You know how frustrating that answer was to us as children. I feel like that’s the answer I’m getting now. In mild-to-moderate panic about the end of school in May, what I’ll be doing then, what I want to do, and where I want to do it, I’ve been knocking on the Universe’s door, being like, HEY! Throw me a bone here, eh??
Trouble is, the damned Universe has been throwing me a bone. I just don’t like the taste.
I’ve written here before that it’s been indicated to me via multiple meditations that I need to do this work on untangling past sexual trauma before I can move forward, before I can get any further information.
This, makes me mad. Frustrated. Besides the fact that when that information was once again given to me in a meditation about 2 weeks ago, I kicked that information in the shins. I had a right ole’ tantrum about it. WHY?? (She asks again…) Why do I have to do this shit – this uncomfortable, vulnerable, honest, and sad shit. I. don't. want. to. feel. this. I don't want to feel sad. I don't want to acknowledge that I am. I don't want to do this.
I phoned a friend of mine who knows me well and who had done EMDR for a whole year before, and I expressed my frustration. I also told her that this trauma/funky relationship with my sexuality and femininity is kicking me back... She said that I could take all the acting classes I wanted, all the music lessons, and painting classes, but that THIS was the real work. That this, doing this work within myself and with the help of Team Molly, is how I will move forward, and enable any of the rest of that stuff to enter my life, and inhabit it in the way that I really need, and in fact, want, to.
I pout. I say that being sad is for pussies, and I should be over this shit, or rather that so many other people are walking around psychicly limping, how come I have to actually do the work? No fair. >:(
And, yet. I know she's right. Later in that conversation I told her, I do have a choice. This is a choice that I’m making to work through this. Not to “get over it.” To discount it, or to continue to walk as a wounded antelope. My sexuality began wearing a heavy cloak of shame, guilt, fear, and pain almost 20 years ago. I don’t really even know what it looks like anymore. And so, that’s what I’m doing.
I have a vision I sometimes use of a table at which all my disparate parts of self sit. There’s me at the head, and the smart girl, the baker, the Vixen (who is not the same as my sexuality), there’s the goofball, the artist, and sadness who is a recent invite to the table – now that I don’t believe she’ll infect everyone with her sadness. There’s gentility. All of these parts of me and more sit at the table, and I’ve been gathering them from the far corners for a few years, and there are too those who were never banished from the table or had to hide or escape.
Then, there’s sexuality. Mired in her leaden cloak, like the kind you wear in the dental office when taking x-rays. I didn’t actually know until recently that all those emotions she’s wearing are not a legitimate part of her. That shame and sexuality are in fact mutually exclusive, and that … they can part ways.
She’s somewhere outside of the house where the table is at the moment. Somewhere in the woods perhaps, in this sodden cloak, which she is now, I am now recognizing is removable.
I look forward to meeting her. I imagine that she has a lot to teach me and show me. I told another person recently that I believe that eventually she’ll sit on my right side up at the head of the table – she’s that important and that potent. That does not mean that there’ll be rampant sex – that’s much of what saddled her in guilt and shame to begin with – but that the power that comes from owning my body as well as my voice. The power that comes from owning my boundaries and my needs - and really really speaking up for them. The power that will come with the kindness and mutuality and trust. The power that comes from sexuality’s creative bent.
The chakra that is associated with creation is located in the area of the reproductive organs. This area produces life in the literal sense, and life in the metaphoric sense. This is a way in which I have been cut off from my own ability to create, to own voice, to know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with my life, now, after May, hereafter. Of course I can’t know yet. All the information is still tucked away in this miasma of trauma and grief.
So, as I was once again informed this morning in my meditation upon asking, “BUT WAIT!! WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO??? WHAT DO I NEED TO DO NEXT TO MOVE FORWARD??”, I need to do exactly what I’m doing: feel sad, have tantrums, cry in my bathrobe, watch Pixar's entire catalogue, listen to friends, admit what's really going on, and to let myself become fully and usefully whole.