Diary of a Darklady
Insanity, Being Awake, Returning from the Dead – and Dating
People have been employing colorful, creative, and sometimes extreme language to describe me for years. Love me or hate me, superlatives appear to be important for summing me up. Even so, I wasn’t entirely sure how to react when a date recently proclaimed me “insane.”
Now, it’s possible that he’s right… although I’m hoping desperately that it’s genius and not insanity that drives me deep into areas that conventional wisdom strongly advises me to avoid entirely. It certainly doesn’t seem sane to forego sleep, meals, professional, and social opportunities in order to watch dozens of pornographic videos every month, mostly on fast-forward. It’s something of a career risk to become known as “The Masturbation Lady” (http://www.masturbate-a-thon.org). It definitely influences the demographics of my prospective dating pool when I mention that I’m a spiritual atheist who has run for public office; is Ms. Oregon State Leather 2004 (http://www.blackoutleather.org); has a growing collection of both comic books and midget porn; likes to organize wildly innovative pansexual fundraisers and parties, occasionally likes to give spankings and receive whippings; enjoys kissing people I’m not dating; is a professional critic who spends more time noticing the condition of a porn star’s boob job, butt blemishes, make-up, and hair than stroking myself into a sexual frenzy – and that I spent two of my college years studying the Classical Greek language while dreaming of becoming a museum curator, respected archeologist, or writer of history books that would appeal to the Average Joe Six-Pack. Then there’s that whole wacky childhood, adolescence, and troubled teen thing. And the getting wrapped around the tree wearing a VB Bug thing. And the coming back from the dead thing. And the two brief marriages thing. And all the other things that apparently help make me so interesting.
Yeah, maybe I am “insane.” I like to think of it as being awake, though. In a world of sleepwalkers, perhaps that’s a scary thing.
I’m not sure exactly when I first woke up and really noticed the world around me. I discovered that there was no Santa Claus when I was four years old. When I was seven years old and my parents were separated, three boys trapped me in a small wooden shelter and threatened to hurt me if I didn’t show them “mine” and then look while they showed me “theirs.” While in middle school, the first boy I had a crush on drowned at a church camp. The first boy I ever dated eventually died from a botched attempt at autoerotic asphyxiation. A boy I had a powerful crush on in high school recently confessed that he’d been terrified to proclaim his own attraction to me for fear that I had seen through his false front of self-confidence. My senior year in high school, I jumped out of a moving car I’d hitched a ride home after work in because its driver stuck a screwdriver in my neck and demand oral sex. I sat alone with my father’s body after he died of a hearth attack. When the coroner arrived, I helped zip the remains into a body bag. No wonder I have chronic insomnia.
I learned early how to look square in the face of what scares me and blink like I don’t care. I realized later that there is no better way to make a person feel uncomfortable than to see through their façade — and let them know that you’re doing it. As Socrates eventually discovered, although some people find frank honesty initially charming, most people find it ultimately annoying. Whether it’s fortunate or unfortunate is debatable, but what’s not debatable is the fact that I have a hard time not speaking my mind, although I’ve learned to be exceptionally diplomatic when the circumstances call for it.
It became even more difficult for me to keep things bottled up after my car wreck 14 years ago this Cinco de Mayo. There’s something about realizing that every breath I take is a breath I wasn’t expected to ever take that makes me want to cut through the bullshit and get to the point. Maybe that is insanity in a world where the ultimately uncomfortable but socially acceptable lie is generally considered superior to the initially uncomfortable but honest to goodness truth. In a world where institutionalized ignorance is promoted as the best way to protect young people from STDs, where religious men who allow children to be sexualized are given high profile positions of authority while men who consensually sexualize one another are declared anathema, where a loveless and ostensibly heterosexual marriage is considered morally superior to a loving partnership between same-sex individuals, where a pharmacist who apparently thinks he’s psychic can gain public sympathy by claiming morality as his excuse for retaining and refusing to fill a woman’s hormone therapy prescription, where people would rather have a bar full of people drinking alcohol in their neighborhood than a swing club full of adults having sex with one another – maybe in that world being able to sniff the farm fresh scent of cow patties and recognize it for what it is, is insanity.
Of course, it’s possible that what truly motivated my date to declare me “insane” was an excessive amount of high quality beer and the fact that I had more luck flirting with the tattooed alterno-girl that he was hitting on when I arrived than he had. In fact, she practically forced her number on me after he’d walked out on our date early. When he said, “I like spending time with you. I like your energy. But I don’t understand you,” maybe what he really meant was that he doesn’t understand women in general – or himself in particular. Maybe it’s time for him to wake up.