Author: Mike

Sexuality and Sobriety

Personal Diary

I was out and about this afternoon when I was struck by a peculiar thought: I’m far more comfortable talking about my sobriety than I am about my sexuality. It seemed utterly untrue at first, but the more I mulled it over, the more and more true I realised it was, and I’m now trying to get to the bottom of why on Earth this might be.

Is this to say that I think it’s more socially acceptable to be a sober alcoholic than it is to be a sexual being? Surely not.

I’ve been sober for 24 years now, which is over half my life. Yes, it’s become a core part of who I am, and it’s virtually second nature to me after all these years, but I’ve been a sexual person for even longer. So clearly it’s not simply a matter of time that makes one topic more comfortable to me than the other.

I have, however, been taught to be open about my drinking, the resulting wreckage, and what it ultimate took to scare me into action. It’s part and parcel to coming to terms with the need to accept my shortcomings and change my behaviour in the first place. So certainly that’s a major factor. Indeed, talking about my experiences with alcohol has made my life better and helped me realise things about myself I had previously overlooked.

By contrast, sex and sexuality is not a topic that I was ever taught to discuss openly. I grew up in a pretty openminded household, but even this topic was outside the bounds of what we considered a normal dinnertime conversation. Certainly my friends in high school talked about sex – but in really inappropriate ways that were totally out of phase with the way I saw (and still see) relationships.

I was teased mercilessly in those days because then, as now, I was more interested in connection and love leading to sex, and being a good partner. For me, it makes the experience of sex so much more fulfilling. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t disapprove of casual sex, it’s just not something I have much experience in.

My views on all this haven’t changed over the years, but I certainly learned not to talk about it with my friends. These thoughts and feelings were things you kept secret – lest they be used against you.

The problem is I never got past the impulse to keep my desires and kinks secret – even in my marriage – and today I’m left feeling disjointed and unrealised. This is one of the key elements I want to explore here, but it begins with being open and honest about it all.

I’ll come back to this topic again, because I’m only just breaking the surface.

On Emotions

Personal Diary

I’m realising my comment about the ‘illusion of the stoic man‘ warrants a bit of elaboration, lest I unintentionally offend someone.

The key part of that phrase that I want to highlight is ‘stoic,’ which Google tells me means “a person who can endure pain or hardship without showing their feelings or complaining.“

My view is it’s simply not possible to avoid showing feelings. They express themselves and influence our behaviour whether we choose to let them or not, and whether we are conscious of them or not.

It’s not necessarily that we are visually exuberant or audibly distraught. It can be far more nuanced and subtle. Likewise, they can morph into totally different emotions. To paraphrase Yoda: ‘Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hatred; and hatred leads to suffering.’

When we mask, detach, or repress our emotions, they will inevitably surface in other areas. Crucially, this can lead to unhealthy behaviours that harm our family, friends, and even complete strangers. Toxic masculinity, for example, isn’t borne from a vacuum, it festers long before it’s ever truly visible.

Finding healthy ways to express ourselves is utterly important, for ourselves and for other people.

On Grief

Personal Diary

I don’t like talking about how I feel, especially when it’s grief, but I’m realising this week it’s really important to acknowledge and work through. Left to my own devices I’ll soldier on and turn my shoulder into the wind, but the result is things feel difficult, and it’s easy to lose sight of where this heaviness is coming from.

I’m having that kind of day today. This morning was amazing, peaceful, connecting, and enjoyable, but as the day progressed things have just felt hard. The thought this might stem from the death in my family this past weekend didn’t even occur to me at first, but it rings very true to me the more I think of it.

So I did what I was taught in early sobriety. I reached out to someone I trust, and told them I was having trouble today. As it happened, this person was my boss, who is an absolutely amazing woman, and in doing this I felt a bit lighter, uplifted, and more focused.

I share this here today because I really do need to write to think sometimes, but also because I think it’s important to dispel the illusion of the stoic man. We all need support sometimes, and in seeking that support we are often better able to support others.

On Libido

Personal Diary

I’m going to make it a point to only discuss my own thoughts, feelings, and experiences here, and not my marriage, as that’s disclosing aspects of my wife’s life that I don’t feel I have the right to do.

However one area I will touch on is libido, and what happens when partners’ sex drives are different from one another. In my case, there is a massive difference between my wife and I in that space, and navigating this landscape has been a journey two decades in the making.

I identify as a high libido person. My wife is very much the opposite. We regularly go months at a time without sex. For instance, this year we haven’t had sex at all yet, and it’s now mid-August. And yes, it’s really, really difficult sometimes – physically, emotionally, and psychologically.

What I have learned, though, is this is not simply difficult for me alone. There is a real sense of social pressure placed on low-libido people, as if something is wrong with them. There isn’t, and there hasn’t ever been.

