Let go. #reverb10

Day 5 Prompt – Let Go. What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why? (Prompt Author: Alice Bradley)

Not too terribly recently (but not so long ago) something pierced my heart, and in fearful defense, I locked her away in a heavy cage.

I held on to anger.

I let fear and doubt grow strong and high, in thorny bush and tangling brambles.  I saw the deadly brush thriving, and turned my eye, rather than cutting it down, as I should.  It grew thicker and tighter around the cage of my heart until almost no light could break through.  The more time passed, the less I even noticed it.

Her wounds too painful to see, even through the dense and thorny vines, I did not visit.  With no warmth from another allowed through the thick canopy I had allowed to flourish, she grew colder, ever colder.  No longer feasting on love (she deserved), comfort (she desired), the heart inside me grew weak, famished.  She beat dimly for a great time; my body kept grinding mechanically through the motions of necessary life.

So hungry was she that, when something found its way through the tangling cover to her living tomb, she questioned it not, but absorbed it fully, wanting to consume, to be warmed.  A fine and lovely trickery, this black ink was, but not the warmth she needed.  And where had I been?  It was my job to protect her, and I allowed her to be exposed to this clever poison.

Only when forcibly lead through the darkness by another was I able to realize how absent I had been, what I had relinquished so easily.  He gave me the strength I needed to bring down those brambles and vines, though the process was painful, and many thorns drew blood from us both.

I am excellent at building cages, walls.  I am a great grower of the thorny vine.  I hold tight to anger. I harbor fear.

I’ve struggled with being truly loved.  I’ve allowed circumstances to make me doubt it possible.  That is changing in me.

I have slowly, this year, let go of the fear of being loved.

And it is warm in this light.

Reverb 10 is an annual event and online initiative to reflect on your year and manifest what’s next. Use the end of your year as an opportunity to reflect on what’s happened, and to send out reverberations for the year ahead.

so wise, the moon

In a lonely backyard under a full moon
weeks of untamed grasses
tickle the bottoms of bare feet

wind chimes usually soft and melodious
sing out furiously, keeping time with the
stinging breath of a riling wind

while goosebumps break the skin
unprotected by sleeves of any kind tonight
a chin tilts skyward; hair whips madly

clouds up above that might otherwise linger
on a warmer, more lazy night
rush by overheard now

hurry hurry hurry
the wind is chasing at them
biting their heels, anxiously

lips part in a lack of self awareness
arms hang at sides, uselessly
eyes widen, taking it in, lost in the clouds

they seem to cover the sky
but for spaces of black ink in patches
large and small, leaked from some large well

and puffy thick here, thin and wan there
they flow, flit, fly by
racing past the moon

the orb burns bright and wide and round
and doesn’t flinch as each band of cloud
stretches and gallops before it

the glowing eye, stoic and almost aware
instead creates an explosion of color, a rainbow
bursting from nowhere, everywhere, right there on each cloud

lips purse and eyes narrow
then the mouth bends in a crooked smile
gears spin in my mind as my right brow arches

oh to be like the moon -
to brightly color and then chase away
all the fluff that dares to come between you and me.

Space: In terms of family, it’s just a myth.

Today’s Photohunt Theme is “Space”

No matter how much space you have between you and the family members you grew up with, they can reach out and slap you as easily as if they were just whispering in your ear a moment ago.

It’s not just the fact that we are so connected nowadays, though that is what enables it.  But the slap is sharp and quick because they hold a part of you.

No matter how far away from you they are, no matter how long it has been since you have spoken or seen one another, they have the ammunition to bring you to your knees.

They know things that no one else knows.  They are always the quickest to offense and the most equipped to pull you down… and why is it that they always seem to opt to exercise that power when you’re finally lifting your head above your own sordid bullshit?

Many of us have stories that fall into this zone, this space of feeling and emotion.

Sometimes, I just want to stop hearing the ones that play over and over in my head. And I’d like to stop adding new ones to the list.

