posted November 16, 2015 09:54 AM            

A little background information on the both of us:

I am 22 years old. Approaching college graduation. Parents still together and married. Pretty decent childhood.

He is 30 years old. Spent some time in prison in his 20s. Dad was killed when he was 15. His parents were never really together. Mom is remarried. He used to get picked on teased and always felt inferior (his words). He never had a real relationship or girlfriend and was a virgin up until he was 29.

We met while TRANSIT Saturn was finishing up it's last retrograde in Scorpio and started entering my 7th house again. TRANSIT Saturn is also currently conjunct my North Node and Mars.

In his chart, he is currently going through his Saturn return which means Saturn is trine his Sun, but square his moon.

Anyway, I know I've made multiple posts but things are really starting to heat up between us. We're both deeply involved, but being that he doesn't have much experience with women, he makes a lot of mistakes that hurts me deeply and I can clearly tell they're unintentional. He's not good with giving affection or loving words and it affects our relationship in some way almost every day. I want to be with him and I can see a future with him and he's said the same things, but there's a disconnect when it comes to our communication and loving gestures which is clearly seen in our synastry. Do you see any ways around this?

And let me be clear, our relationship isn't a complete disaster. He isn't completely lost when it comes to being with a woman either. I know typing words out on these forums can be misleading.

Can all of you knowledgeable Astrologers ban together and give me some really good insight on what's taking place? I just want some advice I guess. & please Don't try to convince me that our relationship is doomed based off our charts if you see it as such because I know Astrology isn't set in stone and each individual has free will. Only time can reveal whether we're meant to be or not. I just want to make our relationship better or figure out what's going so I can maybe create some solutions. Thank you in advance.

MY NATAL

HIS NATAL

SYNASTRY

posted November 16, 2015 04:54 PM            

quote:

---

Originally posted by Yanmorg:
We're both deeply involved, but being that he doesn't have much experience with women, he makes a lot of mistakes that hurts me deeply and I can clearly tell they're unintentional. He's not good with giving affection or loving words and it affects our relationship in some way almost every day.

And let me be clear, our relationship isn't a complete disaster. He isn't completely lost when it comes to being with a woman either. I know typing words out on these forums can be misleading.

---

Ohhh, sweetie.

How many times have I asked why this was what I needed most? It got ridiculous; I told myself I was essentially creating some kind of Sherlockian hermit. A nigh virgin. This strange amalgam of Charles Dodgson (better known as Lewis Carroll) -- with two distinctive 'personalities' -- one private and playful, the other public and serious -- with this deep and profound love for my heroine -- not that she'd really know it.

Oh, Stephenie Meyer. Get outta the way, girl. I know ALL about quasi-Victorian romances carried out 'almost exclusively by stares'. (Except, y'know, not written abysmally.) I remember the beginning, when I first began creating the story; I felt like a scientist studying a new world. It didn't feel of my creation as much as I was discovering it. Hey, he was an absolutely fascinating character; it's no wonder I enjoyed 'my time' in his head, watching how he interacted (clumsily) with the world, and, conversely, the world's perception of him.

I'd just created a character that was an amalgam of these archetypes -- that was it, really. It was enthralling, telling his complicated story. Watching him go from a brilliant youth with a bright future, to a circumstantial murderer, his family falling apart, finding himself committed to a maximum security facility, and, finally, released at 21, record sealed, off to remake himself as the accomplished criminologist he'd go off to become. Of course, now, with a taste of vigilante homicide that's whet his appetite, and quells a powerful hatred for anyone who would do sadistic harm to another -- especially, in taking their life. He has a successful academic career at Oxford, until his past is uncovered and catches up with him. We 'meet' him, for the first time, the once heralded Dr Penderan Fauste, AKA Mad Hatter Murderer, around his mid forties, with the one person who ever truly reached him now tasked with catching his copycat.

And that, is essentially the series I'm working on bringing to television, from his perspective.

