For this week’s sex-and-relationships column, here’s the beginning of Part Three of Eric’s series on sexuality from 2008. That series, called “It’s Not About Sex. It’s About Self.” is an in-depth look into jealousy, self-esteem, compersion, intimacy and sexuality — and related topics. I’ve chosen Part Three because of its focus on self-esteem, which was a focus in Thursday’s subscriber issue as well as recent blog posts here on PW. — Amanda P.

Dear Friend and Reader:

THOUGH IT MAY be difficult to see, we have a serious self-esteem problem in our society. We are, in short, either taught that we don’t exist, taught to hate ourselves, or some combination of the two. Most people you see walking around on the street don’t feel worthy of love. And this seems to be a matter of selflove, or the lack thereof.

Fae from the Book of Blue by Eric Francis.

Self-hatred is perpetuated by nearly everything we see in the media, but most particularly advertising. It is reinforced hundreds of times a day, perhaps more boldly than any other emotion.

If we are lacking self-esteem — a problem so pervasive as to be invisible — we are going to have a lot of problems in relationships. This can account for much of our stuff around jealousy. For example, if we need a relationship to know that we exist, then we will naturally feel that our existence is threatened if our partner so much as smiles at someone else.

If much of our trip in relationships is designed to cover up a lack of real self-awareness, we are adding several dense layers of complication to finding out who we really are. It would seem that the real solution to our relationship stuff, our jealousy, our loneliness and many other factors, is to figure out who we are, enter a conscious relationship with that person, and then take that into our relationships with others.

In other words, we need to get to the place where the most honest relationship we have in the world is with ourselves, and then let that overflow into our encounters with the people around us — not forgetting what order these things happen. Unfortunately, we are taught to have relationships with ourselves that are based specifically on denying and deceiving ourselves. This is a sad state of humanity, but one that could be easily addressed — if we were somehow relieved of the fear to look within.

In today’s edition, I cover some points that have been raised over and over again, but which need to be repeated and I hope thought through. None of what you will read today is particularly original. We may feel that feminism has covered a lot of this ground, but it’s been a long time since. And a lot of things have happened since.

Continue reading here.

Here’s this week’s featured essay from the Cosmophilia website. Amy Elliott charts her path toward feeling a sense of belonging after being told quite the opposite early in her life. You’re invited to comment below if the piece strikes a chord with you. — Amanda P.

By Amy Elliott

So far I have heard two opposing and rather unappealing stories about my conception. I was the last child by a decade, and my father often used to call me an accident. More recently, I was told I was the instrument that kept my mother in her unhappy marriage for another 12 years.

Photo by Danielle Voirin

I will probably never be certain exactly how much I was wanted, or for what reasons.

Growing up with my parents, and later their separate households and new partners, helped to cement my sense that I lacked worth. I was an encumbrance, a clumsy, moody liability who was generally yelled at, punished or ignored. I spent my teenage years in a pensive, petulant haze. There was no such place as home: in every dwelling I was an interloper.

I still carry this feeling today; in every circle, my very presence seems a presumption, making me comfortable nowhere. I qualify for enough psychiatric conditions to make a one-person mental hospital.

It is a profound indictment of the human condition that my case is very, very far from being unique. For many survivors, that fact is also an invaluable support.

Abuse can often leave a person feeling as though their life is a life sentence. There’s the guilt (albeit for another person’s crimes) and the sense of treading on eggshells; the notion that one is never quite free to be oneself; and the simple absence of the bubble of happiness that surrounds the more fortunate. Sadly, for many of us there are also insurmountable obstacles in the way of decent help, and of ultimate justice. Western society is still learning how to care for the mistreated.

In the meantime, I am continuing on my slow journey towards freedom. It’s a little like wading through treacle, and I sometimes have to remind myself that because I only got one ‘hiding’ as my father termed it, and because he never actually touched me inappropriately, I got away lightly. Because I have kind friends and some helpful family members, shelter and enough to eat, I am lucky. And after all, my experiences have given me better sensitivity, liberality and compassion. In a judgmental world, I feel blessed to have the gift of empathy, even though it can be like a thousand little pinpricks in my heart.

Continue reading here.

Dear Madame Z,

Please help me solve an ongoing problem at our house. It’s one that I’m sure you’ve heard of before, but I feel has been overlooked by the metaphysical field. Can you tell me what astrology says about people who prefer their toilet paper overhand vs. underhand? In other words, is there a right way to roll?

Signed,
TemPested To Death

Dearest Tempy,

Let me assure you there’s no quotidian detail of life unworthy of the Astrological Gaze. So your toilet paper troubles are welcome here. To begin, I’m well aware of the various arguments for upsies vs. downsies — ecological, anthropological and teleological to name three. None truly get to the heart of the matter.

In fact most confuse the argument with additional ideological (there’s a fourth!) distractions. With astrology, it’s easy: you’re looking at a polarity problem, nothing more. Up/down. Yin/yang. Female/male.

Consider the illustration to the left. You can see clearly the flaccid penile projection of the “yang” forward roll setting verses the more receptive soft cupping possible in the “yin” backward roll. All signs in the zodiac are assigned male or female polarities, so we need to assign a sign with proper polarity to the matter. But which one is the right one for you?

To answer this, we look to astrological houses. We need to house our toilet paper. One would instinctively assume this is an 8th house matter — all shitters are. But because the conflict occurs in the bathroom does not necessarily make it the essence of the problem. I will ignore the 9th house as well because as much as some would like to make it so, how you roll is not a philosophical debate.

Toilet paper is a thing. It is a tool. And tools and things belong to the 2nd house. I like this idea for a second reason: the 2nd house is like a hand reaching out. The appropriateness of this image is, I’m sure, not lost on you. Whether this hand is willing to give or is on the take depends on the sign and polarity sitting on the cusp of that 2nd house. Positive/male signs give (roll forward). Negative/female signs take (roll backward).

Now it’s a simple matter. Just grab a natal chart and check out the second sign from the Ascendant (the 8 o’clock position). Is it a positive/male sign? Then they’re a forward roller! Negative/female? Then tuck that end to the back.

Of course planets may modify this interpretation, which could produce neutralizing influences. Other ideas? Aries on the 2nd rolls forward but grabs hastily and wastes paper. Capricorn (female) winds backwards but rations the roll.

Obviously, TP padlocked to the roller indicates a Venus-Saturn problem. However, if the Sun sits in the 2nd house, someone might even stake their identity upon it!

If this is all too confusing and you’re blessed with two johns in the joint, how about simpler approach? Tape a “+” on one door and a “-“ on the other, sort your TP accordingly and be done with the whole mess.

Wishing you well wiping!

— Madame Z