10:30 a.m. - Monday, Oct. 29, 2012
The Orgasm of Avoidant Attachment
Imagine a Venus Fly Trap. The orgasm is the fly, and once secured, I clamp down tightly around it. Pulling my knees into my chest and wrapping my arms tightly around me . . .shutting my eyes and feeling . . .guilt, shame, regret . . .exposure. Vulnerability? I hold tightly until I feel nothing. And then move on, as if the orgasm never occurred. It's been eaten.
What happens after the orgasm, if the body does not respond defensively?
Once upon a time . . .I don't know what was different about this particular day, but I let go. I made noises I don't normally make. Moved my body in ways I don't normally move. We were into it, into each other . . .totally exposed . . .together. I orgasmed. Fully. And in the aftershock of the orgasm, I started to cry. Worst. Experience. Of. My. Life. "It's Ok," he said. "Sometimes that happens when people orgasm." I ignored him. Pulled away. Got angry. And never. Never. Never let that happen again.
Why is it held there? SHE is held there. Every hug I never felt, every loving word I didn't hear, the acceptance of me for who I am and the guidance of how to feel and express emotion . . .missing. The illusion of perfection, the striving for perfection . . . And love handed over once perfection has been acheived - which is never. The memory of the day when she got the phone call and said . . ."Is this true?" - as if by it being true, I was bad. I did something wrong. And why wasn't it me that told her? Why didn't I tell her? What was missing already? Was it her, or was it me? And years later . . .a friend's mother commenting that some girls tell their mothers everything . . .Or was it my mother making that comment? But that I didn't. That I was different. And I remember my mother rolling her eyes at that. As if to say . . .We are better because we are in control? Hiding, always. I found out about her close encounter with cancer the DAY she went into the hospital for the biopsy. I found out about the rocky relationship AFTER Dad had moved out. And I'll never, ever forget walking through that door, to find the gift certificate for a manicure the day before the funeral of my suicidal friend. And not one touch. NOT ONE TOUCH.
And now, desperately wanting it, can't have it. Because of how incredibly uncomfortable and foreign it feels. And now, aloneness. And now, separation. And now, emotionless relationships. And now, the tightly held orgasm. Why do I feel it there?
I sat in the tub with the warm water from the shower head running over me. Relief for my clogged sinuses. Steam soothing my raw throat. And I played it out. Fantasy from beginning to end. True end. Without the trapping of the fly.
Once the orgasm was over, it was as if my usefullness came to an end. The sex had nothing to do with me . . .because I must not be loveable. I must not be - anything. I was a formless thing. I was always detached. I was watching from beyond the body. I felt needed, wanted, desired . . .knowing that it was not really me, but the body which was needed, wanted, desired. For a specific purpose. And once the purpose was acheived, the body would no longer be used, needed, wanted. So I had to protect the emotional part of the experience, so as not to feel rejection. To not desire what could not be given. Which is what the "self-sufficiently attached" do so as not to need the love they don't experience from their mothers. To stay safe.
I needed to not be abandoned post-orgasm. To still be good, to still be loved, to still be strong, to still be honored. To still be worthy. To still be needed. But this takes a lot of trust. Which the self-sufficiently attached do not have to give. So. Here we go. Now we're getting somewhere.
�
�
