Okay, so we'll get back to the part where I had just died in a minute. A minute being, you know, my next post. I won't leave you hanging for too long. Obviously I didn't stay dead forever, otherwise I wouldn't be posting my story on the interwebs.
Point being: I interrupted the scheduled programming to bring you news I had previously mentioned in my Avoidance post. If you missed that, no big deal. Long post short: I was freaking out because I saw a movie about suburban, white kids contracting HIV.
As I was raised in a suburban(can you call it that?), middle class (granted there's a lot of debt involved), white (of mainly Eurasian descent) focus group, it seemed strongly to apply to me, and I went to go get tested. After fretting for weeks the results finally came in the mail with a little "negative" typed on the right hand side. (I think clinics need to be more joyous when they send you things like that. Can't they send it on stationary with little balloons or something? At least bold it.)
Anyway, I'm clean and I'm glad, but it got me thinking. I've always done a lot of fundraising for my local LGBT and HIV center- which helps with everything from HIV testing and medication to food, mental health counseling, group therapy, activities and mixers. But lately fundraising doesn't seem like enough. It's kind of a long drive, so I don't participate in many of their mixers, but I've been thinking about doing some volunteer work, both in the center and raising awareness in the outlying communities.
Even though I'm not HIV positive I don't want this to just fade away and go back to feeling like I was invincible. I have no real fear of death or pain until it's staring me in the face. I know it's my youth, my naivety of "that could never happen to me," that lingers on, despite having left my teenage years behind me.
No matter how long I try to cling to this fear that I could die, that I can feel pain- it always slips away and I become as reckless and adventuresome as before. In the meantime, I'll try to volunteer. Try to give comfort, assistance, and care to those in need and try to remind myself that there is always a price for the rush I seek.
Oct 9, 2012
Hubris
When I was a kid, my cousin/ basically my brother (from this
point on be under codename: Ladybug-don’t worry, it’s a loving nickname) and I were enrolled in swimming lessons. I began when I was four or five and he started a few years after when
he reached that same age. I would take
the earlier, advanced class and he would take the younger class right after mine, so we were around to watch each other.
The classes were held in our outdoor community pool, which was
absolutely freezing so early in the morning. For
whatever reason I can't feel the cold. By the time the car pulled into the parking lot I always had my jacket
off, shoes in hand, ready to jump in the pool, and when my lesson was over I refused to come out.
Ladybug, like most other kids, had a much more difficult time. He would shiver and shake and most days he would beg to climb out early, wrapped in a thick towel as his teeth chattered, while I would eagerly ask if I could
take his spot and jump back in.
I
excelled in swimming, could hold my breath for two pool lengths or dive off
the diving board and forget to come up until a worried instructor feared I was drowning and pull me
out. (That tended to make them mad) I thought diving was the most wonderful feeling in
the world and I practiced all the time.
Since I grew up right next to the ocean, when I wasn’t in the pool I was at this crap strip of beach
ten minutes from my house. The waves were never very big unless there was a
storm coming in, and each crest was filled with kelp and/or seaweed that tangled its slimy way across every inch of skin. I didn’t enjoy the shore much, but once I got past the breakers I loved the freedom of being able to swim in the (very cold) water
when the pool wasn't open for summer.
I swam all year round, and because I can't feel the cold, one stormy January day I stayed in for more than 3 1/2 hours without a wetsuit and almost came out with hypothermia. It took several piping hot showers on the beach before my skin turned pink and I could uncurl my hands. But I was fine, a teenager, invincible. I didn't let it bother me.
I swam all year round, and because I can't feel the cold, one stormy January day I stayed in for more than 3 1/2 hours without a wetsuit and almost came out with hypothermia. It took several piping hot showers on the beach before my skin turned pink and I could uncurl my hands. But I was fine, a teenager, invincible. I didn't let it bother me.
It was this excellence, this confidence, this arrogance, which would be my undoing.
I was 16 and "pool hopping" with two of my friends. They were both 17 and enjoying the freedom of legally being able to drive friends after dark. We were in the spa of a very fancy hotel for only a few minutes before I left them. I could never take the heat for long, and preferred the cold water of the pool a few yards away.
The deepest section was only five feet, but I was 5'1" at the time and had been in this pool many times before. Shallow diving was my specialty. I dove in off the side- once, twice, six times. The rush of bubbles along my cheeks was thrilling, the ice water refreshing against my skin. It was a cold night and the stars were especially bright overhead. My breath puffed into the air as I climbed up the ladder.
I dove again, casually, carelessly, no longer thinking or making an effort. I'd done it a thousand times before. I cut through the water, too quickly, too steep, and couldn't stop myself. The bubbles rushed by my ears and I tried to arch my back. I couldn't pull up. The angle was all wrong. A tremendous pain lanced through my head, my neck, my spine-a pain so intense I could never have imagined anything like it.
I dove again, casually, carelessly, no longer thinking or making an effort. I'd done it a thousand times before. I cut through the water, too quickly, too steep, and couldn't stop myself. The bubbles rushed by my ears and I tried to arch my back. I couldn't pull up. The angle was all wrong. A tremendous pain lanced through my head, my neck, my spine-a pain so intense I could never have imagined anything like it.
And then there was nothing.
Oct 7, 2012
Gay is Definite
I'm gay.
