Intimacy 5: Learning to Play

“I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be...” ― Joan Didion

After years of self sabotaging, cue my PTSD, and recently integrating my first Ayahuasca
journey, I realized, I’m not unlovable, on the contrary, I’m free. To play, love, be loved, and love all of me. So I started playing. But first I settled on behaving, which was certainly better than I was acting, or reacting, previously.

For Christmas, we flew south to my boo’s family, which I hadn’t done for a decade, meaning Christmas with a guy’s family, and last trip was nothing shy of disastrous — a cocktail party on Christmas Eve complete with a Semi-Homemade menu by Sandra Lee, Chardonnay filled sinks, taxidermy, and me - potentially the only Jew they’d ever seen. And since “Mom” took to sink tasting too seriously, I ended up cooking her Christmas dinner party as she sat on the kitchen counter and directed me. I changed my flight and left early. Needless to say that scarred me. 

Fast forward to this trip, which was different entirely. My boo’s family is lovely and has good genes, living grandparents in their nineties and gorgeous southern hospitality. I was inclined to adhere to Ayahuasca’s suggestion to start playing, topped with a sprinkle of mischief making. So I wore the necklace he gave me on Christmas Day, a slender gold vibrator on a long chain, delivered with a sweet note and engraved with his name, clearly marking his territory. Silly rabbit. Two can play that game, of course I wore it to lunch later that day, to grandmothers house we go… We went, we stayed we played. 

On the flight back he was upgraded to first class, but declined in favor of sitting with me. A total Southern Gentleman who gives endlessly, and like me is still learning to receive. We spent the two hour flight masked, and legs entangled recounting stories. I love seeing where people are raised, and while we're not where we come from, its helpful to observe patterns garnered from our upbringings. But my frankness can be triggering. “Sometimes your truth is so honest it hurts.” I know, I replied. It’s a journey. And sometimes part of playing is simply learning and observing. 

We returned to Austin with Lady Omicron looming. What we thought would be a walk in the park post double vaccine was nearly ten days of suffering. Travel plans aside, we laid low for New Years Eve. I woke that morning, after a night of lucid nightmares and dreams, post self inflicted marijuana chocolate tripping. There was a stuck-ness inside of me, and the days between Xmas + New Years, I paused playing and reverted into unlovable territory. I didn’t realize until later that it was my response to the intensity of meeting his family. I rose after a night of panic and found stillness for an hour of meditating, laying in my sauna blanket, deep breathing. For the first time in a week, I felt into my body and realized that every time I separate from my heart, stuck in my head, I separate from him. He is my heart, And I am his. Trust Yourself, Olivia, Soften. My hyper vigilance is a result of my PTSD. It’s really challenging for me to trust anybody. But I called him and asked that he come hold me. He crawled in my bed and we spooned as I cried deeply, wringing out sadness from this past year of grieving a lifetime of traumatic memories. My body convulsed, releasing what for so long I’d been holding, feeling safe as he held me in his arms. He didn’t ask questions, and I didn’t speak. But asking for help and receiving was exactly what I needed. I’m not unlovable, I’m so worthy of loving.

New Years Eve was low key. I made miso glazed sea bass while his eyes were glued to Georgia football on TV. No beer or wings, we washed down the meal with a bottle of Krug I’d been saving from New York City, only after I opened some Ruinart Rose, gifted by my former boss Ahmass for my 25th birthday, corked, what a waste! — but a strong reminder to stop waiting - Start Playing. Now is the perfect time to celebrate: send the text, wear the dress, drink the fucking champagne. 

I fall asleep before the game ends and wake up to grab coffee at 6am. Upon returning I “playfully” turn the heat to 90 and laugh quietly, dancing to Tracy Anderson’s routine, sweatpants on with ankle weights. When he wakes, I’m busy sweating. He sips his cold coffee without complaint confused as to why I’m cackling, just happy to sit beside me, in the heat, emailing quietly as I bend and snap myself wildly. I ask for help again before he leaves. We sit on my floor and he yanks the splinter from my foot as I shriek. He kisses me softly, and walks out, forgetting his things — “You left your chicken,” I text him cheekily. But I’m secure this won’t be the last kiss, splinter, or leg lift he sees. Time doesn’t exist when he’s with me, but I am left wondering, maybe this is what love is -- not the fairy tale story -- perfect vacations, outfits, and steamy sex scenes. Maybe its just him holding me in my pain, meeting family, sharing fears, leftover chicken, and dreams. 

Our love isn’t linear. It’s unique. He’s the first guy I’ve dated seriously that’s younger than me, and I’ve never felt safer with any man, and I’ve never felt safer with me. We communicate openly but also push each other's boundaries. No masks. No costumes. Just honesty. It’s not perfect, nothing is. And my PTSD shows up sporadically. “Sometimes while we’re having sex I get flashbacks of really scary things.” He replies, “You know we can stop when that happens, take a moment and breathe.” His candor and mine are such a relief — intentional conversations, connection and intimacy allow me to feel respected but not defined by all of the trauma I’ve seen. Such moments are sprinkled into both of our playful energies. The goal is to do as kids do, play always and feel everything. 

Later that week, he suggested Macbeth and I agreed. He’s a lit major disguised as a numbers guy, and edits all my writing. I compromised – because Denzel –  but Shakespeare is not my thing. I was bored so I started playing, with him, just a tease, PG13, but enough that he insisted we delay our dinner reservation. 

As we leave the theater, I smile at him flirtatiously, “Don’t you just love the smell of fresh popcorn?” His beautiful blue puppy eyes stare back at me, “Yes, Olivia that was exactly what I was thinking.”

I lick his nose and we play into our evening. He both wants me and respects my boundaries, How gentlemanly.  
At times I slip into fantasy, early mornings, I leave to grab coffee, clad in a fur coat + Tevas because Austin weather is wacky like me. With country music blasting, I get lost in my love for him and him for me. “I love the Starbucks drive-thru," I tell him upon returning. "It’s convenient. Our love too. Pull up and always get what we need.” I lean my forehead to his forehead and whisper, “You’re my best friend.”  He smiles, “That means more to me than you saying you love me,” which he blurted out early in the game, too premature for me. 

Sharing such intimacy scares me, because saying it exposes me, and then I think of life, and its uncertainty. I don’t know what the future will bring but for now, we have each other, and most importantly, I have me. And still, nothing is perfect, we argue over stupid things — like me barking at him for inquiring if I faked an orgasm, or more seriously, his realization of his own failure to receive the love I sometimes bring. We are mirroring each other's outdated unlovable stories.

I meet him for yoga Sunday morning, and he leans onto my mat and into me, “I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more than I do at this very moment.” I blush. The teacher begins the class and I allow a moment to pass, as I feel his love fill me. “Same,” I whisper quietly. 

I lay on my back in butterfly pose, feet together, knees apart, hand on belly, hand on heart, eyes closed and I breathe. When my favorite song comes on: 
Do you remember When you looked in the water and saw your reflection
The embers They drew out a map and they showed you direction
Your sender
Is far in the east where your heart is at peace
When you enter
My love it's just a reminder
Find your center

I asked for help. I let go. I started playing.
Finding love of self, And a mirror of myself, In him. And now we’re here. Today is my one year anniversary of moving to Austin and also one week since he and I moved in together -- which hasn't been easy! But if nothing else, It will certainly make for great stories. Wish me luck!! 
Love always, Olivia

 Intimacy Diaries I, II, III. And IV
End of 2021, Letting Go of A Lifetime of Trauma, here.