Updated: Feb 7
Originally written in 2008. I feel the need to come out with this writing so as to help others, as well as myself. These unexpressed experiences can fester shame -- or on the contrary, they can help support and heal the trauma when one is ready to dive into that wound and speak out.
People with certain mental illnesses can experience "Hyper-sexuality". It can be risky, dangerous, destructive, etc. Hyper-sexuality is fed by the manic highs in bipolar disorder. When the highs crash down, the world shatters and the pain is a suffocating regret... This is me opening up to my sexual past. I am not proud, but I will not be shamed either.
Sometimes it is not a longing for the strangers in the night, but a haunting. I see them in the strangers of the day, on the bus, on the street. Vague similarities of nights hushed with yearnings. No, not a longing sometimes, but a shame. “He’s got blue eyes, he’s got green eyes, he’s got brown eyes.” The faint whisper hums in my mind. And everywhere I see them, everywhere they are, because there have been so many that I lose their faces and only the vague similarities remain. A shame — as constantly I turn my head to recognize him, unsure if one might be the man on the bus sitting next to me, or across from me, or the man who eyed me on the street. A sorrow of the faces gazed only in the night — A sorrow of my mind and of my memory, as with dawn it is drawn away, perhaps the mechanism to ease my shame. But the amounts of lost memories leave me overflowing, watching each stranger uneasily, for the faint glitter of recognition in the eye. The faint glitter in which I fear to see, and so I quickly look away so they will not see my face. So they will not see my eyes of question peering out at them, weakly sheltered by my loose strands of hair. Madness echoes as the lost faces build up in the catacombs beneath my tired limbs. Sunken eyes filled with thick black shadows stare into me. In them they hold the moonless nights and a coldness that dwells inside. Inside of me! Crawling, and edging myself into their rounded sockets. The warmth of the darkness I wish not to see! I wish to be! With you here inside of me! The music of my iPod trickles down my ears, I eye myself in the glass windowpane on the bus. In a flash I see him once again, the vague similarities of a jaw line and the tiny peak of his nose, standing out like a rolling mountain
across his cheek bones. I see the similarities of how his hair grows, and how it’s cut back close against his neck. In a jolt I see his sharp grin — “Not him,” I murmur beneath my breath, eyes low. I watch the new man in the window, and hear my moaning echo. I eye him carefully ascetically, watching how he moves, watching how his skin rolls over his tanned and veiny arms. I watch how he breathes through the dust that flitters in the sunlight from the glass windowpane. I close my eyes, and find myself with him in the night, beneath the street lights that shatter his form. In the darkness I breathe him in, and I lose his face, once again, forever.