But I was missing a MAJOR part of the whole profile; the personality. Something, frankly, one cannot truly know unless they've experienced in viscerally, and firsthand. I was working with a kind of external perspective here. I kept a 'distance', even though I was frequently in his head, I ... kept an arm's length. My readers never argued there was this distance to it; they felt right there in his head, seeing his perspective, with his thoughts and experience.

But, to me, in hindsight, he was ... incomplete. I 'loved' him as an author. I never got too much into 'his soulmate', for lack of better -- my self-insert character. Because, really, what else is a training profiler who's dealt with more violent offenders and one homicidal maniac than most do in their lifetimes going to write about? And while she was me, she wasn't. But, in most ways, she was. She was the way I dealt with some of my deepest psychological issues and emotional wounds.

And, for whatever reason -- his. This guy's.

'Drained, angry, but too deep to turn back now' is kind of my underlying mantra. Way, way too deep.

When I first actually met the man who 'retroactively inspired' him, (as there's really no other way to explain it) I thought -- okay, he's got to the look, the voice, and the demeanor. THAT's pretty incredible.

But I wouldn't know -- I couldn't know -- even with his intermittently offering intimate details of his extremely limited experience -- what it could really be like. Not to love such an archetype, or literal character, as an author does. But to love an actual man the way a woman does.

Ohhhh, Lord. I WAS NOT PREPARED FOR THIS.

I'd never really FELT what she felt. And, I'll admit, it's deepened my fiction in that regard, in a way I never could've anticipated or imagined. When you're the writer, you have control -- ultimate control. You still KNOW the hero loves the heroine, even if he doesn't say it, or has trouble showing it -- for whatever reason. You know. It's not a guess, it's fact.

So, you can metaphorically give your character a big hug, and write a scene where her best friend offers the sort of encouragement you know she needs, that he can't give her (for some bloody reason) and you want her to have.

Back in 2002, when writing the novel Phantomwise, the sequel to the novel which is being adapted into the series (Hunting Alice), that's exactly what I did. It helped. But, even at age 22, I had NO concept of what this is really like. How it FEELS. How it HURTS.

I'll share a bit of it here:

‘I really didn’t know that someone could … literally be as close as a person can get to another, and be … miles -- no, parsecs -- light-years -- away. That someone can … feel nothing, while you … feel everything. And you tell yourself -- you tell yourself that you aren’t, and it’s not true. Buck up, you say. Look at him -- he’s perfectly fine. He’s not coming apart into tiny fragments. His universe isn’t … splitting, he’s not … with … you. And you can believe it -- for as long as … well, until you don’t ... I had my wits about me, and I wouldn’t dare to lose them. I wouldn’t be so stupid. But I am. Because … I did.’

I didn't know what that felt like, until it was happening to me. Until I was so completely exposed -- lacerations down to the marrow, and it felt like he'd nary gotten a paper cut.

And I blamed him. And I blamed me. And I asked myself, why this? Was I supposed to meet this man -- to fall in love with this man, so that I would see that it was impossible? That he wasn't capable -- that he'd never be capable?

So that I could walk away, having experienced three tragic failures of relationships in the past decade alone -- men who couldn't love me. Asking myself, was it me? I figured, because of the abuse, or the need for control -- the things that weren't love -- I could always say I tried, but made the right choice.

What do you do when you're both desperately trying to love each other, but it's not working? That you're both somehow encased in glass, or there's this wall between you, and you'd do anything to free each other, to tear down the wall. And you try and you try, and you fail.

That's how I felt this past August, more hopeless than I ever had before. Like a chunk of my soul had been ripped out, torn apart, and smashed to smithereens. I could feel us both desperately trying to make this connexion, and failing. And I'd given up. I'd finally given up. I almost told him, too -- before what I can only consider fate intervened, and did so in such a dramatic way, there was no other way to interpret it. None.

