Writing. This. You all.
I feel like I have nothing to share, nothing to say that’s worthwhile or interesting. My life as Hy is one gigantic flaccid penis: I came months ago in resplendent spurts and opalescent arcs and now I’m flat, dry and flaky.
I don’t have anything current to say, no interesting story, no new perspective. I’m still proudly flaunting my middle-aged tits, I still occasionally have interesting sex stories to tell, sometimes I have an opinion on things, but generally speaking, I don’t have anything new to say. Not really.
I’ve made incredible friends, done incredible things, but this isn’t my job. I have a separate career that I have to keep safe; I can’t even tell you all what it is, though I long to. God, how I wish you all knew what I did. I wish I could marry the two sides of me – finally – and flourish in all the Hy/Me glory I imagine is waiting for me.
I am at a crossroads which feels less like a point in which I choose right or left and more like a place in which I choose to continue or not. I’m not sure I want to keep going.
But when I think about my life without Hy I gasp. Literally and figuratively. I’m not at all sure how that would work: I don’t know who I am. Am I Hy, the body- and sex-positive writer, and advocate, The Sharer of All? Or am I Me, the professional ________ who ______ and _______ and _________s?
My blogging friend, Livvy, wrote recently about the divisions she experiences in her professional and personal lives and I related strongly, viscerally even.
“It was while I was standing there, squeezing this stranger’s penis, that I began thinking about quite how narrow the dividing line between what is sexual and what isn’t can be, and how blurring that line can be complicated and potentially dangerous.”
I don’t squeeze penises in my professional life, but I “squeeze” other things, and I’m so tired of keeping my lives at odds. I feel that this life as Hy in particular could benefit greatly from my other life; its openness, its specific familiarity with my heart and trials.
It’s the fear of Hy’s impact on my professional life that keeps me from even breathing a whisper of the real me to you all. I’d like to think you’d embrace her — I’m actually certain you would — but I don’t trust a single one of my career colleagues to protect Hy. Why would they??
I spent a portion of tonight with The Artist, just as friends. I laughed so hard I cried because he likes to send me fucked up videos of him in masks set to flutes and REM. I like being friends with him. On his plant-infested balcony I talked endlessly of Luke and how I’m head over heels for him, a man I can never have. I got to be all of my self in a pseudo-anonymous way while sitting on that third story balcony and I liked it. A lot.
Maybe that’s what I need here. Maybe I need a pseudo-anonymity that helps me marry the two sides of me better. I don’t have much going on in terms of unrequited love (Luke is returning all my feelings in truckloads) and I’m not fucking much. I feel boring and shriveled up.
I have an entire other life I’m trying to maintain and grow. This isn’t my life. It’s who I am, but it’s different somehow. It’s just a facet.
I owe Girl on the Net a guest post — a year in the making at this point — and I can’t bring myself to create it. It literally haunts me. God only knows how others who’ve been blogging for as long as me do it. I’m losing my will to write, to create. It all feels false and odd and off. I’ve been struggling to find a balance and I’ve achieved a place of non-guilt, but I truly don’t know what to do next here. The apathy I’m experiencing is intense and sticky, pervasive. I feel mired down, like when that beautiful stallion drowns in the swamp in Neverending Story.
When I wrote before about new goals and new summits I felt somewhat energetic. Today, I feel depleted. All I want to do is curl up in Luke’s arms and purr my happiness into his delicious skin. Close my eyes and feel him press his heat against me, hear his voice, feel his lips, consume his very essence.
If I take a break will I have anything to return to? My five-year anniversary is creeping up as quickly as my numbers of visitors are dropping. You guys are sick of me, too, apparently, and I don’t fucking blame you. I am no longer viable, no longer interesting. Nothing is happening! Do I care?? Does it matter?? Why do I write? Who am I writing for? I don’t even know anymore. So many questions…
I am lost, yet calm. I’ll be ok, you’ll be ok. I’ll figure this out one way or another.
Suggestions welcome as always.