The good people over at Penguin’s imprint Avery have been so kind as to send me Nina Hartley’s Guide to Total Sex.

Hmm. A book on sex that features raves on the cover from Margaret Cho and Penn Jillette? Hmm, indeed. I wouldn’t exactly list Cho & Penn as two of my sex idols. In moments of unbridled passion, where the lights are low, temperatures rising, panties in a twist, when I’m staring down an erect penis, I don’t flash into the recesses of my brain and go, “Oh, god, what would Margaret Cho do right now?” I mean, obviously.

Let this be a lesson to publishers: Just because you can get a celebrity to endorse your product doesn’t necessarily mean you should. Penn? Ahem.

Now, Hartley pronounces that this is the book she wished she had at 18. Okay, all right.

I have a problem getting totally behind this book. And lemme tell ya why.

First, sex is a pretty mind-blowing thing, and unlike riding the old wooden roller coaster or some other cheap thrill like that, it can vary six ways to Sunday every single time you do it. Unlike other thrills, sex has a whole world of options available to you.

Sex is one of the most expansive activities you will ever, ever engage in.

Thus, I find it pretty hard to believe that Nina Hartley’s double-spaced, 349-page Guide to (Not-quite-so) Total Sex is ever gonna be an encyclopedic reference.

Add to that the total lack of images of any kind, and you can start to wonder just how clued-in Hartley was at 18, ‘cos I gotta tell ya, some diagrams woulda gotten me to a whole new place of fulfillment back when I was 18. Describing body parts by name or vague description isn’t going to work for a lot of people. Pictures aren’t too hard to do, and they can serve a whole lot of purposes. Sex books without pictures are somewhat baffling.

The other problem is this happy medley of voices employed by Miss Hartley as she narrates your way through the book – half porn-star, half biology teacher – I just find the weird voice to be a whole lot less effective a way of educating the masses. It’s missing something in its explanations, and it far too much assumes that the average reader already knows something about sex. And, unfortunately, in this case, they probably do. They’ve probably seen any number of Miss Hartley’s videos.

This is not a book for beginners. It doesn’t break shit down near enough. Maybe a sex-video star knows a bit more about human biology than the average person, but this is one incident when addressing the lowest common denominator is something that would benefit the masses.

That said, this is not the book I would have wanted at age 18, and if it was the first sex book I was ever buying, I think there would be an awful lot I’d be missing out on. As a back-up book or for an out-of-practice lover, it might be a good purchase.

All the negatives aside, I often enjoyed the voice it was written in, and I like the emphasis that one can be a moral sexual being, that there is an ethic at work among the more sexually promiscuous – most of the time – but I’m not sure that it doesn’t gloss things over a little at times. Still, it’s a great attempt at reminding people that sex is basic biology and not something we should be experiencing such guilt over engaging in.

That it touches on the basics of bondage, BDSM, swinging, and other less than mainstream deviations is something I do applaud. I just think it’s a little too simplistic.

And it’s not a Total Guide, however much it wishes to be.

The ultimate, absolute best book I’ve ever, ever seen on sex was and IS, with its brand-spankin’-new eighth edition, is The Guide to Getting it On.

In the next couple weeks I’ll be reviewing it, talking about the CRAZY new selection of new chapters they’ve just added in, and telling you why, if you only ever buy one book on sex, whether you’re male or female, Paul Johannides’ Guide to Getting it On is absolutely, hands-down, the one book to buy.

If you’re looking for an interesting look at other aspects of sex, and you’re wanting a good read, well-organized, basic look at a wide variety of sexual lifestyles and such, this is actually a really good book to have. It’s just not what Miss Hartley’s trying to sell you. Total guide? Not by a long shot, but certainly a good backdrop for a larger library.