Things ... changed. It was immediate, but not lasting. It was the beginning. It was a genuine new start. For the first time in nearly two years, we had what we both considered actual sex together. We were overcome with this strange cocktail of relief, and fear. It'd take things into some very bizarre directions for the next two months, finally starting to normalise around Hallowe'en -- thank God. A new status quo.

At times, he's still oblivious. He's casually mentioned how the next bouquet of roses I'm to receive from him will not be the white ones in sorrow and apology, but red. It's been two years now, and that's yet to materialise. And every birthday and appropriate holiday -- I do wonder: maybe now. And finally ... maybe not.

He doesn't really get the point of kissing; a combination of lacking experience, and also seeing little purpose. It's been complicated.

He's not one for effusive displays of romantic or emotional anything. And so his kisses are sparing, but genuinely motivated by some meaningful impulse, and his usage of a certain term of endearment also intermittent, but still has the potency to carry me off into the stars; God knows.

He doesn't call -- or very, very rarely. Lately, he had, which was quite new. He'd wanted to hear my voice. I was flabbergasted. We're mostly in contact via email, usually weekly. We used to see each other biweekly -- the twice a week form of it. Now it's more the twice-a-month form of it. He's a freelancing workaholic; feast or famine, and when it's famine, he clicks into survival mode and vanishes.

I never worry if a tabloid were to somehow acquire our email passwords. They could never prove we have a relationship that way.

Of course, it's tough. Sometimes, it feels too much to take. I feel alone, and lost, and confused, and foolish. Surviving off of these tiny pieces of reassurance. Of what I know is true.

You, for yourself, synastry aside (because I've gotten little help in that regard -- not because others haven't tried! But because that's not what this is about) must decide -- for yourself -- if it's worth it.

That's it. That's all.

And, if it is, ask WHY it's this way. For me, it's taught me how to love myself in ways I'd honestly thought I'd covered. It's helped me become even more self-sufficient, and learn how to have faith in someone. To trust them -- especially when it's the hardest, and hurts the most. When I've lost my faith, and I'm feeling like an idiot, questioning everything.

The one thing I've never been able to question is him; our connexion. From the inexplicable moment he walked into my life, and the day he said he wanted to learn to become someone truly capable of loving me -- including the way I need -- the way I deserve -- to be loved.

What else could we do but try? For good or ill, that's what we do. There are good days, and bad days. Hard nights, and incredible times when it's all worth it.

I've become stronger. Self-assured. I don't need him to tell me he loves me all of the time, or even some of the time. I know it. Not out of a misplaced trust or a false sense of security. I finally got what he'd been trying to say to me -- 'never doubt'. I've learnt -- even in my weakest times, to never doubt.

Rather than synastry, I'd check the transits. I'd see what was happening when you met, and what specifically brought him into your life.

These can be hard lessons. But, I promise you, you'll be all the stronger for it, afterwards.

Remember how tSATURN was recently on your SUN? It was on my MOON. I've been tested recently, too. The tVENUSRx was hell on me, too; making me review everything I'd thought I'd learnt, seeing what I still had to, and where I wasn't quite getting it yet .... Yeah.

posted November 30, 2015 10:41 AM            

quote:

---

Originally posted by Aubyanne:
Ohhh, sweetie.

How many times have I asked why this was what I needed most? It got ridiculous; I told myself I was essentially creating some kind of Sherlockian hermit. A nigh virgin. This strange amalgam of Charles Dodgson (better known as Lewis Carroll) -- with two distinctive 'personalities' -- one private and playful, the other public and serious -- with this deep and profound love for my heroine -- not that she'd really know it.

Oh, Stephenie Meyer. Get outta the way, girl. I know ALL about quasi-Victorian romances carried out 'almost exclusively by stares'. (Except, y'know, not written abysmally.) I remember the beginning, when I first began creating the story; I felt like a scientist studying a new world. It didn't feel of my creation as much as I was discovering it. Hey, he was an absolutely fascinating character; it's no wonder I enjoyed 'my time' in his head, watching how he interacted (clumsily) with the world, and, conversely, the world's perception of him.

