I remember this one time that I almost had a girlfriend. After that one, I completely shut off my heart I think. Not that it was not my fault to a large extent, as I was damaged goods already, but it was enough to dishearten me enough, because subconsciously I must have known that the cause for me being rejected was one that would not fade away anytime soon.
Anyway, we were in cinema and I was holding her hand. And she said that it takes a lot of trust to put one’s tender hand into another. She was a violinist.
Sure, there were many components to the whole situation. But the most important one was that I seemed very afraid of touch. Afraid to touch her. Today, I see that a large part of that fear was the fear to hurt her. The fear to do one wrong move and with that move reveal something dark within myself. I was so overly careful that she rejected me the same evening literally for being bodyless.
Those articles about rape I wrote, that all men are rapists. I wanted to believe it is true. Wanted to believe that it is just me who is too afraid to kinda be one. But secretly, even if everybody approved of it, I think I would still have trouble with the whole rough sex thing.
Those bad boys everybody talks about. They are not really that bad. Usually, they are surprisingly kind. Sure, they do not pedestalize women, but neither do they grossly and incompetently mistreat them. They just do not let the female walk all over their maleness. When they say something offensive, they are sure to say it in an assertive, but non-threatening way.
Now the fog is clearing and I realize that most of my life, I simply was terribly afraid to hurt a girl by touching her wrongly. To hurt or repel her. It is just one among other fears, sure, but it is one that is deep in my core. While I was holding her hand, inside I dissociated from my body and took care not to let her feel me trembling.
Why? Because I raped and murdered a woman in my past life, to those who care to believe me that or share my delusion. I also got raped and murdered in return, I guess.
I felt this intense guilt and shame and remorse and pain every time there was any form of intimacy with a girl. Any form of prolonged eye contact that I would not distract from with wit. That certainty that underneath I was bad.
There was a time when I thought I had just been guilt-tripped by my mother or grandmother. But somehow, it does not make so much sense singularly. There are some self-worth issues there, too, but it has not everything to do with that intense guilt and shame.
So here I am, realizing that becoming the opposite of a rapist is not what a girl desires – nor me. I can not abuse girls as vehicles to ride to heaven by treating them like godesses and never touching them. Sex has to be passionate. But at the same time, I am afraid my hands may just slip and do some harm. Or that I may not have enough empathy to recognize when she really wants it – because just going by the verbal yes and no is obviously ignorantly stupid.
I know I will get over these things and find ways to forgive myself, but it is not easy. And why should it be. Now I swing forth and back between fear of revelation and anger over the threat that revelation implies. Who wants to have compassion with a rapist and murderer.
Then again, nobody believes in past lives these days, so they will just call me howling mad and that will be it. They find it more logical to believe in random stuff that your brain does just because, than to believe in a past life – which, compared to the normal Christian view, seems very sane and logical to me. Not only that, but the belief in past lives is actually able to resolve those weird feelings instead of just numbing them with blind faith. Maybe it is not really a past life. Maybe it is genetical memory stuff and all. But even then, you can resolve those feelings. That is the big appeal of Scientology – as opposed to the disgusting collectivistic structure of theirs. But then, does it really make sense to you that after this life, you will no longer exist? It makes none to me. I am convinced that I will exist forever.
I guess being called mad, that is a form of punishment, too. Do we humans need redemption and punishment or is that a self-imposed and possibly ignorant attempt to make the past undone? Hell as an atonement or simply as a ?
Anyway, I do not want to hurt them; I no longer want that kind of darkness in my life. I do not want to pedestalize them, either. Making myself into their petty slave serves neither me nor them, I learned. Whatever I did, the best I can become, the best way I can give back to society is to be normal and happy again, when I get over the remorse and guilt. Because no matter how much I punish and demean myself, it ultimately serves nobody.
Yeah, well. Take away all the past life stuff and what I am basically saying here is: I read about rough sex and I am afraid I will fail to intuit her willingness to be taken. I am afraid I will hurt her in ways she does not want to get hurt. I do not trust myself – yet – to take that responsibility.
I am also a little afraid of the anger into which this fear sometimes transforms through the frustration it presents to my libido. I am afraid I may hurt a woman for rejecting me or simply disrespecting me and being confident and indifferent to me. Hell, or a cop. Last time I let that anger flow freely, I got myself into the mental facility and two cops into the hospital – although I am fairly certain they are just being crybabies over some slight bruises.
When other men talk of killer instinct, they do not mean the real thing. The real thing is horrible and ugly. For psychopaths not maybe, but for every normal person. They mean this boyish glance at a woman’s breasts and deep breathing.