. I sense it is a game, but it impacted me nonetheless. It was a confrontation I easily could have missed. As karma would have it, there was something for me to learn, so it was brought to my attention. I didn’t know how to react, so I stepped back. This time though the compromise was to my integrity, not my ego. I wrote as I do to sort out my feelings, but I did not post. I’ve spent significant time thinking about why. What I have come to realize is that I was censuring myself again, worrying about another’s perception. I had stepped back from the situation, but I consequently stepped back from being true to myself and my promise not to return to those old ways of retreat and isolation.

I’ve decided its time to step back in. I’ve made the decision to post those things I wrote and continue posting regardless someone else’s paranoia. That’s what’s right for me and others will have to just get over themselves. I don’t have this blog to impress people, sway others to a cause, gain recognition, or seduce anyone. This is the reminder of the journey I keep for myself and share with others as our paths cross and intertwine. This is the jewelry box were I store my Demure Pearls. Think what you may . . .

“This is Demure’s domain and she reigns here . . . I challenge you to permit the words to touch you . . . Demure demands the emotions seize you. She and I encourage you to love it, hate it, praise it, condemn it, cherish it, reject it, feel anything you want to about it, except indifference. Here it is safe to examine the hope and the pain — raw, unrefined — and to cry or laugh. Here you can freely wander through the emotional morass of love and life in the extreme. Here you can contemplate the disturbing, arousing, moving, illuminating wonder that is her domain. Here you are invited to look into yourself and Demure will happily be your guide.”

Find your peace.
You hurt no one as deeply as you hurt yourself. None of us ever do.

Find your dream.
Do the things that make you happy. Embrace the gifts of the illusion.

Find your love.
That ecstasy the closest we come in this existence of melting into one.

Find your self.
Its hard to do, but you’re allowed to forgive, both yourself and them too.

Find your life.
What is past is just that. There are no beginnings or endings, only now.

I freely admit to being a whore. I have been with more than a few men. Still, I am an honest whore. I never mind fuck anybody, with or without reason.

I freely admit to being a writer. I have crafted much from my imagination. Still, I do not lie. There is a piece of me in everything I write, beautiful and ugly.

I freely admit to being a woman. I am vain, selfish and sometimes self serving. Still, I will not steal. What I have, what I am is mine. I own it, good and bad.

I freely admit to being a wonderer. My journey not geographic. Still, I travel the byways of self-realization, such my adventure . . . always lost, but finding.