I occupy my mind with distractions,
Silencing it with mind-numbing TV and food,
Yet when time comes for bed,
I am overcome by a certain mood.
My nights I now spend fitful,
Racing through cartoon like dreamscapes,
I’ve been denying myself my things,
I think I know why my heart aches.
There’s been this quiet voice,
At first so quiet I could not hear,
But now as I grow stronger,
This voice is at war with my fear.
Deep within the folds of my gyrus,
There’s a little girl lost,
She cries out in desperation,
She has spent too much time cut off.
So there are these quiet thoughts in my mind that, despite always knowing they were there, I have never truly dredged up and acknowledged. These thoughts unsettle me, they are the wind to my sea, causing havoc and mayhem with my stability.
I have been receiving messages from my guides recently, that I have something to tend to from my childhood. Although I am not entirely sure what that is, I have certainly been revisiting it and paying a bit more attention to my inner children; one in particular seems to be getting louder and louder with each passing day, begging to express herself. So here it is. Wow, this is hard.
There is a possibility that I am not interested in men.
To anyone who knows me, this may seem laughable. As someone who is (relatively) open with her sexuality, in that I have for the last five or so years said to anyone who cared to ask that who I’m interested in depends on the person, and isn’t necessarily a man or woman. Yet, as with several things in my life that I have created an identity around; being a stoner, a psychology student, a vegan, a yogi, there are sometimes several layers of false truths that coat the surface of what is True. These coats of thick, lying paint are there for a reason and are there for me to uncover on my souls journey; my metaphorical onion layers so to speak. They are painful to peel.
I lie to myself. I lie to others. I used to lie all the time, and I have improved markedly in the past few years following recovery from Depression, Anxiety and Bulimia, but it is an on-going journey.
I have never really been comfortable with sex, and to be very honest, I’ve never really enjoyed it. I’ve never really been able to break my own barrier that allows me to be myself 100% with another person. I could say I’m waiting for the right person, but that person is actually me.
So I had a one-night stand with this man I know a few weeks ago. We had some awesome conversation, he’s extremely easy on the eyes, and sex with him was… okay. It’s been a while, maybe eight months. So it felt good, it hurt quite a bit, but there was so much lacking. To be honest, I find myself to be quite manipulative when it comes to men. I often treat it as a game. I can only safely say that one man I have felt differently about in my whole life, and he was something so damn special.
I always find that men are just after… sex. Boring. Predictable. Unsatisfying. Lacklustre. Whereas women… Where do I begin? Some of my earliest childhood memories are of playing truth or dare and kissing girls at sleepovers. I remember I got so angry at my then best friend when she brought that up when we were in our teens. I realise in hindsight that when I think of her, I think of her beautiful thighs and cuddling with her in bed, and that that doesn’t constitute a platonic relationship.
I have two other beautiful, amazing, wonderful women in my life (one not so much right now… but that is another story). And with women… It’s different. Because I crave thighs lightly touching under the dinner table, and I love holding hands walking down the street. I love pushing their hair behind their ears when they are passionately talking about something, and I love the tension that crackles with electricity when the talking stops. I love the way they kiss, how they know how to move. I love their hugs, and their beautiful smiles, and their thighs. I love that I do not feel that I have to be anyone else but myself with women, and that they accept that… whereas I find men rather abrasive.
So I guess the scariest thing that I am trying to evade, is not that I love women (because I am very aware of this), but that maybe I don’t like men. I know there is a common thing where people complain ‘bi-sexuals get it easy’. In some respects it’s true I suppose, in others not. Straight masquerading, being able to pretend you’re something you’re not to enjoy hetero-privilege, these are all real things that happen. Real things that happen, such as my not coming out to my parents. Real things that happen, such as me not being ‘out’ at work. Real things that happen, such as not bringing anyone home to my house. Maybe the scary thing is that I lose this… comfort, this tether to the world I grew up in; well-educated, socio-economically well-off, heterosexual, consuming, business oriented, going-to-meet-a-nice-man-buy-a-house-get-married-have-children-be-happy template that was instilled in me… And I’m not like that, and I’ve known that, but what if I’m not like that at all? What if that dream was so false that it isn’t in my destiny?
And there’s this girl… Just last weekend we strolled down the streets at 2am holding hands, went and danced in a random reggae bar laughing our asses off, sat outside a flower shop talking under the eye of the full moon with her in my jacket, went back to her hotel where she laid with her head in my lap and we talked and talked and talked, and I pushed her hair out of her face and I told her I had had feelings for her, and she told me the same, and we hugged for so damn long that our cells communicated comfort, and we kissed hello and goodbye, and I didn’t want to leave because I just wanted to stay there all damn night listening to her talk and laugh and cry.
Ahhhhhhhhh, humbug. I had to get that out of my system.
I am struggling. Best to remind myself that, like veganism, sexuality is a journey that is not necessarily linear…
Blessings to all,