My religion is well known
to those who know me.
I believe in bodies,
arms entangling and untangling.
I believe, and I know it to be so,
that there are so many
curves and hollows
in a single body
that none of us
can come to know them all
within a single lifetime.
I believe in one to one
and one on one.
No wine or magic,
no hand-me-down Bible
can improve on that.
I believe in spring,
but only if I’m rolled up in a pillow
or holding some well-loved face
in my hands…
More often I’m a spectator,
meaning I’ve no reason
to believe in anything
save what I see.
But I do.

–Rod McKuen, Alone

According to a recent study by the UN’s World Health Organization, the greatest threat to a woman’s safety and life is her partner.

The irony is, most of us claim to feel safer when we’re involved. Nothing quite makes the cold, bitter world outside fade away than the comforting arms of a man. But the facts are facts, and depending where you are in the world, there’s anywhere from a 1 in 7 to 7 in 10 chance (15 – 70%) that you’re going to be victimized by your lover at some point in your life, and if it happens once, you can almost lay Vegas odds on it happening again.

Violence is never, ever okay. Apologies are just words. Actions speak far louder. Violence is never the way to solve problems. There is never an excuse that can justify someone raising a hand (or belt or frying pan or stick or tire iron) against you. And contrary to popular opinion, men are battered, too. And that’s just as wrong.

I don’t care who you are or what your excuse is, if you’ve ever smacked someone or done any kind of physical violence because you were “angry”, then you have issues and you need to deal with it if you haven’t already. And if you’re in a relationship with someone who’s been violent against you, you need to walk.

Some relationships, it’s hard to walk. Hell, it might be the hardest thing you ever do. There are those who will threaten the lives of their “lovers”, in the instance that the victimized one would leave, and anyone who’s staying put as a result of that threat needs to seriously realize that staying put is almost as real a threat to your life as leaving, but that leaving at least offers the hope of change and healing.

I am not a professional. I cannot and will not pretend to understand the horrors that happen in some people’s lives. The only thing I know is, hard things can be overcome, and there are people out there who have the ability to help. They’re waiting for you.

If you’ve been a victim, you’re not alone. It happens every millisecond somewhere in the world. People understand more than you think. And you are not the person your victimizer believes you are. You are not a victim. You’re a survivor. You need to fight. You need to realize that you have the basic human right to protect yourself and to expect to be treated in a humane, caring way.

Even if you’re in a marriage, you’re not property. You can be raped by your spouse. Having sex is a choice, not an obligation – despite the fact that I believe sex to be a deeply important part of a relationship. If you do not consent, do not want to do it, and you have expressed that you don’t want to have sex, then it’s rape. There’s a lot of bickering out there sometimes about whether no really means no or if it’s possibly a maybe, but every time I’ve looked it up in the dictionary, “no” has meant exactly what rumour has suggested it means: “to reject or refuse approval.” Hmm. Seems pretty clear to me.

Some people want to be abused in different ways, and they belong to the BDSM society. They like paddles on their asses, clamps on their nipples, flogging with leather, and more. Some walk away from this “past-time” with bruises, welts, and other wounds. Yes, it’s a choice. But it’s also a very structured society built on respect and rules. There’s always a stop word. There are always rules and protocols to follow in the lifestyle, and anyone who doesn’t follow the rules will get a reputation in the circles.

In an abusive relationship, abuse is unwanted. There are no stop words. It’s an exercise of inhumanity – domination over a weaker person, and the willful act of degradation and humiliation, all in an attempt to usurp power and morale.

If you’re not getting the treatment you want in a relationship – whether it’s something as simple as the person not respecting your time or your schedule, or taking advantage of your finances, or blowing up over stupid issues and refusing to resolve them like an adult, or calling you names and mocking you, or something more harsh like their hitting you and demeaning you, or flat-out sexual abuse – then you have every right and every reason to walk.

If you’re being abused, it’s likely that more than one person in your life has seen the signs but doesn’t know how to talk about it with you. It’s likely that they’re waiting for you to ask for help. If you feel can’t trust them, that’s understandable, and then you need to find an organization you can trust – shelters are found in almost every city in the world. Here in Vancouver, we have a terrific organization called Women Against Violence Against Women. There are even underground networks that will help relocate you if your life is in danger.