I'd just created a character that was an amalgam of these archetypes -- that was it, really. It was enthralling, telling his complicated story. Watching him go from a brilliant youth with a bright future, to a circumstantial murderer, his family falling apart, finding himself committed to a maximum security facility, and, finally, released at 21, record sealed, off to remake himself as the accomplished criminologist he'd go off to become. Of course, now, with a taste of vigilante homicide that's whet his appetite, and quells a powerful hatred for anyone who would do sadistic harm to another -- especially, in taking their life. He has a successful academic career at Oxford, until his past is uncovered and catches up with him. We 'meet' him, for the first time, the once heralded Dr Penderan Fauste, AKA Mad Hatter Murderer, around his mid forties, with the one person who ever truly reached him now tasked with catching his copycat.

And that, is essentially the series I'm working on bringing to television, from his perspective.

But I was missing a MAJOR part of the whole profile; the personality. Something, frankly, one cannot truly know unless they've experienced in viscerally, and firsthand. I was working with a kind of external perspective here. I kept a 'distance', even though I was frequently in his head, I ... kept an arm's length. My readers never argued there was this distance to it; they felt right there in his head, seeing his perspective, with his thoughts and experience.

But, to me, in hindsight, he was ... incomplete. I 'loved' him as an author. I never got too much into 'his soulmate', for lack of better -- my self-insert character. Because, really, what else is a training profiler who's dealt with more violent offenders and one homicidal maniac than most do in their lifetimes going to write about? And while she was me, she wasn't. But, in most ways, she was. She was the way I dealt with some of my deepest psychological issues and emotional wounds.

And, for whatever reason -- his. This guy's.

'Drained, angry, but too deep to turn back now' is kind of my underlying mantra. Way, way too deep.

When I first actually met the man who 'retroactively inspired' him, (as there's really no other way to explain it) I thought -- okay, he's got to the look, the voice, and the demeanor. THAT's pretty incredible.

But I wouldn't know -- I couldn't know -- even with his intermittently offering intimate details of his extremely limited experience -- what it could really be like. Not to love such an archetype, or literal character, as an author does. But to love an actual man the way a woman does.

Ohhhh, Lord. I WAS NOT PREPARED FOR THIS.

I'd never really FELT what she felt. And, I'll admit, it's deepened my fiction in that regard, in a way I never could've anticipated or imagined. When you're the writer, you have control -- ultimate control. You still KNOW the hero loves the heroine, even if he doesn't say it, or has trouble showing it -- for whatever reason. You know. It's not a guess, it's fact.

So, you can metaphorically give your character a big hug, and write a scene where her best friend offers the sort of encouragement you know she needs, that he can't give her (for some bloody reason) and you want her to have.

Back in 2002, when writing the novel Phantomwise, the sequel to the novel which is being adapted into the series (Hunting Alice), that's exactly what I did. It helped. But, even at age 22, I had NO concept of what this is really like. How it FEELS. How it HURTS.

I'll share a bit of it here:

‘I really didn’t know that someone could … literally be as close as a person can get to another, and be … miles -- no, parsecs -- light-years -- away. That someone can … feel nothing, while you … feel everything. And you tell yourself -- you tell yourself that you aren’t, and it’s not true. Buck up, you say. Look at him -- he’s perfectly fine. He’s not coming apart into tiny fragments. His universe isn’t … splitting, he’s not … with … you. And you can believe it -- for as long as … well, until you don’t ... I had my wits about me, and I wouldn’t dare to lose them. I wouldn’t be so stupid. But I am. Because … I did.’

I didn't know what that felt like, until it was happening to me. Until I was so completely exposed -- lacerations down to the marrow, and it felt like he'd nary gotten a paper cut.

And I blamed him. And I blamed me. And I asked myself, why this? Was I supposed to meet this man -- to fall in love with this man, so that I would see that it was impossible? That he wasn't capable -- that he'd never be capable?

