Sunday, December 30, 2007
Object of desire
This is what my body looks like. Oh, that isn't me. But it's the nearest to it that I've ever seen. (I got it from The Adipositivity Project. Awesome pictures.)
I'm not used to having my body be an object of desire. In fact, I can't think of a single time my body has been desired explicitly for itself. Which is not to say I've never been loved. Being loved and being desired are two completely different things. I have been loved, and by extention, I have been desired. Because I was loved. From the love, the desire followed. But no one has ever looked at me and thought, Yes. I want her. Or if they have, they haven't been bold enough to say so.
My head knows there are people out there who genuinely prefer women my size. I know this. I see their websites, I see their magazines, I hear there are parties for them. But I have never meet them.
When I hooked up with the Boy this year, we had sex. It was nice enough, but it wasn't earth moving. He didn't seem all that interested in touching me, or paying attention to my body too much. He wanted to fuck. Which was fine, because so did I. But at a point it seemed to me that he should have really wanted to touch me some more. Tease me some more. We were just fucking, it wasn't a relationship, but it seemed like someone I was sleeping with should be a bit more enthralled with all the parts of my body. He didn't seem too interested when I kissed about his body or touched him either, so it could have simply been a personal preference. But still.
I have always thought that I could certainly find someone who would love me, because I am a rather lovable person. I'm a good partner. I'm smart, funny, caring, loving, protective, etc. But I always thought I'd be loved in spite of my body, not because of it. That there would always be some small part of my partner that was slightly ashamed of being seen with me. That there would be judgement from their family, that I'd have to prove that I was a good match for their loved one, despite my body.
The thought that someone could want my body, could literally be attracted and aroused by it, is new to me. It feels strange. Good, but strange. The thought that I don't have to explain why I'm eating a bowl of ice cream, or a sandwich, or whatever. Even if I've not eaten anything else all day, you know, shouldn't I be working on that body? It's....odd. I like it, but I just....I don't know. I feel strange about it.
You know how sometimes you ask the Universe for things and then it delivers and you don't know what to do with it? Yeah.
Friday, December 28, 2007
I have a regretable, paralysing fear of rejection. Not by most people, but by people I care about. Frankly, I'm ashamed of it. I'm far too old to care too much about what my parents think of me and yet, there it is. On the whole, I have an amazing family. Very loving, very supportive. But there are places where, if you step out of line, well. And I think that often they don't realize how the things they do hurt me. Particularly my mother. Gods, my mother.
An example: Someone mentioned (Lilo? Geo? I don't remember, sorry!) she had dyscalculia . It sounded suspiciously like the problems I've had with math all my life, so I looked it up. And gods help me, but reading that site was like reading a checklist for me. And, while I'm no expert, I'm pretty comfortable in my self-diagnosis. So, over Christmas, I mention this to my Mom. Now, understand, that I was an /excellent/ student in any subject you put in front of me -- except math. I could not, not matter how hard I studied, no matter how much help I had, no matter what I did, I could NOT do math. As it stands, I can barely add. (And no, that's not an exaggeration. Though I wish I it was.) I'm feeling pretty damned relived to find out that ya know, it's entirely possible that I had a learning disablity this entire time.
So, I tell my mom about it. And what does she do? She laughs. Just smirks and shakes her head.
Do you have any idea how awful that made me feel? My entire life I have felt profoundly stupid because of this. I've felt beyond stupid. Like the dumbest person to ever grace the face of the planet. Like one-celled sea slugs was smarter and better and more worthy than me. I literally had fucking panic attacks in college because I was forced to take pre-cal. I didn't get into a gifted boarding school because of my mathematical inability.
And my mother, who has seen all this and should know better, laughed when I said it could have all been caused by a learning disability. Oh, I called her on it and my Dad, bless him, he understood. But my mother has done things like that to me all my life. I don't think she means to. I honestly think she just doesn't think about what she's doing. I mean, she's still in denial about my illness!
And I know, there's the responsiblity to live my own life, for myself, no matter what my decisions mean to my family. I get that. But I just.....I just wish I could be accepted the way I really am, with no judgements or pressure to change. *sigh*
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
I write poems
There is always meaning behind it, Emilie.
These nosegays I give you each morning,
Black and purple pansies with
Yellow stripes for your hands,
Ivy for your hair.
They carry the same meaning as
Your silk nightgown
Crumpled next to the bed
Or the cat that you named that
Sleeps on the couch that
We bought last summer.
All Love is Unrequited
Emily fills me with the light of the universe,
An internal super-nova in her slightest movement.
She is unaware of this,
She only knows that I like her smile
and her new red sundress.
When we talk, sometimes she laughs and
there are rivers in the sound.
White-capped crashings through me,
the waters of rebirth.
But I cannot tell her this.
I can only comment upon the weather
or ask if she's seen the new roses I've planted.
(She does not know I planted them for her).
When Emily walks in my garden,
She brings with her the bees,
The necessities of life.
And I live, in the light of her universe.
My Emilea is a momentary fire goddess,
Able to plunge me to ashes with a glance.
On her lips, daggers are roses
Her kisses are saltwater blessings
From my personal Pele
You write in fragments, she says.
Do you imagine yourself a modern Sappho?
Do you think yourself the eleventh Muse?
I think you lack the grace for the part,
Though you certainly have the passion.
It is true that I am graceless.
In Emili's shadow, swans become albatross,
Wine becomes water and
I am but an artless girl
Whose heart quakes with longing