You deserve happiness. If being together is hurting you, you need to explore your options and find the strength to change your life. Leaving isn’t the end of the world – it’s the end of a cycle. The start of something new. The start of you having courage, pride, and the strength of will to realize that you are not your legacy, and pasts don’t need to become our futures.

Do a Google search for: violence, women, shelters, and your hometown. Be careful. Be brave.

Here are some statistics about abuse in the world:

• In both the WHO’s international study (featuring Bangladesh, Brazil, Ethiopia, Japan, Namibia, Peru, Samoa, Serbia, Thailand, and Tanzania) and in American-based studies, more than 25% of those asked (including men) have experienced violence in a relationship, and most said it had happened in their present relationship.
• Only about half of domestic violence is reported to authorities in the United States, with African-American women being more likely to report their abusers. (Good for them.)
• 25% of women and 8% of men in the American National Violence Against Women Survey reported they had been raped and/or assaulted at least once in their lives. (I’m fortunate, it has never happened to me in any way.)
• Rape victims often experience anxiety, guilt, nervousness, phobias, substance abuse, sleep disturbances, depression, alienation, sexual dysfunction, and aggression. They often distrust others and replay the assault in their minds, and they are at increased risk of future victimization (DeLahunta 1997).
• A 1996 study showed that women who had been victimized sexually and with battery showed all the same post-traumatic symptoms experienced by survivors of wars and natural disasters.
• More than HALF of all rapes against women occur before the age of 18, and more than 22% occur before the age of 12 in America.
• Domestic violence occurs in 25 – 33% of same-sex relationships.
• Annually, approximately 50,000 women and children are trafficked into America for sexual slavery and/or forced labour.
• In South Africa, a woman is raped e
  very 83 seconds.
• In Bangladesh, more than 70% of women report violence in their relationships.
• Here in Canada, a study in the late ‘80s showed that more than 60% of women murdered were killed by their partners, a statistic that mirrors that of Zimbabwe and many other countries.

Violence is unacceptable. Regardless of how daunting and horrifying some of these statistics are, abusers are not omnipresent in our society. There are men, and women, who know how to love, cherish, and dote on their partners. I’m one, and every man I’ve been with has been one. I look for early warning signs: Is their anger in keeping with the situation? Are they aggressive drivers? Do they treat others with disdain and humiliation? Do they belittle me when I’m trying to trust them? Do they respect my needs? Do they know how to resolve conflict with conversation? Do they know how to take a deep breath and walk away for ten minutes when things are heated? If not, I know they’re not the fit for me. Little things are huge in the grand scheme of things, if you really know what you’re looking for. Don’t underestimate the early warning signs, and don’t let violence happen a second time. “Sorry” is the easiest thing in the world to say. Don’t believe it.

Statistics found on feminist.com and who.org.
Photos taken from who.org, and The European Parliament.

As is usually the case when life throws me a curveball, I’ve been taking some time to reflect on things this morning. I’ll be seeing my father on Sunday and I’m hoping things will clear up sufficiently that he doesn’t need to lose his leg to this. He needs a good scare to help him get his shit together. I know what to say for encouragement when I see him, and hopefully it’ll have the impact I want. We’ll see.

It seems to me that every time I think I’m in the clear again, life packs another punch against me. Then it occurs to me that that’s a little grandiose a notion, and that I’m probably not nearly as important a target in the grand scheme of things as I might like to think I am, and this, as opposed to all appearances, is just how life rolls. It’s like they say, if it was supposed to be a good time, we’d be paying admission, don’t you think?

Every now and then, I’m struck by the immensity of it all. Aren’t you? One small planet, one fraction of space, and yet there are six billion people on this planet, and a good many of them facing every bit of the adversity I face on a daily basis, if not far, far more. And yet we all share so little of that pain and tribulation we endure. And yet we learn so little from it.

