5 Days Before Surgery
Before VVS, I was a very sexual person. Sex was both love and art. I was keyed into some of the deepest parts of my soul through sex. I found myself through experimentation. I exorcised demons. I orchestrated long nights of intense pleasure with the skill of a courtesan. I loved and was loved, accidentally broke hearts and had mine broken as well. I enjoyed being desired, I enjoyed desiring others. I loved that connection, that place where desire is both love and lust.
I fought my whole life to get to that place of comfort. I fought against decimated self esteem, strong shyness, and body dysphoria. I fought against thoughts that kept me from feeling like I was desirable or allowed to desire others. I fought to be healthy to myself and happy with myself. I gave myself permission to be beautiful and see it in others.
VVS comes along like a passive aggressive roommate with a chip on its shoulder. The pain was its own issue, but the mental stuff tore me down inside. “Real women don’t have these problems” “you aren’t the goddess you thought you were” “there must be something wrong with you.” The pain never leaves, and one has to figure out what to do with the running dialog bent on convincing one of her faults.
I stopped flirting with people. I stopped dressing sexily. The few times I did, I felt like a liar, like I was merely putting on a costume, the vestige of an old reality that was no longer applicable. I stopped wanting people. I stopped wanting to be wanted.
I lost that connection. Instead of exploration, it was tentative steps. My partner and I got out of sync while relearning my body. And in the meantime, I felt horribly grounded and stuck. That beautiful place where people go during sex, I could not go. I would watch my partner sink into reverie and I would feel like a bird yearning to fly, but tethered to the ground. My ring of fire kept me present, kept me from melting into lovemaking.
And thus this picture is, The Death of Sexy
Next entry: Hysteria