And yet, they are sometimes made to feel less than, failing to accommodate the needs of their partners and spouses, incomplete in someway, even selfish. Much of that pressure can even come from within, through self-criticism, self-doubt, and guilt.

The point I want to make here is we high-libido people play a crucial role in the lives of our low libido partners, and that’s to reinforce the fact that they are absolutely perfect just the way they are, and we love and accept them unconditionally.

Yes, it’s important for us to talk about our sexual needs with our partners, but in the end they are our needs to resolve, and in my view at least, sex should never be seen as an obligation. It’s a gift.

Empty bench atop a hill with a single tree.

Morning Tea

Writing

Author’s Note: I’m experimenting with world building via short stories at the moment, and hoping to write a series of discrete works that take place in the same realm but don’t necessarily fit together in a sequence. This is the first of them.

Morning broke weakly, and with it the sounds of day were slowly pulled from the darkness of night.  Shades of dawn slowly formed amidst the shadows, and life in the old ash tree high above the village began to rouse in sleepy chirps and warbles.

Amongst it all, a familiar shuffle and clank echoed down the empty street.  There was but a single path here.  No more than that was needed.  The ancient lane began as a causeway in the lowest cluster of humble shanties, and gradually meandered its way upwards in a slowly tightening spiral, past row upon row of once bustling homes.  But for a few inhabited exceptions, all sat silently abandoned now, the rhythmic shuffle and clank a lingering reminder of a once vibrant community.

With the sun not yet over the distant mountains, the mists held sway for a time.  Yet slowly, inevitably, they began to give up their secrets.  From the fading dawn fog emerged an old man and his walking stick, wearily shuffling along the damp cobblestones towards the pinnacle of the village.

Draped in a damp, brown cloak, the man periodically stopped to gingerly wipe dew from his knapsack.  Then, with a deep breath, a groaning stretch, a wistful gaze upwards, the shuffle and clank would begin anew.

Nearing the peak of the town, the man smiled as the first rays of day struck the entryway to his favourite place.  The living archway, woven from vines and branches, marked the sole gap in an otherwise perfectly manicured hedgerow encircling the top of the village hill.

Gazing fondly in each direction, the man breathed deeply of the complex aroma wafting from the interior of the garden, where the lingering moistness of dew intermingled with fruit, flowers, and tilled soil. Opening the thin white gate, he stepped across the threshold where the cobblestones ended and the garden’s brick path began.

Closing the garden gate softly behind him, the old man turned inwards with a smile.  Across the hilltop, the morning light glistened upon the dew-laden leaves, petals, berries and brambles, and birds of all shapes and sizes had already begun to feast upon the bounty of food that lay for the taking.

Continuing his way along the path, the old man paused periodically to silently brush leaves aside that had fallen on the bricks overnight.  The garden could shed as it wished, but the path was his. 

Spiralling inwards, he finally arrived at his peaceful place.  Reflection, contemplation, and serenity were all to be found here.  A set of wrought iron chairs and a small table sat beside a fountain in the heart of the garden.

“Looks to be another beautiful day today, my heart,” the man smiled.  “I’ve brought a new recipe for us to try, lavender and lily.  I’m quite excited to see what you think.”

Sitting delicately down in the first chair, the man cradled his back gingerly and groaned slightly.

“That walk is not as easy as it used to be, but the view is always worth it.  Wouldn’t you say, darling?”

Setting his old leather knapsack softly upon the bricks beside the table, he carefully unfastened the tassels and lovingly lifted a wrapped parcel from inside.  The cloth was meticulously folded and held in place with twine, tied in a small bow.

“I bother with presentation too much, I know,” he smiled, “but our mornings together are special to me.”

Slowly untying the parcel, the old man carefully placed the looped twine and folded cloth back into his knapsack, and pulled out a porcelain tea kettle from the box, followed by two cups and saucers, a flat stone plate, a spoon, a flask of water, and two biscuits.

Surveying the cups, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and polished them briefly, until they too glistened in the morning light.  Setting the cups and saucers on each side of the table, he placed the stone plate in the middle, lifted the lid, and poured in the water.

“I’ve been drying these leaves by our fire for the last few days now,” he remarked, deftly plucking the flowers from their stems and placing them in the kettle.  “I was worried we wouldn’t have enough water for our tea, but thankfully the rain overnight has refilled our barrel.” 

The old man gazed intently into the kettle to ensure he’d added an ample amount of tea, then softly closed the lid and set the teapot atop the stone plate.  With a whisper and a roll of his fingers, the stone plate began to glow and the kettle was soon boiling.

“I’m sorry for resorting to magic instead of fire, love,” he said bashfully, “but I’ve grown too old to carry wood up this hill anymore.  I hope you don’t mind.”

Grasping his handkerchief in one hand, he picked up the whistling pot, filled each cup to the brim, and lovingly set each place with a biscuit.