Me, I hate the adversity sometimes, but this morning I was sitting there somewhere in the midst of my coffee and a thought occurred. I’m so fortunate that I’m able to learn from these things, I thought.

I’ve always believed that I’m fairly good at distilling the happenstance of life into the meaning of life. I think I take all the events that I’m fortunate, or not so much so, enough to experience and glean from them some kind of meaning that makes it all somewhat worthwhile. Knowing that every experience brings with it some wisdom or understanding sometimes makes it easier to endure while it’s coming down the pipes.

But, you know what? It only works if I share it with others. I have to be able to trust others and let them in during those harder times, or else the voices in my head get a little too loud for comfort, if you know what I mean? The inner dialogue, not multiple-personality disorder. Heh.

When I was unable to convey what I was experiencing to others, say seven years ago after Mom’s death, life was harder. Much. I always, always had huge issues with trust. I wouldn’t tell people what I was experiencing, and I sure as hell couldn’t open up. Learning to trust has been the hardest journey of my life, but I think I’ve made the last leg of it this past year.

(Perhaps you don’t know that about me, but this blog has definitely been a record of a personal journey as much as anything else you might think it to be.)

And the trust part of my life has only been underway in the last five years. Slowly I’ve learned to let people in. Used to be that you had to know me for years to get under my shell, but nowadays I seem to have a multi-week plan for schooling new folk in the life of Steff. And it feels great.

It seems to me that everyone needs to come upon the lesson of learning to trust in their own time. I think what winds up happening is that you open up and trust someone, then you realize you’re not going to self-detonate as soon as you reveal your innermost thoughts. This is new, you think. Then, something happens and that trust goes awry, and through all the frustration and sadness or even pain, you realize you didn’t crumble and die. “Strong. Like truck?” you wonder. Then you decide, while it was good, the trusting thing made the rest of it all worthwhile.

It’s really that simple. A cliché. The doing of it hurts far less than never doing it at all. The doing of it is worth every bit of the struggles endured along the way. And it’s amazing how stupid we are in the face of that simple truth. It seems we don’t trust anything that seems so simple. So, we stay boxed up, stoic, strong because we need to be, and we go without some of the greatest experiences we could ever have – the real bonds that form in the face of true trust. Instead, we reserve trust for a small handful of people in our lives. We put up facades for the rest.

We’re some very silly bears, it seems to me.

So, some hard times again, but one way or the other, I’ll live to see another day. Older/wiser, all that. The only thing I know is, I have absolutely zero power over what happens, so all I can do is take it as it comes. And maybe trust a friend or two to be there with me through the process.

Maybe my mindset will settle down, but it might not. I’ve gotten a disturbing call, my dad’s in emergency right now. I’d written a posting earlier in October saying I had concerns about my dad’s health. He had festering wounds — weeping ulcers — on his leg, something every diabetic needs to be terrified of developing. They’ve gotten worse, much, much worse, and now there’s a very real prospect of him possibly needing to have his leg amputated to stop the spread, and the news is that the weeping ulcers are omnipresent over his entire lower leg… Not good. Not at all.

I know my father, and while some people might do well adjusting to losing a leg, I know it would be akin to a death sentence for him.

I predicted my mother would die within the year that she died, long before I even knew she had cancer, and, right now, I’m just a little freaked out. Writing’s about the last thing on my mind. But, who knows, writing’s also pretty cathartic for me. Just don’t expect much, is what I’m saying.

There is no part of my body that better acts as a go-directly-to-“go” beacon than my neck. A pair of lips and some teeth and tongue on it just sends me into the stratosphere.

I’ve kept my hair short for three or four years now, and I’m hesitant to grow it any longer than my jawline for the sheer fact that I love having it easily accessible by the men in my life. I melt when it receives their attention, and I’ve seldom met a man I can’t melt when I give his neck a little of my own attention.

