The weekend was filled with social activity, and while I’m tired as I type these words, I can’t help but feel grateful for the love I felt regardless of the kind of love it was. I’m still learning to value platonic love as much as I value romantic. I used to think that my desire for affection and care was based on me not loving or wanting myself as much as I should, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true anymore. I value myself, care for myself and hold so much space to feel, breathe and be. Granted, doing all of that at the same time all of the time is something I don’t know if I can ever do. It sounds like an unreachable quality of life, and I’m okay with that. I’m used to my emotional peaks and valleys. I’m not necesarily a fan of the lows, but without them I wouldn’t appreciate the highs as much. I, too, am rolling my eyes that last sentence. It’s cliche, but rings true.

Friday night I was met with a familiarity I didn’t realize I missed until I felt it. I’m so good at compartmentalizing, putting things away. I think it’s good for me to do most of the time. I tend to fixate on what I want to the point where, before, I’ve shut off so many parts of myself to try and meet whatever assumed expectation my partner has of me. I’m still working through that, which is part of the reason why I’m not interested in dating right now. I still feel like too much of an emotional mess. Not from previous relationships, those messes have been cleaned, documented and filed away.

My current situation involves struggling with the idea of there no longer being a “one and only” for me. I don’t feel authentic in saying I’m non-monogamous or polyamorous, but monogamy also feels limiting. I think, in part, it’s more so me releasing myself from the pressure of finding someone to complete my sense of self. I don’t know. That’s the mess. Not knowing. I used to be terrified of it, but now it’s just this ever-present pile of mental dishes in the sink of my brain. I wash what’s there, only to turn and find more pots and pans on the counters or stove.

Friday night met me with moments I did not anticipate. These moments include, but are not limited to: taking a shot of tequila; making out while grinding on the dance floor and then, being pulled away from my friends by a man I didn’t know only to be pulled away from him by a woman I didn’t know, who was telling me he wasn’t a safe person. Two out of the three situations were great. My night didn’t end until about 4AM when I was finally able to fall asleep, my cat Wesley nuzzled beside me.

It feels good to have been able to have some kind of release, and to know I’m not falling back into wanting more. I do want more, (I always want more) but it’s good to not always get what I want. I really need a vibrator. Wait, no. I want one of those suction vibrator toys…yes. There’s one I’ve had my eye on. I just need to do the fucking thing. I’ve said this so many times, I think having a vibrator would help solve some of my problems, one problem being: I want to come so hard I forget my name for a moment. I don’t necessarily need another person to do that, I can make myself do that.

Sex, for me, can be such an unspoken way of expressing deep emotions. I think having sex is a really vulnerable act, but I think that has to do with me being demisexual.

I spoke about that portion of my sexaulity a little bit at a Queer Black Brunch one of my friends hosted yesterday. I can’t tell you how fortunate I feel to have Black friends who hold space for me when they really don’t have to. I hadn’t held the space for my Blackness before in the way that I did yesterday. The timing of the brunch was really something, as I spoke a bit about being mixed race on a podcast other friends host last Monday. I haven’t necessarily talked about my identity in this way so openly. It feels good to be seen and heard and welcomed. I used to think that because I didn’t grow up seeing my cousins on my dad’s side of the family (there are several, he has so many siblings) and only met my Grandma Kennedy for the first time a few years ago, that I didn’t have the right to claim my Blackness. I didn’t know that part of myself. I was told for so long that I did not belong because of my mom. On every form, she would write white or caucasion for me even though she herself is Mexican. Her middle names are Juanita Guadelupe, and her maiden name is Nunez. She simply wiped that away from my identity at an early age and I accepted that. It seemed easier to just accept what was as opposed to pushing back.

The tides are turning on that one, in many ways, they already have.

Until next time.