Apologies in advance: tedious self-exposition on the topic of being chakrally blocked forthcoming

For the past couple of months, every time I get a little bit tired, I start feeling a little tickle in my throat. And then I cough this weak, sad little hack and I start to wonder if I'm catching cold. But then I sleep and I'm usually feeling cough-free the next morning. However, I went to bed with this cough after an emotional Friday night and have awoken with it wriggling in my gullet every day since. I don't feel sick. I just have a hairball. An irksome hairball.

I am a firm, firm, FIRM believer in the (more Eastern than Western, I guess) philosophy that there is an energetic emotional component to every physical malady. I've also studied a little bit about the 7 chakras. It's taken me a good many years to own up to the emotional cause behind my recurrent UTIs. I haven't wanted to admit it. But the 2nd, the sacral, chakra doesn't lie. If I am ambivalent about a lover, he is sure to plant a porcupine in my privates. If I am feeling some sexual guilt, a round of Cipro is sure to follow. And if I distrust his affections? You can find me in the cranberry juice aisle very shortly thereafter. At this point, however, my urinary tract has gotten so sensitive that I feel the pricklies creeping in when I'm merely dehydrated. In fact, I feel uncomfortable there even before I get thirsty. So sexually pervaded is my thinking, I guess, that my 2nd chakra is working overtime. My much-espoused libertinism is in direct conflict with the messages I'm receiving from my body and I know that means I've still got some work to do with regard to my not-quite-thrifty-enough sexual expenditures. But one thing at a time.

Today, I have cough. I know good and well that if I'm feeling like there's something stuck in my throat literally, there's probably something stuck in my throat metaphorically. The throat is home to the 5th chakra. It's dominion is all that is communication-related-- on both the giving and the receiving ends.

Sometimes a cough can mean that you aren't listening. It can also mean that you are lying, as lying impedes real connective communication. It can mean that you are lying to an entity outside of yourself. Or it can mean that you are in some sort of denial. I've been wracking my brain all day, trying to figure out if I'm being dishonest with someone-- or myself-- somehow. I can't, at the moment, think of outstanding untruths. So I went a'googling to find something that might support my theory that this weird cough was due to a blockage in my 5th chakra. Lo and behold, I found this essay by intuitive healer, Julie Kokesch that says this: "Some of the manifestations of a 5th chakra blockage would be poor communication, inability to express oneself and difficulty hearing. This can also look like a lack of boundary setting and not being able to ask for what you want. [bolding mine]" Aha!

Someone recently asked me if I felt undeserving when I confessed that I have a substantial anxiety surrounding asking people for things. I've thought about that a little and decided that, no, in fact, the opposite is more likely to be true. I'm not entitled, necessarily, but I do feel deserving of, perhaps, more happiness than I'm currently feeling. I mean, I'm a responsible person, a smart person and an empathetic person. I have an above-average ass and, when properly motivated, I can perform at well above average levels in bed. All of those things together make me pretty fucking kick-ass. Hell, yes, I'm deserving. And yet I am keenly, acutely aware that no one is so beholden to me as to actually feel any obligation to fulfill my wishes were they to be expressed.

Here's my daddy issue (every girl's got at least one, right?): growing up, I always felt like the only way I ever won my dad's approval was by not needing him. The less money, time and attention I needed, the more I felt he loved me. The fact that I didn't chirp and sing or bop around the house like my brother did made me the favorable point of comparison in his eyes. I could entertain myself-- and do so quietly. Very early on, my self-sufficiency was praised and so I developed it and honed it to a spitshine. But kids are, by definition, needy. And sometimes I DID need money, time and attention. When I did, my god, I felt like I was imposing on him.

In retrospect, it seems VERY likely that I perceived the tension between my dad and I with my limited and skewed kid-goggles. All things considered, both of my parents are pretty devoted. But it was tough, even anyway. And even now, I HATE having to ask to borrow his car when I'm home, just knowing he'll throw me this look like it's the biggest inconvenience EVER. (To be fair, though, I should say that my dad and I get along famously now that I don't ask him for money anymore. I can't even begin to tell you, fair readers, how cute it is when he calls me out of the blue just because he urgently needs to tell me stories about his dog. I never quite expected him to miss me the way he does.)