The neck is chock full of nerve endings, and it’s one of the tenderest parts of our bodies. Personally, one of my favourite ambushes is approaching the object of my affections from behind and dragging my teeth over his neck as I suck and nibble and flat-out bite my way across it. Maybe it’s a throwback to my teenaged Anne Rice addiction. I don’t know.

If I had to choose a supernatural creature I’d most like to run into in a dark alley, hands down it’d be Dracula. Preferably Lestat, though. I’d be sure to have a low-cut blouse and plenty of neck access available for the Count. Have at me, I’d plead. The sunrise is hours and hours away, I’d promise.

Lips, teeth, and tongue all push different buttons on a neck. From the nape to the jawline, every area of the neck reacts a little differently. Me, I don’t like anyone to focus on one area. Be an explorer. Visit all of me, you know? I’m sure I’m not the only person who’d like a lover to take out a Eurail traveller’s pass on my neck, shoulders, and ears. Hell, revisit as often as you like. I’ll issue you an all-access pass, if only you promise you’ll explore every nook and cranny.

Wow. I feel impossibly single right now. Me and my lonely neck. Fortunately, it’s All Soul’s Night and my chances of a supernatural visit are a smidge higher than they might normally be.

Where’s a Transylvanian count when a girl needs one, hmm?

Happy All Soul’s Night, friends. Photo is from a Berlin play, Tanz Der Vampire.

Do NOT floss or brush your teeth before performing oral sex. If your gums bleed, it can really increase risk of transmission/infection. Do not re-use anyone’s dental floss. Do not share toothbrushes. Do not share razors. Seriously. But before you get paranoid, read this list of how you cannot get HIV/AIDS, all right? Folks with either do not deserve to be shunned or treated like outcasts. Blood tranfer’s the only way to get this.

I’m off to enjoy one of Vancouver’s best annual events, the Parade of Lost Souls. Halloween… Shpooky! Have a very scary weekend, boys and girls.

Being on the verge of the dating game once again, I know important chats loom. Not just the happy-happy topics like what flavour of ice cream is agreed upon or whether taking it from behind’s an indulgence that’s approved of, but that of testing and diseases.

It’s not really a fun topic to think about, if you’re not an open person, but it’s an important conversation to have, and is important to have before you go knocking knees together.

I haven’t had sex since my last test and I know I’m as clean as can be. I was nervous before I got the results, because shit happens and you just never know, but I was elated afterwards. My doctor, because I live in an area with a lot of Asians and other high-risk hepatitis-B factors, encouraged me to get inoculated. I hate needles but decided I would. Didn’t hurt a bit. Better safe than sorry, right? I go for the third part of the inoculation right around Christmas. What better gift for myself than the gift of self-preservation?

And “better safe than sorry” is something that’s ingrained in me as deep as can be now. In this past year, a friend of my best friend’s found out he was HIV positive. Worse than that, he was able to pinpoint, down to the night, when it happened. Some drinks, some passion. Some real fucking ignorance. And, then, news that has profoundly shaped his life. And I think there’s a little part inside of him that really, really hates himself now. I can understand why.

Despite that, he’s lucky. He’s a healthy, athletic, food-conscious guy who got tested regularly and was diagnosed early. His odds are far higher than they’d be if the virus was left out of check for a longer period, and because he’s been a health nut for years. That’s how that game works.

One night, and a lifetime to pay for it.

The thing that strikes me the most about a horrific thing like HIV or AIDS is that it’s almost entirely preventable. Through your actions, you can ensure that you are very likely to never, ever contract it.

And what horrifies me is that, for some insane fucking reason, ignorance (and infections) of HIV/AIDS are on the rise. HALF of all new infections are in youths under 25. Young, immortal? Think again.

If you’re one of these people who thinks there’s a cure, then get your head out of your ass, because there’s not. It’s no longer a death sentence, but that’s only the case when you exercise, eat well, and take the meds. The medications, I hear, are no picnic. And, also, you gotta be lucky.