And if you could successfully edit the reel of memories that plays back inside of you from the past… would you even want to?

Can we appreciate the good times if we don’t have the bad times?

This double edged sword of emotions is piercing my heart today.

Close Your Eyes and Think of England.

Editor’s Note: This is an anonymous guest post from someone who is looking for constructive comments and feedback. Comments are open on this post for your reflection and discussion, to communicate with the author, and to offer your own experiences. There will be ZERO tolerance for rude comments or ridicule. If you do that, I’ll delete your comment, and ban your IP.

You are encouraged to offer feedback. The author is interested in knowing what you have to say.

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I have a problem. It’s something I’ve struggled with all my life. I need help, and I also need to know I’m not the only one. Or am I?

I have no libido. I have no interest in sex at all. I guess a therapist would call me asexual, although somehow I’ve managed to conceive five wonderful children.

By the way, this is not Lotus of  Merry Crotchmas fame. I can’t speak for her but I’m pretty sure she likes sex. I am an anonymous guest writer. For a long time I’ve wanted to write about this issue, but my blog is very public and it doesn’t get much more personal than this.  In fact it borders on pornographic, so if you’re sensitive to that you may not want to read on.

It all started when I was a child. My family is very religious. In order to foster chastity in me, I was indoctrinated not just  to think of sex as something reserved for marriage, but something so disgusting it should be completely avoided. If there was a kissing scene on TV my mother made mock gagging noises, and my parents never kissed or hugged in front of me. I don’t want to sound like some self-involved whiner, but they never hugged me either or told me they loved me, though I know they did. When it was time for sex-ed, my parents had me pulled out of class so I wouldn’t be exposed to it. I learned about sex and periods later from my friends. When I did get my period I slipped a note under my parents’ door to let them know and maxi pads began to materialize in my bathroom. It was never discussed. As an only child I often wished for a sister that I could talk to about it.

At first this repression backfired. I discovered masturbation at an early age, though I didn’t know what it was. I just knew it felt good. Then when I was about ten a friend of mine showed me her stepfather’s dirty magazines, and I was far from repulsed, although in hindsight all that was shown was the female upper body. In junior high I discovered Harlequin Romances, which I had to hide under my mattress, and I marked all the sex scenes so I could reread them whenever I wanted. As I got older, I discovered Cosmopolitan Magazine and memorized every sex tip.

Somehow I made it through high school as the other kind of statistic: the odd kid that didn’t lose her virginity. I didn’t want to be a virgin, but I didn’t want to be a slut either. I’d decided that I wouldn’t go looking for sex, but if it came knocking I wouldn’t turn it down. I was a fairly popular and attractive girl, a cheerleader even, and I did manage to land a boyfriend my senior year. But I was so shy with him I could barely speak in his presence. I was saddened greatly but not at all surprised when he broke up with me after about a month of this.

When I moved on to college, all my friends were having sex. But not me. My virginity was its own chastity belt, enclosing me in a protective bubble. Anyone with a penis dared not approach, however much I wanted them to, and I was too shy to put myself forward.

I reached the age of 20 without ever having been kissed, or even having any idea what a penis looked like. Finally I found another boyfriend. He was someone I worked with. I had my first kiss, and it quickly evolved into full-blown make-out marathons. But nothing more. Oddly enough, John had a small penis complex. I told him I’d never even seen a penis before, but he was afraid to let me see how small it was. I put myself forward as much as I could stand, determined to lose my virginity. One night I even snuck into his bed with a box of condoms, but he wouldn’t have it. A few days after that he broke up with me, he said he wanted a relationship that was about more than sex and that was all I seemed to be interested in. The other guys we worked with were incredulous and rather interested at this news, but I didn’t want to continue working with John after that, so I left that social sphere.

