Disclaimer: an exorbitance of deep thoughts, perhaps some possible former secrets, and definite over-sharing are to follow. If you're not cool with lady anatomy, spiritual sensuality, a few four letter words, things that feel too much, or candid discussions of mental illness, then have an awesome night and I'll talk to you later about some other stuff, another day. But today, while I'm riding this wave of unadulterated joie de vivre, we're talking about it.
September 3rd, 2014: the day that my V tried to convince me that I am, in fact, a real actual person.
I couldn't have come up with a more feministy sentence in my life, even if I were criss-crossed on a yoga mat on top of the third Flatiron on the front range of the Rockies in Boulder, tweeting about something topical and filled with #womynpower, eating raw organic kale and sipping herbal tea out of a Diva Cup.
But nonetheless, V spoke up today. Her name, I decided some time ago, is Luna (for oh so many reasons) but she hasn't been all that vocal lately, up until now. Now I'll admit, this is a little difficult to explain or write at all, because this is some deep, personal stuff. And you won't be privy to all of the details (because this is pretty much my naked soul we're talking about), but it's worth saying: I think she's tired of, I'm tired of, feeling less than.
Less than human, less than worthless, less than useless.
Sexual trauma is a ridiculous fucking thing. Healing from it is such a wild ride, for which I never really realized I'd signed up until now(ish). It outlasts. Outlasts relationships, outlasts diagnoses, outlasts the time it takes to earn two B.S. (that's Bachelor of Science, not so much bullshit) degrees, at least. It makes me feel so, so behind. Underdeveloped, and shame on shame on shame on shame compounded continuously, without the benefit of a hefty cash-out.
So there's me and my V, cobwebs and all, figuring out how to be 23 (almost 24) and basically, I mean, feeling like I'm already knocking at the grave, wasting time. And while I'm figuring these things out, I'm full of self doubt as per usual. My life is embarrassing. It's obviously also remarkably full of vibrant, wonderful things, but still. Sometimes it's a little embarrassing to be me. I'm insecure about the ways by which I still need to grow; the things that have been restricted by my trauma don't seem to be blossoming into anything worthwhile. And it's been a decade. How much time does a person need?
She needs as much time as she needs. That's how much. And I think that's why my V yelled at me today. "Hey! I work, I exist, I'm real. So are you."
I remain unconvinced. But then again, it's been one hell of a week, because admittedly I've been a little (extremely) unstable (I mean, I'm literally talking to my vagina here. And that's the most sensible thing that has happened.) And truth be told, although right now I am happy, I am so, so scared.
I am afraid of my instabilities and of my tendencies. I don't trust them. I feel out of balance and almost out of options; rather, I'm not sure what my viable options are. And I feel these things so out-of-control intensely that, to carry myself away from the train tracks behind my house, I ended up sprawled out on my friend's (soulmate's, really) daughter's bed on Sunday night...wondering what was going to happen and why for the love of everything had I waited so long to ask for the most minute speck of advocacy?
Advocacy doesn't cost a damn thing. I give it freely. But still, I don't feel entitled to it at all, ever. Nonetheless, it was given to me this week over so many dimensions and in so many ways. My little episode seemed to be bad enough such that lots of people know about it now, but I really don't mind. Instead of feeling like I'm by myself trying to fight these things that I don't understand, I'm surrounded by a network while I'm trying to fight these things that I don't understand. There's a thousand worlds of difference between the two. And I wouldn't have ever taken myself to get this help by myself; I was taken, loudly, by my total soulmate who apparently loves me, loudly.
I love loudly, and people certainly love me loudly as well, carrying pieces of me as I do, them. But this time, it's different somehow. This time, I found a piece of my heart with a person who has the clarity of mind to drag me to get help. She knows exactly, exactly what to say, miraculously. While my heartbeat cries out for comfort, her heartbeat radiates it. She took my scariest nightmare and literally turned it into a Disney movie; something so ridiculous that I didn't even consider a possibility. This horrifying memory I've carried around for a decade that used to make me shut down and feel powerless, will now always make me laugh, because she took that shadow and turned it into a puppet, the goofy kind; something that I can now control.
They don't make thank-you cards for shit like that. But that, ladies and gentlemen, is what it feels like to be incredibly, inexplicably loved. And known, to your core. And loved, even so.
I've often written about the ways by which I haven't been getting what I've needed, and how I don't necessarily know how to find those things. But life gives me the best people. I have, right now, exactly what I need.
This is real life, and this is ridiculous grace. Even though I still have nights during which I'm spent like my paycheck and burned out like my gas tank, I'm not doing this alone anymore. And that's home, for this wanderer. That's home.