Anna’s Adventures

Its terribly freudian to hark back to one’s childhood to explain their quirks. However, I have this image which haunts me lately. My sister and I are about 3 and 5, sitting on the makeshift lounge in the dusky dawn light. My parents are in the kitchen. Naked. My mother has the chef’s knife, and my father has the fish knife. They crouch, and slowly circle one another. The anger in the room is tangible, and I know that my father will lose because he is weak and my mother is strong. She has a reason to win. He has nothing, he is out of his depth in every way. I put my arm around my sister’s shoulder and we both sit in wait, not sure what event we are hoping for.

Twenty years later, I am kneeling between my two lovers as they engage in ideological warfare over my welfare. There is the irresistably needy black hole versus the stifling nurterer. I feel sucked between them, pulled taut and unable to move. I kneel, still, barely listening to them. I begin to count all the knives in the house. Most prominent, the machete that I gave him when we first became lovers. The swiss army knife he gave me for my birthday. His swiss army knife. His leatherman multitool. A cook’s knife, blunt butterknives, plastic picnic cutlery. The sharpening block I taught him to use reminds me how sharp these knives are, because I made them sharp.

What landed us here was that she didn’t approve of my knives, of my cutting flesh into stripes. She’s here to tell him that. He’s here to tell her he doesn’t care. I’m here to kneel between them, wondering which one will win me in the end. Which one will I declare the victor? Which one will deliver me more of the intensity and damage I am in love with.

I count the knives. He gets angrier. She gets angrier. Will either of them break into a run to the kitchenette? Will I?

From the corner of my eye, I watch the long machete, and I become scared because my body is the battleground. I become excited because my body is the battleground. Annihilation is nigh.

But no. Neither of them could do it. Neither of them would do it. They had to have me wholly and separately. Neither would think to carve me up and scrap and cawl over the carcass. Neither of them would make love with the other over my bloody body. Winning, to them, meant taking all of the spoils rather than fighting well, hard and without quarter. The knives stayed undisturbed. The threat remained unspoken. The arguments remained ideological. I remained kneeling, frozen between them, unable to declare a victor.

I can’t trust someone who says he would never hurt me. I trust someone who could hurt me if he wanted to, who could hurt me if he needed to, if I asked him to. I can’t love someone who asks not to be hurt. I can only choose to act, and intentions mean nothing in relation to the consequences.

I won’t promise you a thing, but I hope you trust me. You haven’t promised me anything and I’ve no reason to be disappointed.

I need a lover who will be with me when I need to be gentled. And who will meet my passions like a train smashing a suicidal virgin on the tracks.

Arrrrrgh! Now after all that time - 3 weeks of excitement and flirting and loving and being radiantly floating, I’m down to earth and seriously afraid of the yoke again. Or maybe I’m just bored and look around, and its the only thing in the corner of my room.

Solution: I need to get out more.

Forever is a long, long time. I really don’t need to rush things, do I? Though at the same time, I really do need to keep focused on what is happening to me right here, right now. I need to keep having fun. I need to stay in love. I need to be with sweet people.

I don’t want the yoke. Fuck it. I kick the fucking thing.

I’m happy, I’m satisfied, and I don’t have a promise of love eternal, or monogamy, or even friendship. But I also am not being strung out with the promise that I might get these things if I behave.

I currently have friendship and I’m so happy. There ain’t no restraints on me today.

I get to pursue what I wants. The view of the future is so sweet coz its my future. Not “ours”, not “yours”, mine.

I’m really really nervous about tonight, about this weekend and about my immediate future. A big part of me wants again to feel the yoke on my neck, but I need to struggle against that longing for comfort with my conscious mind.

I am sending back the key that let me into Bluebeard’s study.
Because he would make love to me
I am sending back the key
In his eye’s darkroom I can see
My X-rayed heart; dissected body
I am sending back the key that let me into Bluebeard’s study.

- Sylvia Plath

Yes, I am sending back the key.

When she was a virgin, the girl’s brothers went away to war. Her father was a cruel man, emotionally cold: needing warmth but untouched by the brightest lights. After he died, there was noone to guide the girl in choosing a mate.

When Bluebeard came a-courting, her older sisters were wary. He was odd-looking (the girl found him interesting); he was eccentric (she found him charming); he was rumoured to have married before and murdered his wives (the girl thought there must be a rational explanation).

So, she married him (and her sisters we relieved it wasn’t their duty to marry this monstor). He took her to his castle, through the fog, across the moat and gave her the keys to every room. She was mistress now. Though he asked her to never, ever, go into his study.

Of course she respected this privacy. What maleficence could possibly go on inside this man’s private space? When he went away on business, and her sisters came to stay they taunted her about her right as mistress to enter each room. What had he to hide?

So she creeps up to the room, peers through the keyhole, breathes in and takes out her key. On openning the room, she sees the glorious horror of Bluebeard’s previous wives; executed, tortured, mutilated and adorning the room. She imagines herself punished with the same fate for her curiosity and mistrust, and is so shocked that she drops the key.

Though it is a small key, simple and brass, she can’t remove the blood staining it. She scrubs it with sand. She buries it to purify it under the moon. She hides it, but the blood soaks through, staining her hands, clothes, and betraying her loss of innocence.