“You always were a better baker than I,” he sighed, “but I’m improving slowly.  The finches certainly don’t seem to mind eating my mistakes.”

Sitting back in the chair, he lifted the steaming cup to his lips, breathed in the aroma deeply, and warmed his hands before finally taking a sip.

“Oh this is lovely, indeed,” he exclaimed.  “I must write down this recipe for another day.”

The old man gazed around the garden for several minutes, silently enjoying the sounds and smells of spring, and the serenity of a well-brewed cup of tea in his beloved garden.  Flitting across the branches, butterflies, and blossoms, the birds, bees and brambles, flowers, fruit and fauna, the old man finally fixed his attention on the fountain.

Ringed by the brick path, in the heart of the garden, at the pinnacle of the village stood the statue of a young couple, eternally bound in a loving embrace.  The spiral he walked daily, from the fringes of the village to its peak, carried him here.

He gazed upon her with adoration and longing, and smiled wistfully.  Slowly he rose from his seat, and reverently set the second cup of hot tea at her feet, softly tipping the cold contents of the cup from the previous day into the fountain.

“Enjoy the tea, my heart,” he whispered.  “I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

After reassembling the contents of the parcel back in his knapsack, the old man began his slow journey home to the fringes of the village.

Sea turtle swimming under water.

Just Keep Swimming

Personal Diary

I remember seeing a newspaper headline once, asking something to the effect of “Why are optimistic people so insufferable?” Then, as now, it struck me as a truly bizarre thing to say. Why should we find happy people difficult to tolerate? I certainly don’t. For me, they’re a breath of fresh air and an example of how to embrace the chaos and unpredictability of life with a smile.

In my life there is no better representation of this than my grandfather. He is the ultimate vision of a grateful, meaningful existence. I don’t think I have ever seen him unhappy. Not in a plastic, “fake it ’til you make it” kind of way, but a sincere, beaming display of exuberance. He’s a human embodiment of the warm rays of the sun.

Unfortunately, I am not one of those people. I want to be, but more often than not I find reasons to feel gloomy and pessimistic; forever seeing risk instead of opportunity. I’ve written about Being Eeyore before, and unfortunately that’s a frame of mind that’s lingered over me like a little raincloud for the entire pandemic. All the same, it’s crucial to keep pushing forward.

“Trudging the road of happy destiny” is one thing. At least you’re progressing in a useful direction; doing your best to work through adversity towards brighter days and greener pastures. “Working and waiting to die” on the other hand, as a friend of mine once said, encapsulates the pain of profound despair and is an entirely different matter. Passive resignation of a hopeless and bleak future is no way to live.

So where does that leave us during hard times? “Just keep swimming.”

This is not to say my spirit animal is an animated fish with short term memory loss, but the mantra works. There are many additional quotes from popular culture we could also look to, from Monty Python’s “Always look on the bright side of life,” to Gandalf’s advice in The Hobbit:

“Always remember, Bilbo, when your heart wants lifting, think of pleasant things.”

J.R.R. Tolkien

The point is, finding hope sometimes means looking for it – through action. “Seek and ye shall find,” as they say.

This is where optimistic people are so crucial in the world, at least to me. They provide us pessimistic folks with an example of what a positive outlook looks like, when it can feel so foreign and fake.

Optimistic people aren’t insufferable, they’re irreplaceable.

Buddhist monk sitting

Gaining Clarity

Personal Diary

As bizarre as it sounds, “What do you want?” is one of the most difficult questions anyone can ever ask me. Not “what do you want?” as a roundabout way of implying “I don’t appreciate your presence here and wish you would go someplace else,” but as a meaningful inquiry into my hopes and dreams in life.

I used to pride myself on responding “I’d rather want what I have than know what I want,” but I’ve come to realise, while it is an honest answer, it’s also more of a shield to avoid answering the question.

I admire people who can easily rattle off a list of life goals without exhibiting any strain. Some of them even seem to relish the experience! I’m just not that way. I find it a truly stressful process. I need to sit alone, simmer, mutter, and grumble my way through a list, which gets edited, crumpled up, thrown away, and revisited numerous times before I’m eventually satisfied with it.

It’s meant to be an inspiring process that reveals the endless possibilities of life, but that’s rarely the way it feels to me. All the same, I think it’s a really important topic to meditate on, and revisit – especially when life beings to feel stale.

When I was in uni (aka college), I had a geography lecturer whose mantra was “Once you know what to think, you’ll know how to act.” He must have emphasised that phrase a hundred times by the end of term, and I’ve never forgotten it as a result. I learned a lot of valuable lessons in that class – some geographical, some not – and for that I’ll be forever grateful to him.

