That’s me in the corner. That’s me in the spotlight losing my…

Ah, I ‘lost’ any religion I may have had years ago. Seems I am now losing my family, too.

The very last thing I imagined when I started this blog was that it would turn into some misery memoire – little did I know the surprising turns life would take.

So, my family have accused me of lying. Of it all being in my imagination. My father refuses to discuss it, says it didn’t happen. Says the doctors don’t know what they are talking about. I think if he really believed that, he’d have gone to the mosque when he nearly died a couple of years ago, instead of the hospital. He doesn’t go to the sheikh when he gets sick, he goes to the doctor.

This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been accused of lying. Many, many moons ago, when in my first (arranged) marriage I called him to ask him to tell my husband of the time not to rape me – he accused me of lying then. He said no, that’s not rape, you are lying. It’s not rape if he is your husband, you should not say no to your husband – it is his right. A teeny bit of me died that day hearing that inhuman response, and a teeny bit of me has died again being accused of lying now.

My family think I’ve brought this up to tear them apart. No. I just wanted them to care about it, rather stupidly of me. I just wanted some support, some empathy, some love. I keep forgetting what blind faith in dogma can do to a person. That denial and accusation is preferable to dealing with the unwanted truths and realities that are part & parcel of religion. How sad. My own sister has turned on me, I never knew she had that inhuman side to her. She has two daughters of her own. I may never see them again. I’m so heartbroken by that. But not broken. Sad and pained, but not broken. They can’t break me, I know I’m right. I know I’m going to do something to stop other girls going through cruel inhumanity. And that makes me stronger than anything that they can be. I don’t need a book to tell me what’s right or wrong.

I have friends and I think they love me. So, am lucky. And I’m going to do the right thing and that will give me more strength than they and those that condone mutilation could ever imagine or take away from me.

Even if I am having a weepy-feel sorry for myself kind of day. Inside I feel freeer, it’ll just take a while for it to manifest in my mood.

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The vagina rants

I still find it strange to say the word ‘vagina’. It’s actually a beautiful sounding word, I don’t know why it feels strange to say vagina, which is beautiful, but there’s no strangeness when I use another word, ‘cunt’, which I do, frequently. Cunt is an uglier word, but with it’s own beauty, it is also full of power. I wonder why the beauty of the word vagina scares me a little, still, while the ugliness of ‘cunt’ is appealing.

My super-religious upbringing dictated a kind of fear and, I suppose, disgust – dressed up as respect and honour. Vaginas had to be shaved or plucked, for ‘cleanliness’, for ‘purity’, but really it’s about control and invading boundaries. Is hair dirty or impure? Why weren’t we instructed to shave our eyebrows or our heads? It’s not hair they consider impure or unclean, it’s the vagina itself. The womanliness of it. The implicit messages that get internalised – the ones that aren’t said – those are very telling. What does it say about a culture that expects young girls (& boys too, to be fair) to start thinking of even the little things that happen to our bodies naturally as a part of becoming an adult as dark, foreboding, sinful – to be ripped out & disposed of? What fear must have dictated this loathing? To see something so ugly in nature’s beauty? They want to infantilise us all, they want little girls, not women. Grim.

A little bit of blood changes you in the eyes of these fuckturds too. Suddenly, because of some little red drops, you become an impurity. Too impure to stand and pray in front of God (if that’s your thing – it was never mine – I used to fake my periods in school to get out of prayers), if you’re married, too impure/disgusting to have sex with (I faked my periods in my first marriage too – guess why). You can’t be touched or be considered clean enough to touch again or be in a pure or holy place until you’ve ritually washed away whatever it is they are so afraid of. Womanliness is so threatening to them and I wonder what womanliness means to them that makes it so. How they have polluted vaginas in the minds of the people. How cowardly.

