azurelunatic: A green-blue-and-purple gemstone heart, made of alexandrite (alexandrite)
Love is real.

Everyone is worthy of love. (Without, I may add, an obligation for any one person to provide that love, nor should this be any excuse to not behave like an ethical sentient being. And no particular reason that any given person's love should look the way any other person would expect it to be.)

My partner and I have been proving to each other that love is real, repeatedly and continuously. Little messages of support. Reminders to put things in the calendar. Kisses. Skype calls that start just before bedtime and either disconnect quietly in the middle of the night, or are still running in the morning when Antisocial Cat begins to demand breakfast. Consideration and care. Not going too fast. Making checklists so that if we break up, we can break up safely, swiftly, and completely. Admitting when we can't even anymore, and sending the other in the direction of another friend for support. Poking each other when we've seen that another friend is having a bad day and could use a kind word. Decisions about lunch. Saying hello to the cat. Bad puns. Saucy selfies. Poetry. Determination. Resistance. Solidarity. Community.

Survival is resistance.

Thriving is resistance.

Art is resistance.

Love is resistance.

Love is real.
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azurelunatic: Abstract.  (bondmates)
Someone was discussing love, and how it's hard to describe sometimes, elsejournal. Rambling thinky-thoughts, not much new. )
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Lemmings!

6/3/06 14:58
azurelunatic: A glittery black pin badge with a blue holographic star in the middle. (Default)
My Love Language )

Sexuality, mine ) (Right now I'm fairly exclusively Darkside-sexual, with exceptions made for hot fictional pairings to perv over.)
azurelunatic: Cordless phone showing a heart.  (phone)
1) if you were to write a recipe for True and Lasting Friendship, what would it be? what "optional seasonings" do you prefer in your own?
1 large block solid trust, layered with liking, shared experience, and accumulated knowledge of the Other. I prefer mine with shared interests and a hint of potential romance, either active or latent.

More questions, temporarily squinched formatting, my answers. Fun childhood anecdotes! General life philosophy! )
azurelunatic: Animated woman's gloved hand dripping with her own blood.  (bleeding)
One would think that after I'd survived Hell Summer, I'd have been done with it.

Hell Summer was one of the bad ones. First, my best friend was going out of state, for three months until forever. I didn't know what the situation he was going into was like, and from what little I could piece together out of what he said, it sounded bad. Him sending me a letter in Klingon-language, saying that he was in Rura Pente and had a phaser and was planning to escape, was not very reassuring. I had a job from hell, I wasn't getting enough sleep, and then something went very wrong. I got sick, and my best friend tried to kill himself in the middle of a drug-induced psychotic breakdown -- without telling me what, actually, was going on. This led to the breakdown and collapse of my engagement, and my family was none too thrilled with me for being friends with my best friend to start with, and kept giving me helpful advice like, "Tell him to go to hell, then everything will be just fine."

But no.

It's seven years later, and I think I'm finally over the worst of it. I can tell the story without stuttering. I can have a friend announce that they are moving almost without panicking.

I can mention heroin with only a slight stutter. I can say 'Milly's name without weeping.

But when something unconsciously reminds me of that, my brain still goes into a bit of a tailspin. Ohmigod, I'm not going to lose another friend. I'll do anything, just not lose another friend. For those months, I thought I'd lost him. I knew he was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.

It influences my attitude on friendship. It influences my feelings about memory. When he lied to me, and told me something that he considered important, then had forgotten all about his lie a month later -- I panicked. No one should forget something evidently that integral to them.

Bad communication panics me. If there's no apparent reason for lack of communication, my brain makes one up. He doesn't care about me. He has a girlfriend. He's dead. He moved and forgot to tell me. He moved and didn't tell me on purpose. It isn't because I don't trust him. It's because I've been betrayed before, by someone I loved just as much, and even though he's given me no reason to doubt him, I still associate betrayal with love.

If I love someone, they'll turn out to be a psycho who will hurt me. If I give all of myself to someone, he'll twist it out of recognition. If I trust someone, he'll call me psycho and choose someone else who will hate me for loving him. If I love someone and they don't love me back, I'll turn into a psycho and they'll hate me and I'll deserve it.