So that I could walk away, having experienced three tragic failures of relationships in the past decade alone -- men who couldn't love me. Asking myself, was it me? I figured, because of the abuse, or the need for control -- the things that weren't love -- I could always say I tried, but made the right choice.

What do you do when you're both desperately trying to love each other, but it's not working? That you're both somehow encased in glass, or there's this wall between you, and you'd do anything to free each other, to tear down the wall. And you try and you try, and you fail.

That's how I felt this past August, more hopeless than I ever had before. Like a chunk of my soul had been ripped out, torn apart, and smashed to smithereens. I could feel us both desperately trying to make this connexion, and failing. And I'd given up. I'd finally given up. I almost told him, too -- before what I can only consider fate intervened, and did so in such a dramatic way, there was no other way to interpret it. None.

Things ... changed. It was immediate, but not lasting. It was the beginning. It was a genuine new start. For the first time in nearly two years, we had what we both considered actual sex together. We were overcome with this strange cocktail of relief, and fear. It'd take things into some very bizarre directions for the next two months, finally starting to normalise around Hallowe'en -- thank God. A new status quo.

At times, he's still oblivious. He's casually mentioned how the next bouquet of roses I'm to receive from him will not be the white ones in sorrow and apology, but red. It's been two years now, and that's yet to materialise. And every birthday and appropriate holiday -- I do wonder: maybe now. And finally ... maybe not.

He doesn't really get the point of kissing; a combination of lacking experience, and also seeing little purpose. It's been complicated.

He's not one for effusive displays of romantic or emotional anything. And so his kisses are sparing, but genuinely motivated by some meaningful impulse, and his usage of a certain term of endearment also intermittent, but still has the potency to carry me off into the stars; God knows.

He doesn't call -- or very, very rarely. Lately, he had, which was quite new. He'd wanted to hear my voice. I was flabbergasted. We're mostly in contact via email, usually weekly. We used to see each other biweekly -- the twice a week form of it. Now it's more the twice-a-month form of it. He's a freelancing workaholic; feast or famine, and when it's famine, he clicks into survival mode and vanishes.

I never worry if a tabloid were to somehow acquire our email passwords. They could never prove we have a relationship that way.

Of course, it's tough. Sometimes, it feels too much to take. I feel alone, and lost, and confused, and foolish. Surviving off of these tiny pieces of reassurance. Of what I know is true.

You, for yourself, synastry aside (because I've gotten little help in that regard -- not because others haven't tried! But because that's not what this is about) must decide -- for yourself -- if it's worth it.

That's it. That's all.

And, if it is, ask WHY it's this way. For me, it's taught me how to love myself in ways I'd honestly thought I'd covered. It's helped me become even more self-sufficient, and learn how to [b]have faith in someone. To trust them -- especially when it's the hardest, and hurts the most. When I've lost my faith, and I'm feeling like an idiot, questioning everything.

The one thing I've never been able to question is him; our connexion. From the inexplicable moment he walked into my life, and the day he said he wanted to learn to become someone truly capable of loving me -- including the way I need -- the way I deserve -- to be loved.

What else could we do but try? For good or ill, that's what we do. There are good days, and bad days. Hard nights, and incredible times when it's all worth it.

I've become stronger. Self-assured. I don't need him to tell me he loves me all of the time, or even some of the time. I know it. Not out of a misplaced trust or a false sense of security. I finally got what he'd been trying to say to me -- 'never doubt'. I've learnt -- even in my weakest times, to never doubt.

Rather than synastry, I'd check the transits. I'd see what was happening when you met, and what specifically brought him into your life.

These can be hard lessons. But, I promise you, you'll be all the stronger for it, afterwards.

Remember how tSATURN was recently on your SUN? It was on my MOON. I've been tested recently, too. The tVENUSRx was hell on me, too; making me review everything I'd thought I'd learnt, seeing what I still had to, and where I wasn't quite getting it yet .... Yeah.

Sometimes, it's all part of the process. And you've just got to hold your own. [/B]

---