This was difficult to write, and may be difficult to read. Before we get started, I would like to offer a trigger warning to anyone experiencing addiction/depression/self-harm/suicidal thoughts or anything of the like. For those of you that might be confused about your sexual identity, I want to hear from you. If you don’t have anyone to talk to, let me be that person.
You have all heard the reassuring cliché:
“It’s always darkest before the dawn.”
Aside from it sounding like a pop-hook written by Legolas, what a load of shit huh? This is just what people say when they don’t know what to say anymore, right? They don’t know how to comfort you, so they gag you with this hallmark nonsense.
If you are related to me, you should stop reading this post right here. Seriously…I am telling you to skip this one. It will be weird.
My sex life has never been about me. It has always been about making sure the guy is enjoying himself. On one hand, it genuinely turns me on to see his eyes roll back and steam shoot out of his ears. On the heavier hand, it feels like I’ve given up my own pleasure for the sake of this other individual.
Circumstances as a child made me agreeable to a clinical degree. Circumstances that I am not yet ready to publish publicly, but I will, I make a promise to you and to myself. Language is my single greatest inspiration and frustration. I can get lost in the playful syntax of Walt Whitman or Maya Angelou, but I feel another sense of loss when trying to form the words describing emotion and experience because so many of these sensations are best described between words, or are omitted from language completely.
Regardless from the causation of my agreeability, I’d like to discuss its breaking point.
A few days ago I met a former Buddhist monk. He introduced himself as Tom. When we first met there was no handshake upon introduction, no formal greeting like the Cambodian Sampeah (a gesture common in most southeast Asian cultures (although called many different things) where each individual greets the other with palms together to show respect). Nothing like that, all he did was a motion to the seat across from him, and yet it still felt more genuine than the hundred “how are you?” I would hear daily in the states.
Tom has studied meditation for the past forty years, and while I’m no stranger to meditation, the things I learned in the two hours of us sitting together has changed the way I look at the mind and intuition. Everything in this blog post I either learned from Tom or were reinforced by him. In the entirety of the two hours, we spent only twenty minutes of it actually meditating, the rest of the time Tom used to explain to me the benefits of meditation and how to do it correctly.
Let’s talk about drugs. First and foremost:
- I AM NOT A DOCTOR NOR DO I CLAIM TO BE A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL.
- EVERYONE IS DIFFERENT WHAT DID NOT WORK FOR ME MAY WORK PERFECTLY FOR YOU AND VICE VERSA.
- MEDICATIONS TAKE PATIENCE, DO YOU REALIZE HOW RARE IT IS FOR SOMEONE TO HAVE A MENTAL ILLNESS, BE PRESCRIBED ONE MEDICATION, AND HAVE IT WORK PERFECTLY?!
- THERE IS NO MAGIC CURE FOR MENTAL ILLNESS, IT’S A FUCKING BITCH AND TAKES A LOT OF WORK. SO BE PATIENT AND LOVE YOURSELF.
This post is split into two parts. The first is my own opinion on the matter of cultural appropriation versus appreciation, and the second is my experience with my Yantra tattoo. If you just want to read how painful the tattoo was, feel free to skip ahead to the section marked The Story of My Sak Yant.