Those aren't the middle-of-the-night fears. Those are the broad daylight fears. Those are the reasons why I marvel at Darkside actually being friends with me, actually being trustworthy, actually allowing me to love him even if he doesn't understand it. It never happened that way and stayed so, in my world. Me loving was a constant; me loving being a good thing -- never.
azurelunatic: A glittery black pin badge with a blue holographic star in the middle. (Default)
Came to school at 9 today rather than my usual 6 (I worked until 11 last night) and didn't get to have a good conversation with Darkside until noon, when I walked him to his last class. (He was busy working on programming projects until then.)

I need to re-learn how to sneak.
Darkside's been nagging me about getting registered for classes. I got all the holds cleared today by paperwork; I just have to wait for it to clear from the computer system for me to be able to register.

Darkside bitched about what he'd been working on, HTML with javascript, and told me I'd be getting it sooner or later. "Yeah, you'll have the joy of putting up with me then," I told him. "I've got that, what, in five semesters?"

"Actually, I won't," he said. "I won't be here then."

That shut me up fast. Votania did tell me that Darkside is most likely moving out of state after he gets through college, something about a better job and getting away from his parents.

"You'd better stay in touch," I told him. We both hate losing friends from either them or us moving away, and I'm for damn sure not going to want to lose him, not ever. It doesn't matter that we're never going to date. He's still my best friend.

"I'm not all that good at writing," he told me.

"That's not what your stories say to me."

I told him I didn't expect essays, I just expected regular e-mails telling me that he was alive and so forth. "When you get an e-mail from me, just reply and say 'It's good to hear from you. I'm alive.' Just that."

" 'It's good to hear from you. I'm alive.' 'I'm alive.' 'I'm alive.' 'It's good to hear from you. I'm dead.' "

"Exactly!" I said and we started beating the hell out of each other in the friendliest possible way.

Darkside is the sort of friend, that once you have them, you never let go. Not ever.
azurelunatic: A glittery black pin badge with a blue holographic star in the middle. (Default)
February 7, 1997

Shawn seems to be feeling better, but I have been affected by his moods all week. Or whatever. I’ve been much more introverted during the past week than ever; it must be a function of having to keep my mouth shut all the time.

Shawn is scared of love when Dot is concerned too. I was too late on the phone with her last night. She’s addicted to REM, and found Whisper at the library. Maybe I should look for it.

Yesterday Hannah was back in school; she was sick on Wednesday. Some time ago, Shawn had dropped his empty plastic soda bottle on her face when she was playing dead, so she has been taking every opportunity to get even. Earlier, she dropped the wadded-up wrapper from a pie-thing that Shawn sold his soul to Sudiptya for on Shawn’s face. Yesterday, Shawn was lying down, so he got this plastic (empty) Gatorade bottle on his face! He wasn’t very happy, but it was rather deserved.

I got to the Wood Center yesterday at sometime after four. I’d talked my father into taking me there, and when I got there, Josh Cogdill and Gretta were very, very close. This wasn’t the Josh she’d been talking about before. Josh C thinks that Josh-Shua looks like Ian Billington. Not the first person to think so, though. I was first.

Anyway, Gretta did hug me a lot, and told me that she and Shawn had been kissing yesterday. Oh, dear. Argh, Gretta, hands off! The guy is mine! Not yours, mine! Hannah doesn’t like Gretta very much, and neither, I think, do I, except when I’m around her and she’s in trouble. She’s getting much more tolerable. I think that going out with Josh C is going to be good for her. That happened yesterday evening. Josh offended Shawn by excluding him, telling him to go away, when he was talking about Gretta with me. Shawn was not very happy about that.

I saw his Klingon dagger. It’s a nasty piece of work, and he should not have had it on campus; he should not be carrying this thing about with him—he just shouldn’t have it!