With all the labels and all the struggles- trying to find a term that fits everything I am, only one word seems to encompass it all. Queer, femme, butch, lesbian, woman, genderqueer, genderfuck, and dyke have all been tried on with varying degrees of success. Each one felt like a plaster mold into which I was pouring and conforming myself to meet its definition.
When I stopped writing over these past two years, I stopped trying on words, frantically, as if they were outfits five minutes before a date. I took my time and slowed things down. I came out to my family. Coming out to strangers had been no problem in the past, but my uber-religious family was scary. Turns out I didn't have much to be frightened of. But in the time that I stopped searching for words to mold myself into, I found the word that molded itself to me.
Gay.
Such a simple, unhindered word, traditionally used for the male sex, but that doesn't hang me up. People understand it immediately. Unlike other terms which begin a lengthy discussion of who I am and what I identify as (don't get me wrong, I love lengthy discussions, but not every time) the term "gay" is very quickly grasped.
To be gay in society has a certain connotation. Gay is not a phase, not something to be outgrown or moved past with "the right person." Gay is not a lifestyle choice. Gay is unchanging; gay is forever.
Gay is definite.
Everyone has a word they feel most comfortable with, and when they say those words with pride, when they announce to the world, "I identify as genderqueer," or "I'm a femme," it gives that person strength, power, joy- a sense of self and confidence.
But for me, each time I tried to label myself, the words rang false. Instead of joy and pride, I felt an emptiness and a longing. Until now, when people ask, and I can simply say, "I'm gay," and it makes me smile. If it's with a random passerby, the inevitable question thereafter is, "so are you butch or is your girlfriend?" because a lot of people still believe all lesbian relationships are butch/femme.
"I'm just gay," I laugh, and who cares if they're confused. It's my word, and the freedom attached to it has never felt so good.
With all the labels and all the struggles- trying to find a term that fits everything I am, only one word seems to encompass it all. Queer, femme, butch, lesbian, woman, genderqueer, genderfuck, and dyke have all been tried on with varying degrees of success. Each one felt like a plaster mold into which I was pouring and conforming myself to meet its definition.
When I stopped writing over these past two years, I stopped trying on words, frantically, as if they were outfits five minutes before a date. I took my time and slowed things down. I came out to my family. Coming out to strangers had been no problem in the past, but my uber-religious family was scary. Turns out I didn't have much to be frightened of. But in the time that I stopped searching for words to mold myself into, I found the word that molded itself to me.
Gay.
Such a simple, unhindered word, traditionally used for the male sex, but that doesn't hang me up. People understand it immediately. Unlike other terms which begin a lengthy discussion of who I am and what I identify as (don't get me wrong, I love lengthy discussions, but not every time) the term "gay" is very quickly grasped.
To be gay in society has a certain connotation. Gay is not a phase, not something to be outgrown or moved past with "the right person." Gay is not a lifestyle choice. Gay is unchanging; gay is forever.
Gay is definite.
Everyone has a word they feel most comfortable with, and when they say those words with pride, when they announce to the world, "I identify as genderqueer," or "I'm a femme," it gives that person strength, power, joy- a sense of self and confidence.
But for me, each time I tried to label myself, the words rang false. Instead of joy and pride, I felt an emptiness and a longing. Until now, when people ask, and I can simply say, "I'm gay," and it makes me smile. If it's with a random passerby, the inevitable question thereafter is, "so are you butch or is your girlfriend?" because a lot of people still believe all lesbian relationships are butch/femme.
"I'm just gay," I laugh, and who cares if they're confused. It's my word, and the freedom attached to it has never felt so good.
Oct 6, 2012
Don't Touch
It's long, so if you want to skip to the end, the last three paragraphs are my favorite. I'll bold it for you :)
Recently I wrote about Sexual Objectification and this, that, and the why-fors of appreciating and abhorring it. Whenever I write a post the subject seems to stick in my head for a time, and then suddenly life seems to revolve around it.
All week I have been hyper-aware of my personal space. While I like my physical traits to be appreciated, I don't enjoy being touched by people I don't know well. Handshakes, hugs, and pats on the back are fine, but lingering contact with strangers/brief acquaintances unnerves me.
Whenever I know someone will be touching me in a professional context (masseuse, chiropractor, doctor, gym trainer, etc) I shower and shave in the few hours before I go. Feeling fresh, wet, and clean is very important in those meetings. It makes me feel like I'm courteous and hygienic, and helps reassure me that particular setting will be strictly professional.
Whether this is normal behavior or this is because I have had problems with molestation in the past (ex-boyfriend and prior) is somewhat irrelevant considering I don't find the behavior harmful. I don't go ballistic if I can't shower in the hour before I have to go to the doctor- it's just a general guideline. Although I wonder how many other people do the same thing.
When I'm with friends, family, and romantic partners, touching is wonderful- warm embraces, lingering brushes, harsh hits, surprising grabs. I'm not on the defensive when I know who is around me and all sorts of touching is great.
So, when I was at the gym the other day, my trainer (who is a woman because, yeah, I admit I'm just more comfortable with that) called over the big-boss-man to ask for help working out this jumping muscle issue I was having. He put his hand full on my pelvis between my hipbones (God, his hand was large, like a baseball mitt) and it felt far too close to my vulva, even though it probably wasn't.
