A picture of yourself is like a version of who you think you are.
This is me.
I’ve had a lot of trouble trying to explain and prove to myself who I am. Sometimes it’s even hard to tell ourselves who we think we are. Being to me, has at this moment left me speechless. I’ve spent a great deal of time telling myself that people are like nuclei; you’ve got to be a whole, fully functioning member with a semi-permissible membrane in order to co-exist in a relationship of any level. The center being the DNA, the declaration of your distinct separation. To ensure you’ve got all your gathering around you to make this sense of being continue to tick, it can’t collapse with any other atoms out there.
I’m at a point in my romantic relationship that it seems my defensive membranes have collapsed. And there is no way to go about this without getting side tracked because when you talk emotions, you talk about this whole spectrum. Talking about yourself, especially to an anonymous internet audience, makes you want to explain yourself. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe that’s just another part of me that wants you to think you know who I am when I don’t.
I am sexual. I am sensual. I am free.
These sketches were some of my favorites in my pastime to create something aesthetic with my own hands – like metaphorically it would help me add that onto myself. That idea hasn’t quite caught, but they at the least serve to speak without words.
In my previous post, I spoke about how debilitating it may be for someone you’re in a romantic relationship with recommend you to see a therapist. It’s not the intention that is offensive, but the certain underlay tone of writing off somebody because you simply don’t know how to help them. This happens for a lot of people I’ve known. It is certainly difficult to be in a faultless and seemingly helpless situation with someone who is most apparently asking you for help, but has no way to offer instructions. A small part of me was devastated that the consistent stigma with therapeutic counselling appeared convincingly in my mind to strip away my sexuality.
For many women out there, our sexuality has been throughout history decidedly been our favorable contingency. My sexuality was something that I have harvested and come to embrace significantly overtime. It was something that I could offer, rather than the only thing. A part of me that I saw beauty in. And that would appeal to only a specific part because in the midst of trying to figure out who I am, I found that I am also still the me who found herself laying the same old scar atop another. Rocking on my heels and trying to catch that breath. Red. No one tells you how guilty you feel, not when you’re trying to ask for help – not looking in your mother’s eyes, trying to explain unfathomable thoughts of how much you have always thought yourself as ugly. Ugly in a pungent deep unseated root feeling of unease and of being soiled. I watched her tear up because she couldn’t begin to understand how long standing these ideas had been in my head and a dull thought relayed itself to me that I really should not be thinking like this.
That these two sides could find a place within me is baffling to be sure. Then I picked up a book at a local Indigo and read in the summary that women today are taught since young that they need to suppress their anger and desires, particularly to learn to abhor the signal of a hysteric. That 1 in 4 tries to quell their innate oscillation of emotions with prescription medication (also another subject I had touched on) when really we should be empowered by this empathetic ability. I think about this now while trying to digest the decision I’ve come to this evening about ending my relationship and ask myself whether I am making the right choice. So caught up in the delivery, I’m afraid I won’t have the guts to stand up to them should he challenge it – if that’s even what I would want.
And perhaps to a lot of you out there, this is a small thing. Certainly it hasn’t been all that long, and with another issue, not that serious. I look at myself and kind of don’t know what I see when we’ve been told and taught so many ways to look at things. I took a peak into my phone photos and see the many pictures I had taken of him just a few days prior and interrogate myself unfairly again whether I am really out of giving second chances. Whether I’m really just scared to be myself again; when you’re not being brave or happy or attempt to be beautiful for somebody else. Perhaps another innate born syndrome we’ve specially developed was this rather dumb martyrdom reasoning to only feel good and be capable on behalf of others. As if it isn’t time we ought to have developed a better sense of self.
In talking to my mom she said, “You obviously like this man more than he likes you, and you have tried to give yourself to him, and if he won’t take it then it’s his loss. But Sarah, listen to this, your emotions towards him is a beautiful thing, it means you have a big heart, and there is absolutely nothing to be at loss for in that particular sense.”
Strictly speaking because she is my mom, I will believe her and see the beauty in that. And I do. I have loved every minute of caring for someone else and thinking of how to surprise them next and make them feel special. I plan gifts to the lengths where my girlfriends suggest I be their boyfriend instead because whoever this guy is, he must be fucking lucky. I guess he was.
Within reason, I know I will be okay. As all things pass, this too shall pass. In the meanwhile, I guess I’ll figure it out somehow, get back to myself again.