But anyway, as an adult, I pride myself on being low-maintenance. From the outside, I might not appear so, as I generally try to throw up the well-groomed glamour of someone slightly spoiled. In other words, I pay a lot of money for haircuts and lipgloss and strappy sandals. But it's MY money. Also, I don't need to hang out with other humans for every second of my day. Beyond my natural loner-ish tendencies, I'm pretty good at entertaining myself. I don't need constant reassurances that I'm good enough or worthy or whatever, either (constant reassurances that I'm pretty enough are something else entirely, though). And with the exception of frequent requests to have my libido tended, past partners have often expressed surprise at how little I've asked of them.

Self-reliance is all fine and dandy, but sometimes even the most independent among us get lonely. And loneliness, I've discovered, is the only real problem I've got for which I need to ask for someone else's help in order to remedy it. And as I said, no matter how needful or deserving I think I am, I know good and well that asking sweetly won't necessarily precipitate someone helping me out with said problem-- not unless that someone else is substantially motivated by their own volition. In fact, experience has shown me that, sure, you probably won't get what you want without asking... but you probably won't get it even if you do. So, Marjorie, what gives with all the defeatism? I'm not sure, but it doesn't feel like pessimism so much as it feels like simple deductive reasoning.

But I have this cough. And the cough is telling me that I need to ask for what I want. But I can't ask people. Because I am prideful. Or I am a chickenshit. Or I am not so convinced of my inherent kick-assedness as I purport to be. Or because it doesn't even matter why I can't ask. So, I'm gonna ask the universe instead.

That's right. I'm sending out the Bunny Signal again. Universe, I'm stewing in my own juices here, and I'm starting to choke on them. I gotta have a sounding board and some freakin' company. It has been four years since I was last in love and I have done all the healing I can on my own. It's time, I'm telling you. It's time.

You hear me, Universe? I'm asking. And I'm coughing. And now that this request has gone out, I don't want to be coughing in the morning. You hear me? Do you?

Silence and Defiance

I've been having the same conversation with different friends quite a lot lately. It's the one about why I denude myself and splay my metaphoric legs in a public forum. 'Tis true. There comes a point in nearly every public blogger's posting life when she wonders if she's not just completely retarded for not taking the whole operation underground. When one writes a blog in which she perpetually outs herself as a mickey-mouse, minor-league deviant, one thinks this thought with some frequency. It's a little scary, post after post, wondering just when somebody's gonna call you on the carpet for your baby-gated freakishness-- and actually make you feel bad about a thing of which you're normally quite proud.

I know, for instance, that a number of people read this blog who I kinda wish wouldn't. I have your IP addresses, my little pets. I know which posts you read and to which you return. I know how long you spend with me. I've chosen to write these things and tack my name to them. And, I suppose, you should all know that you're not so anonymous, either. Among these few to whom I'm a little more reticent to offer up my inner machinations are the people who I wish didn't even have me on their radar. In the grand scheme, I'm a nobody anonymous citizen. I am so VERY ignorable.

So, I'm just not crazy about being in the heads of people who fall into either one of two groups: 1) the ones who monitor me (surveil me) to, I dunno, ensure I don't release any number of secure documents upon which I put my hands daily? (C'mon, people-- I'm not that stupid. Give me a little credit.) I really do want to hope the best and assume they aren't gathering ammo against me, as if I were wont to say something untoward, beyond my petulant whining about how I want more money (those who know what I get paid shouldn't wonder at that) or about how much I dislike the weather in a certain Ohio city. But I'd be lying if I said the worry didn't cross my mind sometimes. Or 2) the ones that have once gotten a whiff of my estrogen-y wake and can't fathom the notion that I have not been reciprocally sniffing, a.k.a., The Stalkerati.

More or less, I suppose, I've come to terms with my mother's frequent perusals. I know that, ultimately, she probably doesn't want to talk about this crap with me any more than I want to talk about it with her. Or at least she respects that many of the topics I discuss here are not on the table for the purposes of live chitchat.

True enough, I feel a little less safe out here in the world with the some of these folks (not Mom, of course) reading my blog. I don't hate my job, nor do I hate my company. I'm not bluebirds-and-petunias in love with them, but my discomfort is basically about my fine-art-degree-laden ego chafing as I watch myself become a little bit more of a corporate knob jockey every day. However, I humbly, humbly prostrate myself to the fact that life would utterly suck if I didn't have this job. And the stalkers? Well, all our lives would be a little sweeter if all the stalkers would trade in their trenchcoats for some nice, sweet lithium, now, wouldn't they?