He was just measuring something because he calculated a few things and moved his hand around, and then he pressed into a particular spot on my upper thigh. Wouldn't you know, the tiny muscle in my lower leg stopped twitching immediately! That part was kind of cool. However, the fact that this guy that I didn't really know (I had talked to him a few times before and he seemed nice) was all up in my private business kind of freaked me out.
It reminded me of my first year in college, before I came out, when girls would grab at my boobs or other body parts at parties. There was one girl who would constantly sit on my lap and slip her bra off underneath her tank while hovering her breasts in front of my face (at multiple parties) all as an act to get guys to pay attention to her. (I didn't mind her so much as she never groped me, just sort of got into my personal space) There was this unspoken rule that we were all girls and our bodies were all communal property. If it enticed a guy into a bedroom for one of them it was even better. But gay or not, it's not any more okay for a random girl to grope me than it is for a guy. If I don't like you, if I don't know you, it's an unwanted advance.
Sometimes I can meet a person and get comfortable with him/her/z in less than five minutes. Other times it takes weeks, months, years, and occasionally I never get comfortable with that person. Some people have a vibe that I can never quite get over. Some strangers never feel like strangers, and some people I've known my whole life still give me the creeps.
The point is: my breasts, my body, is my property, and the ability to touch it is not a right you are entitled to, it's a permission I give you. It's a trust I bestow you with.
Don't abuse it.
Oct 1, 2012
Lez Get Real
Okay, I want to talk about something that I'm not sure many people talk about, mostly because it's a little uncomfortable.
Do you go the restroom in groups?
Seriously. The whole taking-other-people-with-me-to-pee thing is sometimes necessary to avoid becoming a social outcast, but I have never felt comfortable with it. The whole idea of someone being able to hear every move I make in a stall half an inch from someone else is a little creepy.
When I was ten my best friend liked to come into the bathroom with me (like the ones in our houses) and would fiddle around in front of the mirror while I tried my hardest to ignore the fact that she was there and simultaneously keep her talking so she couldn't hear me pee.
Those were some of the most uncomfortable moments of my life. But I loved her in the way only best friends can (the sleep in the same bed for three weeks straight, borrow clothes so you wouldn't have to go home, and cry when your parents ripped you apart after a month and forced you to sleep alone in your own bed type of love) so I let her do whatever she wanted.
However, I still get bladder shy when I feel like someone is listening in. Is this normal? Men's public restrooms have urinals, no stalls necessary! They just whip it out like "whatever" and it's fine, but if I feel like someone is within 30 feet all urge to pee just dissipates.
So lately whenever I visit my mom, I've noticed she'll linger outside the door of the bathroom when I'm inside. She'll answer a text message or write a note or talk to herself or god-knows-what else, but I feel like I'm on Vomit Watch 2012.
Never mind that I've never enjoyed throwing up and my issues with anorexia are totally different than bulimia, but I feel as if she's purposefully keeping an ear out for me. Which, naturally, makes it hard to find time to pee! I don't care if she's my mother, I still have this weird aversion.
Am I nuts? Is she really just there by chance? Is she coming from a good and helpful place? (I don't doubt this one at all.)
More importantly, do you feel this way? Or do you invite your friends into the bathroom with you and one person straightens her hair while you pee? It's not about being naked. I don't care if friends are in the room while I shower- it's the privacy of the act that I wish to keep intact.
P.S. Someone explain full parameters of NSFW- is it only sexual, or is it stuff like this? Because I'm never sure but I thought I should give fair warning if you don't want your boss to know you're reading about some girl's insecurities about being in the restroom with other people.
Do you go the restroom in groups?
Seriously. The whole taking-other-people-with-me-to-pee thing is sometimes necessary to avoid becoming a social outcast, but I have never felt comfortable with it. The whole idea of someone being able to hear every move I make in a stall half an inch from someone else is a little creepy.
When I was ten my best friend liked to come into the bathroom with me (like the ones in our houses) and would fiddle around in front of the mirror while I tried my hardest to ignore the fact that she was there and simultaneously keep her talking so she couldn't hear me pee.
Those were some of the most uncomfortable moments of my life. But I loved her in the way only best friends can (the sleep in the same bed for three weeks straight, borrow clothes so you wouldn't have to go home, and cry when your parents ripped you apart after a month and forced you to sleep alone in your own bed type of love) so I let her do whatever she wanted.
However, I still get bladder shy when I feel like someone is listening in. Is this normal? Men's public restrooms have urinals, no stalls necessary! They just whip it out like "whatever" and it's fine, but if I feel like someone is within 30 feet all urge to pee just dissipates.
So lately whenever I visit my mom, I've noticed she'll linger outside the door of the bathroom when I'm inside. She'll answer a text message or write a note or talk to herself or god-knows-what else, but I feel like I'm on Vomit Watch 2012.
Never mind that I've never enjoyed throwing up and my issues with anorexia are totally different than bulimia, but I feel as if she's purposefully keeping an ear out for me. Which, naturally, makes it hard to find time to pee! I don't care if she's my mother, I still have this weird aversion.
Am I nuts? Is she really just there by chance? Is she coming from a good and helpful place? (I don't doubt this one at all.)
