Kink in exile

Notes from a kinky nomad

Care & Feeding part 2 of N: Some things you may not know about me

I pack a lot of cope and a hell of a lot of make it work:
I don’t like to be cold, wet, hungry or uncomfortable.  I once actually jumped on a coffee table when I saw a mouse and demanded that my boyfriend set traps while I stayed on the coffee table.  I get annoyed by chipped nail polish, so what you don’t realize is that I also spent a year living in a hut on stilts, taking bucket baths, and being either too warm or not warm enough most of the time.  I’ve killed more than one snake on instinct before my rational brain kicked in, and I didn’t own a mirror for 4 months.  I can take a two week trip with a carry on and I’ve moved cross country with the airline baggage limit.  Don’t act surprised when I get my hands dirty, it isn’t the first time. Or as maymay put it, “don’t girlify me.”

I trust, perhaps too much:
I trust the kindness of strangers, I trust that people generally want to help, I trust the wisdom of the crowd.  I have been mugged, burgled and hurt before, but I think it is important to trust anyway because otherwise you give the power to the hoodlums.  I also, and perhaps most importantly, trust my own gut instinct, and if something doesn’t feel right to me forget about it, ain’t gonna do it.

I strive to be kind, sometimes I fail:
I try to give money to people on the street, to buy a coffee for the man who forgot his wallet and didn’t realize it until he’d ordered that triple shot extra hot latte, to put aside frustration when I see someone in pain and make myself a source of comfort.  Sometimes I fail, sometimes I hate the people who ask me for money incessantly as they stand in my way while I sprint to the train to get to work where I will spend the next 8 hours while they get drunk on cheap or stolen booze.  Sometimes, I want the triple shot latte dude to just be done with his order, and I have to actively bite my tongue on an excuse to not be there for the ones I love.  I have learned to forgive myself these moments because holding on to them makes me meaner to the world around me.  Maybe this is all hippie woowoo or as one friend said about his now ex wife, “she was a bitch, then she went to therapy and embraced being a bitch.” but I firmly believe that loving kindness begins with yourself.

I am highly averse to being yelled at:
I do not need a label that reads “fragile, handle with care,” but I do not take well to being treated unkindly, and I really don’t take well to being yelled at (and apparently this extends to virtual manifestations as well).  You’d think this is a deeply emotional thing, perhaps based in childhood trauma, but honestly it’s hard-core rational.  Yelling is a higher priority interrupt, by which I mean that if you yell at me, I don’t hear your words because your tone and volume takes precedence.  Yelling is not about building agreement, about finding solutions, about fixing problems.  It does however send a clear message: “I am hurt and I need to be heard.”  Which sucks, because when I am being yelled at is precisely the moment when I can’t hear you.

Written by kinkinexile

November 22, 2011 at 8:58 pm

Posted in care&feeding

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