The phenomenon continued. I’d hopefully go on dates, wearing sexy underwear, armed with the knowledge of Cosmopolitan, but my dates seemed to be as shy as I was, waiting for me to take the initiative. And my very conservative upbringing prevented me from taking that initiative.

I finally resolved myself to being single. Of course as soon as I did that, my future husband came on the scene. I was 26 by this time and felt old. Jeff was a known player in my area, but also the only man that was still single. So when he made his move, I went for it. Because of his reputation I was certain it would be a short-lived, sex only relationship, and I was okay with that.

The experience of sex was not at all what Harlequin and Cosmopolitan Magazine had led me to expect. Sweat, hair, breath, sticky saliva, gross noises, after-smells, yuck. The greatest disappointment of all was oral sex. I knew it was supposed to be the greatest thing ever, but as Jeff’s head began to move down my body I became more and more appalled. And then seeing his head there between my thighs, I had never been more mortified in my life. He lifted his head and told me I had the most beautiful vagina he’d ever seen. That only made it worse. I was horrified.  My whole body was tense and I wished he’d just get it over with. As he worked at it my body responded, but my will was stronger. I didn’t like the physical sensations. I didn’t like the idea that I might lose control. I pushed him away.

And then it was my turn. I thought I knew exactly what I was supposed to do, but it was all theoretical. Remember, I’d never even seen a penis before. And there was hair, and smells, and strange alien movements. I gathered my bravado and went for it. But Jeff had also read Cosmopolitan, and had learned that you’re supposed to let your partner know exactly what you want them to do. He wouldn’t stop talking, asking me to do this or do that, use my hands more, go this way, stop this other thing, until I gave up.

I felt like an idiot and a failure. I was supposed to know how to do these things. Isn’t it instinctive? Why did I not find his penis attractive? Why did it, in truth, repulse me?

The logical assumption here is that maybe I was gay. Of course that did occur to me, and I gave the thought a good deal of consideration. But I found female genitalia even more repulsive.  I decided I’d simply placed to many expectations where they didn’t belong, and shouldn’t have assumed I’d be a sex goddess from the start, even though everyone seemed to think it was supposed to work that way.

While the sex was a disappointment to me, it wasn’t to Jeff, and what was supposed to be a physical relationship only developed into something more. We got married, and had a big wedding with all the pomp and frills. I spoke to Jeff about my inhibitions, and he promised to help me try to get past them. He understood that his attempted direction had put me off of oral sex, but I was afraid to tell him that it went beyond that. I didn’t like or want sexual pleasure. I didn’t mind trying to appease his libido, but that’s all it was for me, an appeasement. Because you can’t have a marriage without sex, can you?

When my first son was born, I saw a magazine with an article titled, “Get Your Sex Life Back.” I was thrilled, I thought it would have suggestions on how to increase my libido. Instead it was geared toward women with high libidos, explaining how to work more sex into your schedule. And ever since I have seen this as the general way of things. Women are expected to want to have sex, and to want it often. There’s no help or support for women who don’t fit this description. It makes me feel like a total freak, ashamed and afraid to ask for help.

And now the years have passed, and having five kids with busy schedules has made it all too easy to avoid sex.  I feel horrible about this. My husband deserves more and better.

I know I need help, but I don’t know where that help should come from. Jeff has not tried to help me get over my inhibitions as he said he would, but has been very understanding about my aversions, far more understanding than the majority of men probably would be. I don’t know if this is psychological, a result of my upbringing, or if it might be something as simple as a hormone imbalance. Some might even say that if my experience was broader I might feel differently. Maybe that’s true, but I doubt it.

I wonder if I’m really the only one on the planet that could happily live out my life without ever having sex again. Scientists seem a lot more interested in giving men erections than in making women receptive to them. Maybe there are others out there who are ashamed to come forward, as I certainly have been. But I want to like sex. I want to be that sex goddess I always thought I’d be. But for me, that’s like wanting to be a rock star and yet not even capable of speech.

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