More importantly, do you feel this way? Or do you invite your friends into the bathroom with you and one person straightens her hair while you pee? It's not about being naked. I don't care if friends are in the room while I shower- it's the privacy of the act that I wish to keep intact.
P.S. Someone explain full parameters of NSFW- is it only sexual, or is it stuff like this? Because I'm never sure but I thought I should give fair warning if you don't want your boss to know you're reading about some girl's insecurities about being in the restroom with other people.
Sep 29, 2012
Sexual Objectification: Part 1
I like to be sexually objectified. Except that I don't. Not in what that term really means. Have you ever looked it up?
Objectification: depersonalization - representing a human being as a physical thing deprived of personal qualities or individuality;
I even found this from a Stanford article:
Objectification is a notion central to feminist theory. It can be roughly defined as the seeing and/or treating a person, usually a woman, as an object. In this entry, the focus is primarily on sexual objectification, objectification occurring in the sexual realm. Martha Nussbaum (1995, 257) has identified seven features that are involved in the idea of treating a person as an object:
Point being: I don't like the depersonalization aspect of objectification. I love that I am an intelligent, opinionated, respectful, witty woman. I love when people recognize those qualities in me, and I don't want those qualities to be lost or pushed aside so I am viewed purely as an object to be used for sexual gratification. I refuse to be treated "as if I lack the capacity to speak."
But I do want those wonderful qualities of mine to step into the background occasionally. I find it thrilling, arousing, to have all thoughts of how sweet or smart I am fly out the window because of an all consuming sexual desire. Perhaps this is because I have always felt pretty, not sexy. Perhaps it is because I have always felt body conscious. But there is something about when someone turns to me with that heat in the eyes that makes me tingle all over.
Even when I'm not attracted to that person, I'll find myself doing little things to keep up the crush. I'll dress nicer, keep up my makeup, make an effort. My smiles are a little slower, my eyes a little warmer, my blouse a little more low cut.
Is it teasing? Is it wrong? Am I not supposed to do it? I've never really seen the problem in looking my best. As long as I'm not flirting I don't feel like I'm leading anyone on. I'm careful to not give the wrong impression, careful to not say anything that would be interpreted as interested in a date, but I'm a flirtatious person by normally, so I have to cut back and I can't say I've never accidentally slipped. What do you think? Is the body language too much? Am I being unfair to the other person?
Am I, in turn, objectifying/using someone else as he/she/z sexualizes me, in order to boost my own self esteem? Do you think this is a better or worse form of objectification? Do you enjoy when your body is sexualized by strangers, acquaintances, your partner? Or do you prefer that your mental attributes be your sexiest qualities?
Objectification: depersonalization - representing a human being as a physical thing deprived of personal qualities or individuality;
I even found this from a Stanford article:
Objectification is a notion central to feminist theory. It can be roughly defined as the seeing and/or treating a person, usually a woman, as an object. In this entry, the focus is primarily on sexual objectification, objectification occurring in the sexual realm. Martha Nussbaum (1995, 257) has identified seven features that are involved in the idea of treating a person as an object:
- instrumentality: the treatment of a person as a tool for the objectifier's purposes;
- denial of autonomy: the treatment of a person as lacking in autonomy and self-determination;
- inertness: the treatment of a person as lacking in agency, and perhaps also in activity;
- fungibility: the treatment of a person as interchangeable with other objects;
- violability: the treatment of a person as lacking in boundary-integrity;
- ownership: the treatment of a person as something that is owned by another (can be bought or sold);
- denial of subjectivity: the treatment of a person as something whose experiences and feelings (if any) need not be taken into account.
- reduction to body: the treatment of a person as identified with their body, or body parts;
- reduction to appearance: the treatment of a person primarily in terms of how they look, or how they appear to the senses;
- silencing: the treatment of a person as if they are silent, lacking the capacity to speak.
Point being: I don't like the depersonalization aspect of objectification. I love that I am an intelligent, opinionated, respectful, witty woman. I love when people recognize those qualities in me, and I don't want those qualities to be lost or pushed aside so I am viewed purely as an object to be used for sexual gratification. I refuse to be treated "as if I lack the capacity to speak."
But I do want those wonderful qualities of mine to step into the background occasionally. I find it thrilling, arousing, to have all thoughts of how sweet or smart I am fly out the window because of an all consuming sexual desire. Perhaps this is because I have always felt pretty, not sexy. Perhaps it is because I have always felt body conscious. But there is something about when someone turns to me with that heat in the eyes that makes me tingle all over.
Even when I'm not attracted to that person, I'll find myself doing little things to keep up the crush. I'll dress nicer, keep up my makeup, make an effort. My smiles are a little slower, my eyes a little warmer, my blouse a little more low cut.
Is it teasing? Is it wrong? Am I not supposed to do it? I've never really seen the problem in looking my best. As long as I'm not flirting I don't feel like I'm leading anyone on. I'm careful to not give the wrong impression, careful to not say anything that would be interpreted as interested in a date, but I'm a flirtatious person by normally, so I have to cut back and I can't say I've never accidentally slipped. What do you think? Is the body language too much? Am I being unfair to the other person?
Am I, in turn, objectifying/using someone else as he/she/z sexualizes me, in order to boost my own self esteem? Do you think this is a better or worse form of objectification? Do you enjoy when your body is sexualized by strangers, acquaintances, your partner? Or do you prefer that your mental attributes be your sexiest qualities?
