I have a lot of sexual energy.
There. I said it. It’s done. No big whup. Just how it is.
I always have.
I have always felt ashamed of it, trying desperately to repress and hide it.
Although, not very well.
Maybe, just maybe, when I was 16 dating a 23-year-old young man, there was nothing wrong with that?
Maybe he was the only man that could meet my blossoming inquisitive needs?
Lord knows I tried with boys my age and what a disappointment that was.
I spoke to the 23-year-old years later, with anger in my voice, asking him how he would feel if his 16-year-old daughter had the kind of sex with a 23-year-old young man that we had.
His answer, “She’s not you. You, were something else entirely.”
I took offense at the time.
Now, not so much.
Suddenly I feel a little proud of my sexual energy.
Something is waking up inside of me, and it’s changing my story.
I was called a slut.
By my step-father.
I was very promiscuous in High School.
I sought connection with the desperation of a drowning man.
Lacking attachment to my primary caregiver gave me an intensity few could match.
Combine that with teeming hormonal energy and booze and it is combustible and misunderstood.
Shame-based is what I became.
I had sex for the first time when I was 13, and he was 19. It sucked. Big time.
It was not rape in the traditional sense of the word since I did not resist him in any tangible way. But I did whisper NO at one point. He didn’t hear me. And I lost that word forever.
I was way too young. I was way too curious.
I was hyper-sexualized in my home.
This was the result.
In therapy today, after practicing embracing all aspects of myself, it occurred to me that I could if I chose to, forgive that little 13-year-old girl. I could let her off the hook. I could see her differently.
I could see my entire history differently if I wanted to.
Boy, do I want to.
Change your life, change your mind.
I wish it were that easy.
I am about to sleep next to my husband for the last time. He leaves tomorrow to stay at his ex-girlfriends house until his new apartment is ready.
The fact that he is snoring loudly while I write this makes me feel far less sentimental.
But I still feel.
He told me yesterday that he was sad about our separation and grateful that I would always be in his life.
I wondered if he might have a soul after all.
But then he compared it to how deeply he feels about his Ex- and could I understand now, why she was so important to him?
I could not.
She did not carry his child in her belly for nine months, and then push it out of her vagina.
Neither did she marry him in a court of law.
She lived with him for a few years.
They bought a dog together.
A fucking dog.
I am raising his child.
I hate them both.
My passive aggression doesn’t feel so passive anymore.