If you never spend any time contemplating what you think, want, or believe, how are you going to know what to do with yourself, what decisions to make, or where you’d like to end up in the world? In the worst case, you’d risk spending your life merely existing; whiling away the years until you realise it’s over and you never bothered to think about what’s important to you. That would be a real shame.

For me, clarity brings purpose, and aligning with purpose brings happiness. That’s why pursuing the question “What do you want?” is so important. It’s a process through which we find ourselves; achieving the goals themselves is merely gravy.

Silhouette of a woman jumping a chasm

Blog Fearlessly

Personal Diary

For as long as I’ve been a blogger, there has always been one rule that I doggedly stuck to: Never focus on personal experience. Avoid disclosing what I’m feeling, thinking, doing, or what my childhood was like, because nobody is interested in reading about that.

Honestly, in the past I would avoid referring to myself at all. It was broader trends and concepts that were important, not me. I was simply the messenger.

For some reason, I always saw personal journals as a cardinal sin I needed to avoid. They were absolutely fine for other people, but not for me. Every post, every article, needed a purpose. Every line was to be crafted with the reader in mind. To focus on myself was egotistical and unnecessary.

And really, in the context of political discourse, or analyses of topical matters relating to my profession, I do think that’s appropriate. If the purpose of a blog post is to convince someone of something, clearly articulating objective facts and logical analyses are the best means of achieving this. Relying on personal opinions isn’t going to help.

However, this blog has an entirely different purpose. It’s a space for me to work things through. If anyone derives benefit from that, I’m overjoyed, but that’s not why I post. This fundamental difference is hitting home for me this morning, which is leading me to completely rethink what I share, and how.

It stands to reason then, if I write for my own benefit, then I need to be fearless and thorough about it. Half measures will avail me nothing.

In some ways I appreciate the fact no one reads this blog. If they did, I’d probably start self-censoring out of fear of losing face, or offending people.

I don’t plan on ever sharing information about other people though; not family nor close friends. That feels inappropriate, and not my right to do. I will, however, aim to be as open and honest with myself through this space as I possibly can. I want to learn and grow as a person, and lying to myself will hardly achieve that.

selective focus photography of woman surrounded by people in the street

Finding Passion

Personal Diary

Many blogs ago I wrote about politics, and slowly, perhaps inevitably, I grew so angry and despondent I spent all day every day angry and spoiling for a fight. It was no way to live, and I eventually packed up shop and never shared my opinion on current affairs again.

Today, aside from my wife, there are few people on this Earth who actually know what I believe, which is just the way I like it. I’m far more interested in finding common ground, or better still, providing support to others in need, than stepping onto the battlefield of internet discourse. God knows there are more than enough people sharing their opinions online. There’s no need for yet another angry wail in the darkness.

After the political phase I took an interest in technology – particularly online technology – and became a tech blogger. I enjoyed that far more, and for much longer, but eventually my employer began to take an interest in the same topics, and my hobby passion soon became work, which gradually took the sheen off. In time, I stopped writing about that too.

And yet, my wife has often said I’m happiest when I’m writing, which makes it a true travesty that I do it so little these days. In the past I wrote because I wanted to be heard; then I wrote to analyse and explore emerging trends in my sector. With those two phases behind me, I wonder what’s left.

Like many others, I’ve spent the last 2 years in a limbo of anxiety and fear, constantly hoping the pandemic will run its course and leave us all alone, yet increasingly falling prey to pandemic fatigue and hopelessness. With politicians now talking about the “new normal,” I’m not left with much optimism, and the idea of holding on just a bit longer no longer seems like a productive solution.

So today, I return to a tool that’s always helped me process complexity, and work through blockages – writing. Not to stand atop a soapbox, or advocate for the new shiny online tool, but to find my way forward during a difficult time; find passion, not just begrudged endurance.

My plan is to post my thoughts every morning for the next two weeks, to hopefully develop a rhythm and flush out my mental pipes. I have no idea what will come of this, but clearly a different strategy is warranted. So I hope this works.

Running to stand still

General

I am absolutely appalling at relaxing. Today is my first day of a week off, and I spent the entire day on a list of tasks that didn’t need to happen. It was great to get them done, sure, but rest and relaxation were on the agenda too, and yet didn’t make the cut. Literally, I had ‘write’ and ‘nap’ as numbers 4 and 5 on my to-do list respectively, and I’m only just getting to write now, at the end of the day when I’m too tired to devote much mental energy to it.

I’ve learned through experience that short term goals are far more achievable than solemn proclamations that “I shall never do this again, as long as I live!” So for the rest of today, I’m going to sit on the couch and listen to music. Tomorrow, I sleep in, drink coffee and write in the morning, and then enjoy whatever takes my fancy after that.

When you live your life according to a never ending to-do list, obligations and commitments slowly assume a higher priority than serenity and contentment, and that just won’t do.