Sep 27, 2012
Avoidance
I avoid a lot of things. In face to face conversations I have a hard time admitting my feelings, even if it's just admitting to physical pain like a headache or stubbed toe. When I write my yearly Christmas letter, there are giant elephants dancing across the stationary which I refuse to acknowledge. I won't talk about the man who messes up the family dynamic, even though my extended family is burning with questions about him. Even when I blogged consistently for a whole year, I avoided talking about the girl that broke my heart.
I avoid doing laundry until it's necessary, and same goes for washing my car. I avoid making my bed because, honestly, I'm just going to crawl back in it in a few hours. I avoid important conversations, simmering arguments, anything which I believe will be taxing and a pain in my ass. I avoid it until I absolutely can't anymore, and then it blows up and smooths over and everything is, usually, fine.
So I was really proud of myself this weekend when I stumbled onto a made-for-TV movie on Lifetime called "Girl Positive." I'm not usually a Lifetime movie kind of girl, but this one caught my eye and I couldn't shut it off. The movie stresses the importance of cautious sexual interaction and the reality of HIV among the suburbs and non-risk groups in the US.
When I turned it off, I realized- I'm in my mid-twenties and I've never been tested. Can you believe that? It never seemed quite so insane to me because I've never had intercourse with a man, but after watching that movie- how ignorant could I sound? Like that is the only way to get an STD/I or HIV.
It's not like my sexual education was lacking. My health class taught me all about being safe and staying healthy, but when I came out all possibility of testing positive for anything sort of flew out the window for me. Gay and Lesbian sex was not exactly stressed in the health curriculum in my little Mormon and Catholic town.
But, instead of procrastinating or avoiding, like I would normally do, I called up my local clinic to get a blood test. Now I have to wait. The waiting part sucks. I probably should have stuck with avoidance. But at least once I know, I'll know, and hopefully it'll just be a reassurance- a peace of mind.
When I drafted this post last night I was scared. I had expected to receive a call yesterday, but it was just radio silence. Because we missed yesterday's deadline, I know that because of the clinic and the hours this particular doctor works, I might not get a call until next week. Now I don't feel quite as scared. The chances of me testing positive for anything are so slim that it's not worth worrying about until I know.
I just need to relax and let what happens, happen. I'm sure it'll be fine.
I avoid doing laundry until it's necessary, and same goes for washing my car. I avoid making my bed because, honestly, I'm just going to crawl back in it in a few hours. I avoid important conversations, simmering arguments, anything which I believe will be taxing and a pain in my ass. I avoid it until I absolutely can't anymore, and then it blows up and smooths over and everything is, usually, fine.
So I was really proud of myself this weekend when I stumbled onto a made-for-TV movie on Lifetime called "Girl Positive." I'm not usually a Lifetime movie kind of girl, but this one caught my eye and I couldn't shut it off. The movie stresses the importance of cautious sexual interaction and the reality of HIV among the suburbs and non-risk groups in the US.
When I turned it off, I realized- I'm in my mid-twenties and I've never been tested. Can you believe that? It never seemed quite so insane to me because I've never had intercourse with a man, but after watching that movie- how ignorant could I sound? Like that is the only way to get an STD/I or HIV.
It's not like my sexual education was lacking. My health class taught me all about being safe and staying healthy, but when I came out all possibility of testing positive for anything sort of flew out the window for me. Gay and Lesbian sex was not exactly stressed in the health curriculum in my little Mormon and Catholic town.
But, instead of procrastinating or avoiding, like I would normally do, I called up my local clinic to get a blood test. Now I have to wait. The waiting part sucks. I probably should have stuck with avoidance. But at least once I know, I'll know, and hopefully it'll just be a reassurance- a peace of mind.
When I drafted this post last night I was scared. I had expected to receive a call yesterday, but it was just radio silence. Because we missed yesterday's deadline, I know that because of the clinic and the hours this particular doctor works, I might not get a call until next week. Now I don't feel quite as scared. The chances of me testing positive for anything are so slim that it's not worth worrying about until I know.
I just need to relax and let what happens, happen. I'm sure it'll be fine.
Sep 24, 2012
Awakening
I dated boys for many years. It started when I was 12. When I was 13 I was dating a 16 year old, but he was my best friend, and very gay. He was the best boyfriend I've ever had. When I was 14, I had a "friend with benefits" open my eyes to the underbelly of the internet that the school had blocked. Oh my God, girls could do that? To each other? Obviously, he found it hot, but I don't think he expected it to turn me on so much. Whatever got me in the mood, though, so he soothed me, convinced me it was absolutely normal for straight girls to feel aroused by it as he palmed his way under my shirt.
I will be forever grateful to him for showing me the true use of computers.
However, it was with this way of thinking that I spent my high school years. I was in unsatisfactory relationships, seeking adrenaline rushes, boyfriends, affairs, and taboos to feed this sexual void in me. I couldn't figure out what was missing. And then I slowly began to wake up.
m:2, we'll call her Mary, was my first girl crush that had me thinking sexual thoughts. I was in year 12, so ready to be done with high school, and she was a grade below myself. She had curly black hair (do you see a trend?) that was always in a ponytail, and a huge silver guitar for a belt buckle. She rocked out on it with headphones over her ears like she was practicing for a garage band. She wore jeans and pullovers and the skater sneakers that make your feet look huge.
