cythewriter: Me + tie dye (Default)
[personal profile] cythewriter
Warning - a lot of navel gazing, and more TMI than you could shake a stick at.

I hit puberty when I was about 9. When I say "hit puberty", I mean "got to the point where I needed to wear a bra". I think that's when my body stopped... fitting, for lack of a better word. I didn't like my new breasts, and I didn't know why, only that they felt like they didn't belong. I hated to look at myself in the mirror without a shirt on, because... well, I don't know why. It didn't look right, didn't feel right. I couldn't put my finger on why, though.

I got my first period a few days after my tenth birthday. It was my tenth birthday party, actually. It was a bit of a shock to me, in all honesty. I was by myself at a bookstore, reading. I had to pee, and, well... there it was. I didn't tell my mother, but I told my friends. I remember I was sleeping in my living room with a sleeping bag, and I was wearing a pair of boxer shorts that had penguins on them as sleep shorts. When I woke up, the penguins had all turned red. My mother found out, of course. It turns out, my friends told her. I honestly don't know why I wanted to keep it a secret from her. Maybe it was to hurt her, in some obscure way, for all the times she'd hurt me. Or maybe it was because I was going by the old "if you ignore it, it will go away", which works ever so well. /sarcasm

When I was 10 years old, in summer camp, I had my first "boyfriend". His name was Martin. He was twelve. He gave me my first kiss, after handing me a book (So You Want to be a Wizard, by Diane Duane). It was the period before lunch, and I remember going up to the salad bar to get... canned pears(?) and my hands were shaking so badly that I dropped the tongs. When I got back from camp, he used to call me on the phone. On one occasion, we ended up engaging in some clumsy phone sex. I went along with it because he wanted it. When he came to visit me, I let him touch me, below the belt. I remember being embarrassed that I was wet. Our cleaning lady knocked on the door, and he pulled his hand out and... I'm not sure. I remember tying my sweater around my waist, as if to hide it.

I was twelve years old when I figured out that I was gay. I got a spam picture of Britney Spears naked, and it left me... excited. Not aroused (I don't think so, at any rate), but bouncing around. I was home alone at the time, and the apartment was empty. I actually asked a few friends about how to get rid of it, but that was more to call attention to it. I've always been an attention whore. I am posting this, after all.

I left Yeshiva when I was 12. I was told... well, honestly, I'm not sure what they told me. But I know that it was made pretty clear that if I was going to be queer, I was going to be quiet. I was told by multiple people that it was wrong of me to think I was queer, because I was too young to know such things. I remember my favorite teacher telling me that most people didn't know these things until they were sixteen or so.

I was kicked out of summer camp that summer, because I brought a porn story from the internet (I wonder if it's still around, actually, I should look that up) and showed it to one of my bunk mates. I didn't have many friends, and I was bullied. I think I wanted to kill myself, but I'm not sure. They sent me to the Health Center, and I overshared, so that I was forced to wait for my parents to pick me up at a table. I read a book about a girl who (somehow) ended up with a cult. I think they were bible thumpers, although I'm not entirely sure.

That summer, I met Roger. I met him at a bookstore, the one I still frequent. We met at the journal section, and it ended up with him buying me something to drink in the cafe section of the store. We talked and we walked, and he treated me like an adult. I was wearing a red shirt and denim shorts, and I remember sandals, because I had a wart on my toe, which I've still got. I went to the beach with my parents that weekend, and I got sunburnt. I remember that. I remember that I gave Roger my phone number, and he called. I mentioned my sunburn, and he said he'd have to "lotion me up". He came to visit me, and he was in my bedroom. He gave me a backrub, and then I rolled over, and he was playing with my breasts. I remember he sucked on my nipples, and I remember I was wearing white panties with blue flowers.

He was the first person to really show me sexual stuff. I have a memory of standing in the stairwell of my building (which became a common place for trysts) and leaning against him. He was playing with me, telling me the way to masturbate was to play with my clit. I remember it felt good, but not much else. I was in love with him. He came to visit me a few times, after that. During the blackout, we were wandering around the park. He wanted to fuck me, but I said no, not until I was 16. I still remember what he looked like, sort of. He popped in and out of my life - the last time I saw him, it was the summer I was going into 9th grade. I haven't heard a thing about him since then.

There were a bunch of other guys, but in an effort to keep this from becoming nothing but my adventures as a slut (and because frankly, there's some stuff that's incriminating and got me into a lot of trouble at the time), I'll skip it.

When I was 15, I was raped. I say I was raped, even if it didn't "count" as rape, because he used his fingers, because I didn't say no and didn't press charges until several years later. I trusted him, and he took advantage of it. I don't know why he did it, honestly. I trusted him like a father. I trusted him to the point of taking my shirt off without thinking he would do anything. I miss that. I miss the fact that I had someone to turn to who I wasn't related to, who I could trust like that. A part of me says it wasn't my fault, because a part of me knew what he was going to do (I was at least a bit aroused, and part of me said that "hey, sex is good!"), until it actually happened, because I let him take my pants off, and then it just... went downhill from there. I wobble between "was it rape?" and "am I sure I didn't like it?", but I have panic attacks when I can remember the feel of his hands, and at the moment, in the semi-emotionless state that I'm in, I can't entirely judge my thoughts.