The virus is not the same in everyone. It is a living, breathing thing, and like all evolutionary beings, it can – and will – adapt to new and different environments. Some people will be to HIV like a match is to a stick of dynamite. You really think you’re invulnerable? Go ahead. Roll that dice. But every risk you take, you subject another to, and, that, you have no right to do.

There’s that old cliché – no glove, no love. If it’s a casual relationship or early in a new relationship or if you even for a moment suspect your lover’s cheating on you, and there’s no condom, there should be no encounter. Period.

I hate condoms. I do. I haven’t tried the new generation of condoms yet, I’ve always done the latex thing, so maybe they’re better. But I’m not the only girl who’s seen a mighty penis deflate because a condom wrapper was a finicky bitch. And, sure, that sucks. Such is life.

The thing is, though, that there are moments and moments can be a powerful thing. I’m sure I’m also not the only girl who’s thrown caution to the wind for an incredible fuck without protection, but that was then, and this is now.

And I know, it’s really fucking hard to deal with someone who’s intent on having sex without a condom. You have to stand your ground. Don’t compromise. No really does mean no. Unfortunately, too many women believe their partners will become uninterested, leave them, or will physically abuse them if they insist on condoms. I really don’t know what to say to these women, but, if you’re one, you have to ask yourself whether that risk is better or worse than the potential of coming down with a disease that’s hard and expensive to fight, and more likely to end in premature death than not.

And far be it for me to agree with the religious right about anything, but let’s say instead that I’m agreeing with, oh, say, Las Vegas oddsmakers, okay? Abstinence is the only guarantee. If you have sex, you’re opening yourself up to the chance of contracting not only HIV or AIDS, but other things that condoms can’t protect you from, like herpes and Chlamydia. (And one in five people has herpes, which is incurable.) Not having sex, well, you haven’t rolled the dice, you’re not even in the game. You’re safe. That’s a fact. Not very fun, but it’s a fact.

Some quick facts, all right? And don’t think it even comes close to ending here.

• AIDS is now the leading cause of death among African-American women aged 25-34, and the 6th leading cause of death for all women in that same age group.
• AIDS has now killed more people than the Black Death/Plague ever did.
• Heterosexual sex is the cause of 78% of all those new cases of HIV/AIDS. (The rest were largely IV drug use.)
• More than 15% of the cases of female diagnoses of HIV/AIDS are between 15-24.
• 47% of those afflicted in North America are African-American.
• 40,000 people contract HIV daily. Half are under 25.
• More than 1 million Americans are living with it as I type.
• More than a QUARTER MILLION Americans ARE infected, and DON’T know it. (You gotta ask yourself: Are you one? Your partner?)
• Nearly 40 million people in the world are living with AIDS/HIV right now.
• More than 4.1 million people were diagnosed last year internationally.
• Nearly 3 million died from AIDS last year.
• Experts predict more than 60 million will have died from AIDS by 2015, if not more.
• AIDS is just beginning to erupt in China, India, and Russia, and the future there looks dire.
• In 2003, more than 40% of Chinese nationals could not name a single way to prevent AIDS.
• Nearly 70% of young women in developing world do not know a single means of AIDS prevention. Gotta wonder, how blissful is that ignorance anyhow?

Now. Do you really wanna be a statistic? Put the fucking condom on. This isn’t just a disease. It’s a pandemic. It’s the new normal. Put the condom on, and then have yourself a little fun. (And, from personal exp
erience, I know that if you’re having trouble keeping the condom on, a cock ring’s the way to go, and darned good fun, too, to boot. Just a thought.)

(My facts have been taken from both the cdc.gov, unaids.org, who.org, and youth.aids2006.org as well as from this excellent page of information and resources at the New Scientist Magazine’s site. The graphic is from CBC.ca.)

I’m always talking about how important communication is.

I always hear from women who are complaining that their lovers don’t do what they like, or from men who wish they knew what their women want. It goes both ways. I think the biggest problem tends to be, though, that a lot of women feel really uncomfortable talking about sex in basic, blunt ways. Said it before, and I’ll say it again. I know it’s the case because I, too, used to feel all dirty inside when I said things like “sex” and “orgasm” and
“erection.” But lookit me now, ma! Sex! Orgasm! Erection!