She was funny. She had a dry humor, a sarcastic wit, and her responses were lightning fast. Her brown eyes could swallow you. She never really smiled -it was always more of a half smirk, but that fit her perfectly.
At the time, I was convinced that I did not have a crush on her. Me? Gay? No way. I went to school with lesbians, I was friends with lesbians, I was part of the GSA. I'd heard them all talk, when you're gay you know it all the way from when you're a kid.
I remember the first time Mary hugged me. There was skin to skin contact and it was a long time before I let her go. No boy had ever made me want to hug him like that. She smelled wonderful and her body fit along mine like we were two halves of the same whole. I fantasized about hugging her, kissing her, seeing her without her sweatshirt. We went on this school trip and stayed at a hotel, and when we all went swimming she had the most amazing body. Her arms were like woah. But of course that didn't mean that I was gay. As my feelings grew I passed them off as a fluke, a one time thing with just one girl. It helped that Mary wasn't gay, so what was the point of trying to talk to her about it?
I graduated, and found out two months later that she came out and was identifying strongly as a butch lesbian. Way to go, me.
I started college that fall. Again, I found myself crushing on a girl. Luckily, m:3 (I'm realizing that I like a lot of girls whose names start with M) was not the girl I was sharing a room with. My roommate and I got along well enough. m:3 had the room next to ours, and she was something else. She was slightly taller than me and much curvier. She was gorgeous. We traded clothes, dresses, makeup. We hugged all the time or snuggled on the couch together under a blanket watching TV. She would curl into my arms and beg me to play with her hair and it was so long and beautiful and felt like silk between my fingers. We sometimes cuddled and fell asleep in the same bed or on the couch, but she was firmly straight, so I couldn't possibly think of her that way at all.
We started having crushes on the same guy, and I realized that I was jealous. I didn't want them to date because then she wouldn't be spending time with me or cuddling with me. I never had dreams about kissing her, never thought of having sex with her, but I craved skin to skin contact. She was so soft, so smooth, so warm that I snuggled up to her like a cat. I was happy just being next to her, sleeping beside her.
I went nine months in silence, not thinking that I liked her in a lesbian way, but I knew something about my feelings for her was different. She graduated and moved away after I let my jealousy get the better of me. She refused to speak to me and I was crushed. Soon after, the summer of my life stormed in like a hurricane.
It began with Patty: she was a very short, curvy thing with gorgeous black hair and dark eyes. She had an attitude that was so strong, confident, sexy. I couldn't take my eyes off her. After m:3, I was a little wary about all of my wonky feelings around girls and I wasn't about to get heartbroken again. I befriended Patty quickly during our shifts together at work, and her laugh was extraordinary. She taunted boys and girls both with her bountiful assets, but I couldn't get a read on her. Would she be offended if I asked her out?
She was constantly teasing the lesbian girl who worked with us. I knew her vaguely- she had been infatuated with m:3 and made her extremely uncomfortable, but Patty didn't seem so uncomfortable, so maybe she'd be open to the idea. I remembered that m:3 was no longer talking to me and I decided I'd be damned if I let another girl slip away.
We were joking one day at work and I tried to be casual about it. "So, Patty, you want to go out on a date sometime?"
"Tabby, you're such a charmer!" she laughed. "Ran out of cute guys to ask?"
"You're prettier than they are," I threw out the compliment unabashedly, but she laughed and took a sip of her water. "God, I wish more people were as sweet as you," she said and walked out.
I sighed and leaned my head back against the wall. She thought I was joking. She thought I was super sweet, which was great, but also that I was straight and joking.
That night I went out to a party, got drunk, and made out with a boy. It was wholly unsatisfying. The next week, Patty began dating the lesbian girl from work. Shit.
I will be forever grateful to him for showing me the true use of computers.
However, it was with this way of thinking that I spent my high school years. I was in unsatisfactory relationships, seeking adrenaline rushes, boyfriends, affairs, and taboos to feed this sexual void in me. I couldn't figure out what was missing. And then I slowly began to wake up.
m:2, we'll call her Mary, was my first girl crush that had me thinking sexual thoughts. I was in year 12, so ready to be done with high school, and she was a grade below myself. She had curly black hair (do you see a trend?) that was always in a ponytail, and a huge silver guitar for a belt buckle. She rocked out on it with headphones over her ears like she was practicing for a garage band. She wore jeans and pullovers and the skater sneakers that make your feet look huge.
She was funny. She had a dry humor, a sarcastic wit, and her responses were lightning fast. Her brown eyes could swallow you. She never really smiled -it was always more of a half smirk, but that fit her perfectly.
At the time, I was convinced that I did not have a crush on her. Me? Gay? No way. I went to school with lesbians, I was friends with lesbians, I was part of the GSA. I'd heard them all talk, when you're gay you know it all the way from when you're a kid.