I don't remember when my mother started to hurt me. When I was about 5, she took my left wrist and twisted it. I remember my dad taking me to the park, and I was shaking and crying, and he had a bottle of Snapple. I remember my head hurting, from her banging it into the wall. I don't remember any of the actual hurts happening, but I guess that's expected. I know that it's made me nervous, and it's made me hate her. I love her, but I hate her. Today, even, at 19, when she hasn't hurt me physically in a very long time, she faked a hit to my head, and I flinched.

I've been diagnosed with PTSD by a friend of mine, and I've looked up a lot of the symptoms. Yeah, I'm not "officially diagnosed", but at least part of an official diagnoses of PTSD is a confirmation by a family member, and I can't exactly have my mother confirm that she beat the ever loving shit out of me. I confronted her about it, a few years ago, and she claimed that she only ever lightly disciplined me. I wish that she would admit to it, but I don't think she ever will. There is a piece of me that will always long for her approval, but another piece of me will always hate her. I know that I will cry when she dies, that it will devastate me, but I also think that a part of me will be relieved. I hate her so much that I can't even put it into words, but I still love her and still wish she was here.

My father was distant. He was my "favorite" parent, but at least part of it was the fact that he wasn't beating me up. He has only recently (like, the past five years or so) gotten really interested in my life, and I guess that kind of bugs me, because now I don't need him the way I did. Still, I owe him for my life. He protected me the best he could, and I will always love him for that, at least.

My parents are old. I've always been scared of them dying, my father especially. One of the reasons I'm scared to go traveling is that I'm terrified I'll get a telephone call telling me that he's died, and I'll not be home for it. One of the first nightmares I remember having is of my father dying, and I think at least part of that was the fact that I didn't have my protector anymore. I think I was four at the time.

I'm still scared of my mother, although not physically, not to the same extent. I do wonder if she enjoys torturing me, though, and I do joke to my friends about beating her to death with a shovel. But with all honesty, I think that if I could, I would want to repay each of the hurts she gave me, if I wasn't the one who had to do it. I wish I didn't have so much... hate in me, but I do, and I can't confront her about it, because then I'd be out of house and home.

I found out about there being more than one gender when I was in 9th grade, which was also when I found out about pansexuality. I don't honestly remember when I discovered asexuality, but it didn't seem to fit me. After all, I was clearly a sexual being. Only, looking back, I tend to "clock out" during sex, and I've had an (as in one) orgasm in my life. I don't know if it's body dimorphism or desensitization or something else, but it wasn't until over winter break this year that I actually connected the term "asexual" to myself. I'm not entirely asexual, I don't think. I want to do sexual things, sort of. But one of the reasons my last relationship ended was because of my very low sex drive. I tend to go hot, but then burn out. I don't know, honestly. I currently identify as panromantic demisexual. Or queer, which is a bit less of a mouthful. I think it says something, that when I was first reading about asexuality, that I started crying like a baby. Then again, when I was reading about the symptoms of PTSD (which match up with me), I had the same reaction.

I've only recently thought of applying the term "genderqueer" to myself. I've never really felt like I was completely a girl. My body doesn't seem to fit, as I said earlier. I don't like myself very much (I've attempted suicide three times, and I'm still fighting the urge to self injure, even though I haven't cut myself in a good long time), and I don't know how much of what is what. I've tried masturbation, a few times, but the last time I seriously went about it, I ended up crying like a baby. I've also never felt much pleasure in vaginal sex. Anal, yes, but vaginal is usually painful. I have no clue why. Maybe it's part of the genderqueer thing. I don't think I'm a boy, but I don't think I'm a girl. I'm not sure, though. Sometimes I feel guilty calling myself genderqueer, because, well, I don't look it. I answer to "her" and "she", I don't actively try to look more androgynous. But I've been thinking about my name lately. My given name is Liana, and I went by it for a good long time. But now I go by "Li", and I'm extremely uncomfortable with "Liana". It seems too... feminine, for lack of a better word. I don't find anything wrong with feminine, but I don't feel like it applies to me.

Sometimes, I feel like dressing up like a girl, particularly in hot weather. I wear dresses and skirts. But the thing is... when I go feminine, I don't go "modern" feminine. My skirts are long, I don't wear makeup or any of that. The rest of the time, I'm gender neutral. I'm going to start experimenting - I've been wearing boxers lately, and I would love to get a more gender neutral haircut - but what if it turns out it's just a phase? Still... when I was 2, I apparently got mad at my mother for her not making me with a penis. So I suspect it might not be an entirely new thing.

Geez, this is one long and self involved entry. Still, nobody reads this shit, so I guess I shouldn't worry too much, right? I probably should go to sleep, though. Maybe I'll keep up with the navel gazing and put some actual content in here now and again, eh?


cythewriter: Me + tie dye (Default)
Cy Fur

May 2010


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