I was asked yesterday by Fran from Ireland whether or not I find myself being perceived as being slutty merely for the fact that I write about sex. I answered that no, I don’t tend to find that. I’m sure it happens, though. A lot of men, however, seem to really appreciate the fact that I’m sexually aware of what and how I like sex to be.

I have conversations with my lovers. They know what I like. I’m not afraid to interject in the middle of some steamy session and say what I want. (Naturally, it needs to be said rather sexily or it can deflate a mood pretty fucking fast, too. Emphasis on “deflate.”) But the conversations often happen long before I wind up under the covers… or on the floor, or in the back seat.

There’s a world of difference, I think, in my writing matter-of-factly about sex compared to, say, someone writing about dripping hard cocks and getting fucked silly in the backroom of a party. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those, of course. Heh. But the same thing goes in conversation.

You can talk about a movie? You can talk about sex.

I ran into a quote today that is more about life in general, but that I find to be profoundly apt when it comes to talking about sex, something I think every sexually timid person needs to hear. It goes like this:

Be who you are
and say what you feel
because those who mind
don’t matter
and those who matter
don’t mind.

To that end, I once had a letter that I spoke of on the old bloggie, from a Marine whose wife had been writing him all during his service in Iraq. Maybe he still reads this. (Say hi, if you do! You promised you would.) Somehow, some way, despite all those thousands of miles between them, being apart brought them closer together. They had to actually really say things now because all they had were words. She was writing him letters and they started getting into the topics of sex. Along the way, she found the courage to tell him that she was having rape fantasies with him being her attacker, and she wanted to know if they’d be able to bring them to fruition when his tour finally ended. He felt touched that she trusted him enough to finally admit this thing that was wracking her with guilt. He was worried about how to pull it off, because he really wanted to make it happen in a way that would be worth the wait.

And I hear that from most men who finally have partners who trust them with their innermost fantasies. They’re proud that they’ve been entrusted with this and they want to do it justice. Or so has been my experience both through correspondence re: this blog, and in real life with my own lovers.

It’s like I said yesterday in my writing about suicide. Some secrets aren’t made for keeping. What you want to experience will never, ever happen if you don’t have the courage to speak of it. Sure, it’s hard. But it gets easier. And the more you do it, the more you won’t need to say in the future.

I swear, I’d give a money-back guarantee if your communication about sex improves, and your sex life does not. The two go hand in hand. Talking = Better Orgasms. It’s about as remedial as math gets.

Sex is the only time we get to be who we really are. Our soft underbellies get exposed and our animalistic interiors come out to play. It’s supposed to be that way. What the hell are you ashamed of? Come out, come out, wherever you are, and indeed – be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter won’t mind.

(It turns out it’s none other than that sage bard, Dr. Seuss, who wrote the above quote.)

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

My mother attempted suicide.

I’ve never written about this, and I would have liked to delve into it in a more literary way, but this is merely a public service announcement. I’m scared of going too into the moment. Even now, all these years later, even with her dead (from cancer) for seven years, it still hurts in places I’m not sure light will ever, ever find.

It’s a very long story about a 16-year-old girl who had a nice day out with a nice boy she liked and who got a kiss and came home happy. I had had a fight with her earlier in the day over something stupid – I was at a girl’s house whom she did not like in the least, and she tore a strip out of me on the phone when she knew I was over there.

For the first time ever, I didn’t run right home and try to make up with her. Instead, I spent the whole day walking all around town with this guy I so liked. Inevitably, I returned home. The blow-out fight occurred, and instead of my being the peacemaker I’ve always been, I said, “Fuck it. She’s out of control.” And then I played on the computer for an hour or two.