I remember the first time Mary hugged me. There was skin to skin contact and it was a long time before I let her go. No boy had ever made me want to hug him like that. She smelled wonderful and her body fit along mine like we were two halves of the same whole. I fantasized about hugging her, kissing her, seeing her without her sweatshirt. We went on this school trip and stayed at a hotel, and when we all went swimming she had the most amazing body. Her arms were like woah. But of course that didn't mean that I was gay. As my feelings grew I passed them off as a fluke, a one time thing with just one girl. It helped that Mary wasn't gay, so what was the point of trying to talk to her about it?
I graduated, and found out two months later that she came out and was identifying strongly as a butch lesbian. Way to go, me.
I started college that fall. Again, I found myself crushing on a girl. Luckily, m:3 (I'm realizing that I like a lot of girls whose names start with M) was not the girl I was sharing a room with. My roommate and I got along well enough. m:3 had the room next to ours, and she was something else. She was slightly taller than me and much curvier. She was gorgeous. We traded clothes, dresses, makeup. We hugged all the time or snuggled on the couch together under a blanket watching TV. She would curl into my arms and beg me to play with her hair and it was so long and beautiful and felt like silk between my fingers. We sometimes cuddled and fell asleep in the same bed or on the couch, but she was firmly straight, so I couldn't possibly think of her that way at all.
We started having crushes on the same guy, and I realized that I was jealous. I didn't want them to date because then she wouldn't be spending time with me or cuddling with me. I never had dreams about kissing her, never thought of having sex with her, but I craved skin to skin contact. She was so soft, so smooth, so warm that I snuggled up to her like a cat. I was happy just being next to her, sleeping beside her.
I went nine months in silence, not thinking that I liked her in a lesbian way, but I knew something about my feelings for her was different. She graduated and moved away after I let my jealousy get the better of me. She refused to speak to me and I was crushed. Soon after, the summer of my life stormed in like a hurricane.
It began with Patty: she was a very short, curvy thing with gorgeous black hair and dark eyes. She had an attitude that was so strong, confident, sexy. I couldn't take my eyes off her. After m:3, I was a little wary about all of my wonky feelings around girls and I wasn't about to get heartbroken again. I befriended Patty quickly during our shifts together at work, and her laugh was extraordinary. She taunted boys and girls both with her bountiful assets, but I couldn't get a read on her. Would she be offended if I asked her out?
She was constantly teasing the lesbian girl who worked with us. I knew her vaguely- she had been infatuated with m:3 and made her extremely uncomfortable, but Patty didn't seem so uncomfortable, so maybe she'd be open to the idea. I remembered that m:3 was no longer talking to me and I decided I'd be damned if I let another girl slip away.
We were joking one day at work and I tried to be casual about it. "So, Patty, you want to go out on a date sometime?"
"Tabby, you're such a charmer!" she laughed. "Ran out of cute guys to ask?"
"You're prettier than they are," I threw out the compliment unabashedly, but she laughed and took a sip of her water. "God, I wish more people were as sweet as you," she said and walked out.
I sighed and leaned my head back against the wall. She thought I was joking. She thought I was super sweet, which was great, but also that I was straight and joking.
That night I went out to a party, got drunk, and made out with a boy. It was wholly unsatisfying. The next week, Patty began dating the lesbian girl from work. Shit.
Sep 21, 2012
Stopgaps
Crap. I went away for two years- just stopped writing. I'm so sorry. I don't think that I can do anything or say anything that would make you understand. When I started this blog *gulp* three long years ago, I was still so broken. Every time I tried to write about what was truly eating at me, I couldn't. I put it off and put it off because I was still in love with, still heartbroken over, the first girl to bring down all my barriers.
By starting this blog, I tried to give myself a space to explore all the other things that were going on inside me. All of my daily gender struggles, my issues with my sexuality- I turned to you as a community for strength, guidance and compassion, and I'm thankful for all you've given me.
When I left, I had just had surgery. It was hard for me to eat, physically, and I could feel the old habits of my anorexia creeping back up on me. While I've never been diagnosed or hospitalized, anorexia is never very far from my mind. The opportunity handed to me on a silver platter, to relapse with a perfectly good and unquestionable excuse, was too hard to pass up. I lost forty pounds. I felt amazing. As with all things, it was a cycle. I had to eat eventually and am now back up to my former weight. It's been an interesting two years. I've dated, I've learned, I've grown, I've started to heal, and I think I've become more comfortable with myself.
All those thoughts that were constantly plaguing me about who I was, about labeling myself, have faded into the background. I am who I am and I enjoy the person I've become, for the most part. There are always things I'm going to want to change about myself, but for now I'm not so focused on how I want to be labeled in a relationship or should be labeled. I just act, and let things go from there.
When I started the blog I said I was going to write about being gay, because it was so new and overwhelming that I felt obsessed with it. I feel like it overshadowed all else that I was, and sometimes it still does, but more and more sides of me are stepping into the spotlight, and that's the way I want it to be.
If you'd read my initial post from last night, you know that I had a relationship end. She was a sweet, charming, raunchy girl that made me laugh constantly. I don't know why I let her go, but I think that part of it was that I'm not quite healed. So I've started something that I ached to do a long time ago, but never had the courage or conviction.
I've started writing about first:girl. I feel like I've referred to her enough that I owe you my story, and maybe I owe it to myself to tell it. It doesn't hurt me anymore to think about it. I still occasionally get shivers when I think about her, or feel a warm glow when I remember her smile, but it was four years ago- long enough to feel like it happened to another person. I'm so different now than I was then.
