I really thought, posting that last little rant of mine, that nobody would read it. Actually, I figured some people would read it, and that one person, maybe two, would understand what I was talking about. I assumed the rest would leave shaking their heads wondering what ever happened to the sweet littlegirlyone, thinking that I’d gone mad.
How wonderful and refreshing it was to get so many comments, and all of them in the vein of I understand; I get it; I have felt this, been there, done that; I support you; and importantly: You are not crazy.
I should know better than to underestimate you all by now.
I want to first say thank you. Thank you, thank you for reading me here, for hearing me, for understanding me, and for witnessing my struggle to become something, someone, new.
It’s terrifying here, knowing that I can’t go backward and that I don’t know how to move forward because I don’t know what I want to be instead. I feel confident that eventually, this is going to be an improvement, and lead me to a more authentic self. But right now, it is mostly hard and frightening to be sure of what I don’t want and have no idea what I desire.
As a few of you pointed out, I’m not a little girl any more. I’m going to need a new handle, and a new blog and a new tumblr. I’m going to need to start again, and I’m not ready to make those decisions yet. So I’ll stay here for now. But I’m ready to make space for her– the one I don’t know yet. I’m ready to meet her when she comes.
It’s funny, because I never thought I’d grow out of being little. I was sure that this little girl thing was innate. I used to worry about what would happen if I ever had children, if they were girls, if my husband became someone’s biological “Daddy.” I thought I’d struggle with this for the rest of my life, and I pictured myself, sometimes full of loathing, unable to get off without being someone’s little girl. Most of the time, that future made me feel sad. It just seemed so limited and unfair.
I shook free of that vision of myself. I don’t think I’ve eviscerated the littlegirly-ness of me entirely. I don’t think I even want to do that. I just don’t think it’s as deep, as limiting, all-encompassing, and sexuality-defining as I used to. I am relieved; I am also sad and scared and as lost as I’ve ever felt. But I don’t feel little. And while that’s a bit strange, it’s a nice piece of growth. I feel 30 years old, and full of promise. I feel like soon, very soon, I will be a lady. Maybe even a woman. Fascinating to me that these words still flow awkwardly out the tips of my fingers. Me. Lady. Woman. Adult. I still can’t believe that I get to be that.
I used to run into that Anais Nin quote all over the blogosphere. You know the one: And the time came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. I think I first encountered that quote as a a teenager. I thought that it was sweet, and assumed it spoke to people who didn’t know much about their sexual identity, and who eventually, one day, realized that maybe they were kinky or queer or some other alternative sexuality. I didn’t think that was my path; I thought I knew who I was, and what I wanted. I’d accepted that I was kinky and bisexual and a whole slew of alternative things. I grew up in San Francisco — I thought I was born blossomed.
That quote has returned to me, only this time, I relate to it. It’s funny how I thought I had blossomed, and really, I was in the tightest, smallest, closest little bud imaginable. I wanted someone to tell me who I was, what to want, what to wear, what to eat, how to live. No, I needed it. And that wasn’t fake; that’s actually who I was. That was as authentic and honest and vulnerable as I knew how to be.
I don’t think the rosebud knows that it’s restrained; the rosebud only knows that it’s grown from a seed to this, and that this is growth. I couldn’t conceive of a bigger space, taking up more room, when this tiny space had worked just fine, and it was the biggest space I knew.
And now that place feels impossibly cramped and small and broken. I feel like I pushed the first petals out of my green pod, and I’m going to end up blossomed and full — some color that I don’t even know the name of yet. And I can’t go backwards. I mean, you can’t unblossom. But blossoming into the unknown is terrifying. The pod was home. This? This is I don’t know where.
This is the place where I get to define who I am, what I want, what I wear and eat and how I love and what my sex looks like. I’ve shoved all of the things I thought I liked out of the “who I am box”, as David put it in his comments. Now I have, pardon the pun, an empty box. I don’t know what I like anymore. I don’t know what gets me off. I feel strangely virginal and alien to myself. I guess because my sexuality is something I need to figure out. I mean, it’s not necessarily urgent, but I do feel the vacuum around that place in me, and I miss having things there.
I tried to get off last night before bed. For the first time in weeks, I tried to masturbate. For a long time, for most of my adult life, this was a habit, almost nightly, and the orgasms came as easily as my sleep did afterward. Effortless. Last night was work. I was determined to get myself off. I lay against the Hitachi and flipped through every possible image, thought, story, idea, anything I’ve found remotely sexy lately. None of them worked. I tried all my old fantasies, and none of them worked either. I felt angry again. Fury built inside me, along with frustration. I let everyone else tell me what this was, how I did this, what it meant. And God, I was so pissed about that. This is my body. This is my orgasm. This is fucking mine.
And just like that, I came. And it was sweet, like a wave breaking. Familiar and relaxing. My old friend. But I came speaking aloud to the empty bedroom, saying something like: this is fucking mine. No stories, no pictures, no overtly sexual part of it. Just that: my pleasure is mine. Fucking mine.
So that’s the beginning, I guess. That’s what’s left in my empty box: me. And maybe that’s appropriate, considering I’ve allowed myself to live unseen for so long. Maybe it’s enough right now for me to know that this is my body, my pleasure, my life to live. This is my heart, my breaking, my one chance to live this day. And I am scared. And I am angry. And I am really, deeply grateful.
And I am crying.