This is an excerpt from my notes. They are not fixed nor full processes of my thoughts, but they are mine, and every day I try to fully own them.
I feel separate from my body. I feel avoidant and void. When I try to look for myself my body hides, my brain pulls away from the truth and tells me I want more. More food, more sex without love…in fact, sex with hate and anger. More plants to capture. To make me feel more wild when really I am bound. I am self-bound by the chains that my environment has given me with the false hope of grounding. I want to be mired and securely so.
Why do I not want to feel my vagina? Every time I am down there I immediately don’t want to be. It feels dirty, wrong, and a violation of my body. A violation I am doing to myself. Allowing it to happen like all the other times I allowed it to happen. I know I was a child. I know I was manipulated. I know.
But I don’t believe it. Not always. Not when I feel those same feelings of disgust, pleasure, fear, and pain when my lover enters me. When they look at me expecting to find on my face ecstasy but all I feel is nothing.
Nothing and no.
I want to apologize for my malfunctioning.
But my body is not an apology, neither will be my story.
I want to provide you with a reason for all these disjointed memories and mixed signals in the hopes you will return to me.
But I am not damaged goods. I am not a transaction, an item to be weighed, measured, and found wanting in any quantifiable scale that you used to turn away from your own emptiness and syphon mine.
But there are days.
When I can not feel my own fullness.
So I syphon.
Syphon into nothing. I am not even a filter.