I hope, in telling it, the remnant of longing will disappear, and I can finally shut that door. And perhaps all of you will finally feel like you know me as more than just words on a backlit screen, because every part of who I used to be was wrapped up in her. I want you to know me. I'm so sorry I disappeared, but I'm back and baring my soul for the world.
By starting this blog, I tried to give myself a space to explore all the other things that were going on inside me. All of my daily gender struggles, my issues with my sexuality- I turned to you as a community for strength, guidance and compassion, and I'm thankful for all you've given me.
When I left, I had just had surgery. It was hard for me to eat, physically, and I could feel the old habits of my anorexia creeping back up on me. While I've never been diagnosed or hospitalized, anorexia is never very far from my mind. The opportunity handed to me on a silver platter, to relapse with a perfectly good and unquestionable excuse, was too hard to pass up. I lost forty pounds. I felt amazing. As with all things, it was a cycle. I had to eat eventually and am now back up to my former weight. It's been an interesting two years. I've dated, I've learned, I've grown, I've started to heal, and I think I've become more comfortable with myself.
All those thoughts that were constantly plaguing me about who I was, about labeling myself, have faded into the background. I am who I am and I enjoy the person I've become, for the most part. There are always things I'm going to want to change about myself, but for now I'm not so focused on how I want to be labeled in a relationship or should be labeled. I just act, and let things go from there.
When I started the blog I said I was going to write about being gay, because it was so new and overwhelming that I felt obsessed with it. I feel like it overshadowed all else that I was, and sometimes it still does, but more and more sides of me are stepping into the spotlight, and that's the way I want it to be.
If you'd read my initial post from last night, you know that I had a relationship end. She was a sweet, charming, raunchy girl that made me laugh constantly. I don't know why I let her go, but I think that part of it was that I'm not quite healed. So I've started something that I ached to do a long time ago, but never had the courage or conviction.
I've started writing about first:girl. I feel like I've referred to her enough that I owe you my story, and maybe I owe it to myself to tell it. It doesn't hurt me anymore to think about it. I still occasionally get shivers when I think about her, or feel a warm glow when I remember her smile, but it was four years ago- long enough to feel like it happened to another person. I'm so different now than I was then.
I hope, in telling it, the remnant of longing will disappear, and I can finally shut that door. And perhaps all of you will finally feel like you know me as more than just words on a backlit screen, because every part of who I used to be was wrapped up in her. I want you to know me. I'm so sorry I disappeared, but I'm back and baring my soul for the world.
Sep 20, 2012
The Lightning Effect
I know I haven't blogged in forever, and I know no one even reads this anymore, but I couldn't possibly write this on Facebook, and I have to get it out somewhere, so this is my chosen place.
How many times have you thought you let the love of your life walk out the door? Do I let go too easily? Do I fall in love too easily?
Maybe I have such a vivid imagination that when I see her, when I find her, I can see our whole life like "BOOM!" It's just there. I know her. From one look, one glance, I'm hers and she's mine. And it happens over and over again- this lightning phenomenon.
I'm never disappointed in her when this happens to me. I never want to leave, never want to break it off, but the moment she starts to back out, I don't fight for her either, and that's the part I can't seem to figure out.
Do I feel like I don't deserve her? Am I waiting to become a better person? What if I never become a better person? What if I just let a beautiful British redhead walk away from me and I'm never going to see her, touch her, feel her, ever again?
Every time I've locked eyes with someone and felt this thing, this indescribable click in my chest like I'm finally whole- when that person leaves I feel like they were the person I was meant to be with. But then it happens again a few years later. It happened to both of my brothers, but only once for each of them. They married that girl. It's never happened to them again. So what happened to my wiring?
Maybe I'm afraid I'm going to fight for her, only to get bored and leave her later. Maybe I'm afraid of missing out on something better later. Or maybe I'm afraid that if I get in too deep I'll be utterly heartbroken like the first time I fell in love unguarded.
Her laugh was absolutely beautiful.
How many times have you thought you let the love of your life walk out the door? Do I let go too easily? Do I fall in love too easily?
Maybe I have such a vivid imagination that when I see her, when I find her, I can see our whole life like "BOOM!" It's just there. I know her. From one look, one glance, I'm hers and she's mine. And it happens over and over again- this lightning phenomenon.
I'm never disappointed in her when this happens to me. I never want to leave, never want to break it off, but the moment she starts to back out, I don't fight for her either, and that's the part I can't seem to figure out.
Do I feel like I don't deserve her? Am I waiting to become a better person? What if I never become a better person? What if I just let a beautiful British redhead walk away from me and I'm never going to see her, touch her, feel her, ever again?
Every time I've locked eyes with someone and felt this thing, this indescribable click in my chest like I'm finally whole- when that person leaves I feel like they were the person I was meant to be with. But then it happens again a few years later. It happened to both of my brothers, but only once for each of them. They married that girl. It's never happened to them again. So what happened to my wiring?
Maybe I'm afraid I'm going to fight for her, only to get bored and leave her later. Maybe I'm afraid of missing out on something better later. Or maybe I'm afraid that if I get in too deep I'll be utterly heartbroken like the first time I fell in love unguarded.
Her laugh was absolutely beautiful.
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