Her betrayal, the knowledge gained, changes her. When Bluebeard returns, she is afraid of him instead of fascinated. She flees as he pursues her up each flight of stairs in the castle, until she locks herself into a room and he pounds on the door with a sword.

Miraculously, her two brothers return from the war and murder Bluebeard and the girl inherits every treasure of the castle.

The secrets of a cold man no longer interest me. The mystique of cruelty and aloofness can’t compare to the pleasure of my own imagination, my own company and my freedom to love. Not to possess sexually, but to love openly, unreservedly without shame or fear of falling, without recourse to safety nets and artificial devices of the heart.

The brothers who rescue me are the males in my head and my heart. When I am a wife, these brothers remain dormant. When I am a daughter to my mother, these brothers are absent. When I am a lover, I forget them. But when I call them by name, they will come because they are my brothers.

I’ve begun a new love affair with myself.

Join me if you wish. But you must be able to share.

• Can be wrong
• Can be right but doesn’t have to be
• Knows when to stop arguing and just get things done
• Knows that this point is different to each of us
• Likes a good argument and knows that it doesn’t have to be serious
• Able to have a conversation
• Clever, not doesn’t have to be formally educated (but its ok if they are)
• Thinks for themselves
• Inquisitive and curious
• Takes care of their body but enjoys their body and isn’t a member of the body police or really uptight about body image
• Sexy, very sexy, but not meaning short skirts and sleaze
• Leaves room for me
• Cares for me
• Thinks of me as I think of them
• Loves me
• Lets me be me. Loves me because I am me, not because of what I could be, or what I can do for them or because of their ideal-Anna.
• Brave
• Allows change to happen
• Can be a partner in adventure, not just a focus of my time and energy
• Doesn’t play tit for tat or exploit my weaknesses to get my attention
• Gives massages, all the time like crazy
• Likes me to be in control
• Likes to be in control
• Realises that the above 2 aren’t mutually exclusive
• Someone who cares enough to reach out to me sometimes
• Someone who is kind and not cruel

Kal told me that just like other people with a disability, I need to improve my other sense to function in this world. Yes, ok this is true. I told him I felt vulnerable to being high, and he invited me out drinking - twice. The first time I was very “charming” and flirtatious with everyone and it got to the brink of being socially unacceptable. The second time was much more intense.

At the end of the day, I have mild BP 2, which leaves me sometimes out of control (high or low) but usually able to ask for help (though not always to get that help).

I am able to ask for help. I asked for help, I received a rebuke. I suspect that some part of him is punishing me.

I need to talk now about my extrordinary birthday weekend.

It started with a celebratory mood at work as my birthday co-incided with the Easter holidays (4 days off!) and MONTH OF HELLISH CRAP beginning to taper off. We had a birthday lunch at a nice Indian restaurant on Thursday. W00t! I also bought myself a jasmine-scented solid shampoo from Lush to use at the gym.

Then on Friday, I did SFA all day long. So good. I stayed with Kal, and we hugged tight all night long despite the heat.

On Saturday, I woke up refreshed and we went out sailing! It was so nice, and fucking scary when the boat first lifted one side in the air. But after a while, I swapped from the tiller to trimming the mainsail, which gave me a greater sense of control and safety.

Afterwards, Kal and I had a bit of a fight, which was unfortunate. I think in large part it was lots of moon-related emotions and also about me coming into his space (sailing) which has always been a site of tension for us. So I’m happy that he loves it, and that he’ll invite me sometimes.

I went off after that to meet my family for coffee and dinner.

The next day was Sunday, and the official celebration began in earnest. DylanJ and Reuben picked me up in the gold Rolls Royce and I got THE FRONT SEAT. Wow. That’s love.

JR and HalfwayDecent trekked from Newcaslte to attend, which was brilliant. They gave me pink champers, a green pendant and STRIPEY SOCKS!

BB and JLo came and gave me a lovely scarf.

But the special present came from Nicky… (you don’t always get a present, but when you do, its a doozy). She couldn’t make it, but asked JR to carry along some photos she found of the fams when I was a bubby. There’s mum, and me, and little DJ in the tummy.

I admit I had a little cry when I saw them. They were uncovered on an undeveloped roll. These pics come at an interesting time for me because I was talking a lot to my psychologist about my parents and their troubled relationship. It was lovely to see photos of happiness and carefree times. I also noticed for the first time how much I look like my mum.

Dad called, and Gran called, and it was nice. They’re both sending cash… and I’m going to put it with my cash to buy a new ‘puter. Yummy.

On Monday night, Mum made chicken and chips - her signature dishes and we all ate till stuffed. Because Nicky couldn’t come, we made chip butties in rememberance of her (a bit like jesus would’ve wanted) but with chips and butter instead of wine.

On Tuesday, DylanJ and I went and vage VirginMobile the flick-o and got onto Vodafone and got new phones.

So here I am, a birthday week or so, and I’m happy as a pig in shit. Its been the best birthday since the one where I got a green cake when I was 2. The best bit is that I’m happy, I’ve got family and I love them. They love me. We get along. Its fucking awesome.