So, yeah, it crosses my mind every now and again that maybe I should just shut the fuck up and cover my tuchis.

But I'm one defiant little bitch, aren't I?

Interestingly, my newest idol and cyber-throb, debauchette, recently posted regarding similar concerns. Given, her identity is actually concealed and, were it to be outed, there could be some consequences for some ostensibly very large wigs. For her, there is real risk involved in her record-keeping.

She says she writes for the release and for the record and that there is no point if it's not honest. I agree that I write for similar reasons and that I, too, strive to be as honest as I can be, without crumpling under the weight of my known audience. But I write for a bunch of other reasons, too. There is no doubt that I get off on the sheer exhibitionism of it. Oh, yes, I DO get that little frisson of subversive joy every time I talk about giving head or polyamory or whatever other little anthropological avenue through which I approach the topic of human sexuality. It's transgressive and it makes me feel like a Grade A badass whenever I unveil a brand new quasi-kink. Also, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a little obsessive. If I don't have a receptacle into which I can funnel some of my excess cranial activity, I have a hunch I just might go catatonic. So, yes, I write for the release, I write because I sometimes think I might be onto something with my mental meanderings and I attach my name and face to the whole shebang because, godDAMNit, I want to OWN this shit. It's mine; they're my thoughts and my weirdnesses. And I both care ... and don't care who knows it. God knows I'd jones for the risk-high like motherfucking Robert Downey, Jr. if I ever gave up this juice.

But I also write because this blog is a beacon. It's the Bunny Signal. I don't know exactly who I'm trying to attract, but these writings... I'm really hoping they're going to add up to something sooner or later. During the last reading I had with my psychic ...uh, spiritual advisor..., she said something to me about how this vehicle would, indeed, be the conduit through which I find like-minded nerdwhores and other depraved thinkers. I think she herself might have even balked a little at my lingering embraces with such subject matters, but she relented that this was, indeed, just exactly the right sort of stuff for me personally to be putting out into the universe at this point in my life. Needless to say, I felt affirmed. But my point here is that it's important to me to keep this blog accessible to all not only because I relish the feedback I get here (both positive and heckling), but also because I have no intention of censoring anyone else's reactions to my ideas.

And that brings me to the bigger principal at play here. Despite my comical NC-17 rating button that I installed at the bottom of this blog, I really do censor myself fairly stringently. Sure, I may swear a lot, but plenty of people that I know and love could be adversely affected if I really ranted on, diary-style. Aside from a passing mention of a friend here or a name-free reference to someone in real life who has pissed me off there, I'm careful to not say things that I think might hurt feelings or expose personal information about people with whom I might have to have eye contact. And I've never once actually elucidated just what it is that I do for a living.

But I remain staunchly and resolutely anti-censorship, in the deepest, most convicted fibers of my being.

The idea that I could somehow get myself into trouble with what I say in this forum lights a rebellious fire in my loins, belly, throat and every other chakral point in my whole damn body. How many generations of people have been silenced for one reason or another? Prevented from speaking their minds and souls? Because of their races, genders, socio-economic classes, orientations, quirks, kinks and religious preferences? That blinding white noise of all those unexpressed, unrecorded human thoughts keeps me up at night sometimes. Don't tell me you can't hear it, too. The sheer TRAGEDY of all that.

God HELP me if I ever cow to social pressures in such a fashion. God help me if I ever become another one such hiss.

Yeah, I scare myself sometimes. Plenty of times. But it is important that I speak. That I continue to speak. And I am NOT hurting anybody in doing so. I'm not! And it's important that I continue to speak NOT because what I have to say is so revelatory or because my personal agenda is any more significant that anyone else's. It's important precisely because my agenda isn't any more significant than anyone else's. I'm a human, living in a free country and hey, guess what? Long ago, some pretty smart dudes thought it was a good idea to give even little ol' me the right to expression.

I am probably more grateful for that right than I am for any other thing on this existential plane--that right and the galvanized piping of the English language that I use to exercise it. More grateful than I am for even tomatoes. For even raucous, dirty, polymorphic sex.

So there. That's why.