MIXED EMOTIONS

Photo taken from Google image

The first time a girl touched me I was twelve, she was fifteen. I was paranoid because I had no explanation as to why a female who touch another in such a manner. For a long time I tried to comprehend what she did and what I felt. Although it happened just that one time I never forget.

While teenage girls were getting in relationship with schoolboy and men I was withdrawn because there were so much confusion going on in my head and body. Worried that someone will figure out I was engrossed by same sex.

 My feelings were my terrorist, even now on occasions.

At times I wonder why she touched me, what is it that she saw? Or was she even like me? Even though we lived closed she never seemed to be on the other side; she appeared straighter than the white lines in the road.

I traced back in my mind to Standard Three when I was completely amazed by my teacher. During the recess and lunch periods I spent most of my time sitting in the class talking to her about all type of trivial things I guess. On mornings I could barely wait to see her grey car drive into the street, I would race to car park to hold her handbag. Ms Springer was also the PE teacher, so whenever the athletes had training sessions I was there helping with the team’s equipment or whatever she needed.

Ms. Springer must have thought I had some potential because I ended up on the reserve team. Mind you I never ran a competitive race in my life. Best year in Primary School.

I loved her eyes; they changed to different shades of brown depending on how the light hit her. I was nine and I remember her as though she is sitting in front of me this very minute.

Wanting that “normal” feeling was elusive.

When I was nineteen I started a six months training program at the Fire Station and there my feelings manifested.  Men will ask me out and I would find every excuse not to become acquainted. Some came to the conclusion I was afraid of men, or maybe I was too sheltered as a child. 

Photo taken from Google image

There was this one co worker Cheryl that held my attention.  Again, I was totally in awe. Of course I never mustered up the courage to say anything.

I lived in this mental chaos. I felt all the “symptoms” of being in love and it did not help that she was very sweet and polite. After that six months work program I must have called her maybe once or twice; then I forced myself to let it go.

I wanted a reason.

Not knowing where to go I searched the newspaper hoping there was an outlet. I called a hotline and spoke to the “shrink “or whoever was on the other end.

It was not a place that dealt with the issue of homosexual but the lady on the other end said I should still visit the center and speak to her face to face. She convinced me I was young and the way I felt would eventually disappear, as sometimes women appreciated the art that is a body’s woman and it does not mean they want to be with each other.

For me I was not appreciating art.

I wanted to be the woman.  Instead she painted a picture that women can not be sexually attracted to other females; so something was definitely wrong with me.

 I managed to hoax myself into the view everything I experienced was in my imagination, it was immoral and unacceptable. It took three years of suppression to not want a woman in that way. 

But I could not erase the memory of the Ms. Springer, Cheryl and the touch of my fifteen year old female neighbor.

At twenty two years, I had my first boyfriend, James. We met at work. I’m not sure how we even started a relationship but I was curious what it felt like to be with a male.

I struggled to connect with him on all levels physically, mentally and sexually. More so, I felt absolutely nothing towards him.

My internal demons fought with my external facade. He detected my remoteness, my lack of interest and came to the conclusion I was being unfaithful. I grew wary of lies and told him, I think I’m gay.

 At first he laughed it off, he then realized I was serious and began cussing; cussing led to a physical altercation, being threatened and sexually violated at knife point then being taken home with a new imp to nurture.

We moved on with our life.

I did not know how to feel. I was not angry, hurt or scarred.

I was numb, completely emotionless. My existent was a tormented stillness.

 Prep crocodile tears!!! I’m far from that.

So, how do I define myself? Human, a woman but sometimes I don’t have the word for it.