One of the sabres in the GOA thing was damaged yesterday, so it was not safe to fight with. So Shawn, so no one would fight with it anyway, decided to make it very plain that this was not a legal weapon. So he takes the little knife that’s in the cross he’s wearing (he’s not Christian, so I think it’s in excreble taste) and cuts the padding off. The padding comes off in one long clump, so it’s this tube-shaped, long piece of duct-taped stuff, with a duct-taped knob on the end. The result was incredibly phallic. The thing drooped, okay? Here’s this obscenely long thing, drooping! The entire surrounding area cracked up. They laughed even harder (excuse the pun, please!) when Shawn takes this drooping phallic symbol and puts it on his middle finger. So now we have this teenage guy with a phallic symbol on middle finger, waving it around and flipping people off. As the surrounding people are also adolescent guys, there are horrible, horrible jokes, most of them about Shawn’s alleged virility. (Shawn, in grade school, had thought it just a myth that older guys often spent a lot of time talking about the size of their dicks. This was during a conversation doing just this. I was cracking up, in my Vulcan way.)

We did a lot of singing, leaving Wood Center. “Lida Rose,” “Pick a little, Talk a little/Goodnight, Ladies,” (John or someone, perhaps Ian, was insulted that Shawn was implying that the crowd there was a bunch of ladies) and “Love Fool.” I asked him please not to sing that one, because it hurt. He sings a lot. I like it when he sings. But him singing “Love Fool” does hurt.

Then somehow, Sudiptya insulted his acting. That hurt. I felt it too. Shawn walked away. He was not happy. I called after him for him to come back (“Get your lousy ass back here, Shawn Thomas Weixelman!”) but he didn’t come.

Shawn is going after Carrie Nebert. That’s really nice. I’m not happy. I don’t want to stop thinking about Shawn! I love him, and while I can stop thinking about him erotically, I can’t stop loving him.

Hannah’s over, and she’s not letting me think about Shawn. I just want to become deep friends with him, and then when he grows up, then maybe we could see. I just want to love him. Is that too much to ask?

I scared myself today. Shanna became serious. (Darn right I did, dear!) I don’t like the fact that Shawn is pushing me away, and away, and away some more.

Denali was back in school today. Shawn now owes me $4.25. He’s such a good guy…even though he’s not. Even though he only likes me as a friend, and maybe not even that. Hell, he doesn’t even care about me! And still I may be one of his closest friends here. Yes, I love your acting, Little One. Thank you for not decieving me as well. But still—I wish you’d cut the crap and care about me! Even just as a friend. I wouldn’t mind that. All I want is the emotional intimacy. Physical could come later, or not at all. I just love you and want you to care about me. Love, yes, I want that as well. I want your trust and to know about you. I want to trust you and let you learn about me. I don’t want to scare you off. You won’t accept me as a mortal, to put it in the terms you used. I will accept you, warts and all. You’re stubborn. Yet—somehow, I wouldn’t have you many other ways than who you are. I love you. Can you even imagine that?

Well, technically, I don’t love you. I can’t love you. I’m not even close to knowing you well enough to love you. The life and loves of Shawn Thomas Weixelman. That’s such a cool last name. I like it for itself. Even if I don’t marry him, I sure would like that name.

I feel like crying. Thanks, Shawn, Hannah. You’re both sick of me wanting him, aren’t you. But he’s him. Sure, he’s cute, but I want friendship and love more than I want sex from him, and that’s what scares him. If I only wanted sex without friendship and love, then he could handle that. But he knows me too well now to be able to see me as a sex object, because he can’t handle sex and friendship together. He sees me only as a friend now. Why is he so afraid of love? He’ll never have love if he keeps running away from any girl who tries to love him. Which is what he’s doing. I love what I know of you, Shawn, which is precious little. Thank you for pouring out your heart to me. Thank you for being yourself, whoever that is, in front of me that precious once, although the memory will rip my heart out. I will live, Shawn, and I will assure you that you will be remembered as more than the misfit clown who never really was a smart kid or well-liked. You may not be well-liked, Shawn, but you certainly shall be well-loved.

Shawn Thomas Weixelman is Alex Mage.

Enough on that subject said. My clown; my hero. I love him, whoever he is. I may not love who he is—is that what he meant? He said he loved who I was. What did he mean by that? What the hell did he mean by that? He can be whoever the hell he wants to be, he says. Is he borrowing again? Who is he? The actor’s true nightmare.

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