She barked at me to bring her some sherry. Obediently, I did. And then I went off and did my thing. I was pretty pissed, but after about a half-hour or so, I decided I couldn’t ignore the fight and resolved that I’d go in and smooth things over and explain to her what really happened, if she’d only get a grip and finally listen.

I opened the door to her bedroom to find her seated cross-legged at the head of her bed with a hand full of her sleeping pills and the bottle of sherry in the other. She shoved them into her mouth, not seeing me. I leapt across the room and belted her across the face, sending the pills flying. She was stunned. I grabbed the booze from her and started picking up the pills, and that’s the last thing I remember of that day. All I remember now are the emotions that found me then and dug a deep, deep hold on me in the months and years to come.

I told no one in my life. I kept that dark secret for far, far too long.

The thing about suicide is that there’s a real stigma. There’s a lot of shame, as if you’re some kind of damaged product because you couldn’t hack it in the real world. How much of that is societal versus internal is really debatable, depending on who you are and where you are.

As a bystander, a family member or friend, as someone who loves them, you feel the need to protect them by keeping the secret. God forbid shame come upon them. If keeping that secret means they don’t have to deal with shame on top of the horrible depression that drove them to that, then by god, that’s what you’ll do. Right?

Wrong. Don’t. I did. I hurt every goddamned day as a 17-year-old. It was more than two years before I stopped wondering. “Where the hell is she? She’s supposed to be home. There’s no note. Did she drive the car into a telephone pole? Jump off a bridge?”

I’d panic daily. That’s what we do when we’re scared for the welfare of a loved one. If you’re involved with someone delving deeper into depression, if you know someone is suicidal, that’s not a burden you need to carry alone, especially if you’re feeling overwhelmed by it all. There are crisis lines. They provide a world of help when you think there’s no place else to turn. Me, that’s the only place I turned. They told me to talk to her doctor, and I wish I had. I didn’t.

It would be two years later, when violent rage overtook my mother for no good reason, and she hurled this heavy metal block at my head, missing me by an inch. The wall was cracked open where it hit. I can’t imagine what it would’ve done to me had it hit me.

Being a well-read girl, though, I had heard about this drug called Halcyon, and I finally realized my mother was having a chemical reaction to her sleeping pill. I confronted her, we threw the drugs out, and while she’d battle depression until her death, it never again got out of control like that.

The only time we ever discussed that attempt of hers was about nine years after it happened, in the weeks leading up to her death. I’d just taken a three-week long road trip solo through the western US and got a lot of thinking and writing done. At the time, we didn’t know her death was imminent. I told her how much it’d fucked me up and for how long, and how I discovered I was still angry that she’d used me in that way, and told her so.

Her response? She apologized, but said she remembered nothing. Not a thing. Most of those two years were lost in a fog.

I guess my point is two-fold. One, don’t assume that someone has meant to bring anguish to you through their selfish actions. Sometimes, they’re just in such a disconnect that they don’t know any better. Sometimes, forgiving needs to happen on your part. (But if they’re hurting you repeatedly, or physically, you need to seriously consider walking. She had two events, and that was all. Between those, we had a good life together.) Two, you cannot expect to carry burdens alone. Some secrets are not made for keeping. Reach out to friends, and if you feel you can’t, use the crisis line. Had I done so, my mother wouldn’t have gotten violent when I was 18.

But we live and we learn, and sometimes we’re just lucky enough to hear about someone else’s experiences before we have to endure them ourselves. Learn from mine. Don’t be alone when you don’t need to be.

ADDENDUMS:
1. Crisis lines are found in almost every city of every province in Canada, and I would assume the same to be true for the US and many other forward-thinking countries.

2. I now never, ever let an argument fester. I never, ever go to bed angry. I talk through everything. Time heals all wounds? Conversation’s a pretty good start, too. You never know when someone’s tether’s gonna come undone.

3. I cannot recommend William Styron’s brilliant book Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness enough. In it he chronicles his chemically-induced descent into suicidal tendencies. I think it should be mandatory reading for anyone confronted with depression — theirs or a loved one’s.