For some, who are the most afraid of womanliness and vaginas and what they mean, their best defence is attack. The cutting & destruction of the clitoris, the only bit of humanity made only for pleasure. Horror and revulsion at womens’ pleasure leads those in fear of it to destroy it in desperately cruel ways. I think those people see women as big walking vaginas. Nothing but the sum and an extension of their vaginas. Or perhaps, it’s not so much fear, as jealousy. Who knows what goes on in the minds of those women hating psychosociopaths?

 

The first cut was the deepest (the imaginary circumcision that was)

Since https://mascarastreaks.wordpress.com/2014/01/30/a-strange-post-my-imaginary-circumcision/

I’m still processing things and am a little headfucked.

As the indignity of having (albeit a very lovely) doctor shining a light between my legs & peering and poking and prodding me unfolded, I was under the impression that this indignity would just confirm that I might be a bit over-imaginative and anxious.

In spite of my worries leading me to the doctor, I was VERY BLOODY SURPRISED to find out that my suspicion that everything wasn’t quite right down there, was not something created by my imagination, but something that was done to my child-body. I thought I may have been cut, I thought that perhaps a part of my clitoris had been cut out, but I was not right about that. My clitoral hood had been stitched over my clitoris.

Man, I still can’t believe I’m writing that – perhaps I’m in shock still. Am not sure how I process this. I do not think that it was my parents or done with their knowledge, but by relatives in one of the countries that I am from, over the summer when I was 7 or 8. It makes sense of some of the memories I have from a particular summer I spent there (I was sent there to stay with relatives & learn the culture/religion every summer). I’ll maybe talk about that another time, when my mind is less headfucked.

Gen-it-al mu-til-a-tion the words sound and feel so ugly in my head and my mouth. I know I’m so angry, I’m so humiliated, I’m so violent, I’ve been robbed. But I can’t feel. I can just sense myself, I can’t feel yet. I’m too scared to feel. I’m so betrayed. I’m so ashamed, but am not letting myself be ashamed, it’s not me that should be, but I am, somehow (I just can’t feel it, just sense it). The rage is somewhere & I’m worried about when I will feel it.

It seems strange that my immediate reaction was relief when the lovely doctor told me. Relief that my clitoris was there (typing that sentence feels like an indignity & a humiliation), relief that I hadn’t been cut in the way that I’d imagined. The type of mu-til-a-tion (argh!) that I suffered is of the most minor variety in female genital mutilation. What a fucking sentence. The most minor type – none of is minor. Child abuse is not minor, in anyway. I posit that any child abuse that involves their genitals is child sex abuse, actually. What kind of adults are interested in the genitals of kids (unless it’s for some medically necessary reason?)? Huh? It is very fucked up. Am so violated. Meh. I can’t imagine how those women who have had more brutal mutilations than me must feel if I’m feeling this bad. I’ve felt the joy of orgasms (even if I can’t at the moment due to headfuck) and I don’t know of a more fulfilling feeling than an orgasm with the someone(s) you love. Imagine not knowing what that felt like? Instead of pleasure, to only feel pain or fear of pain? I can’t. I know I’m being a little orgasm-centred right now, but they’re on my mind, because they’re not in my body.

I’m usually a woman of many words, but I don’t know what to say or what to think. I have been using the word cunt quite a lot for the last couple of weeks. Not as satisfying as it usually feels.

Sex, Morality and Control.

Sometimes, I wonder whether we are living in enlightened times, or whether that’s one of the big self-delusions our species has created for ourselves. (Inclined to the latter, personally).

There seems to be so much moralising against women, especially & the old double standards are alive and well when it comes to sex.

Our sexualities are nobody’s business but our own. We aren’t here for the gratification & judgement of others, we’re here to live our lives – to seek pleasure & avoid pain – just the same as everyone else.

It seems to be that this judgementality that seems reserved more often for women than men (although also for trans people of any gender) is designed to control what is seen as troublesome behaviour. Anything that doesn’t conform with the rigid heteronormative, monogamous ideas that are wrapped up in supposed ‘decency’, ‘morality’ and the ‘proper’ ways to behave – all of these are arbitrary & imposed.

This, I feels, strips us of our humanity – the ability to think, choose and do what we like. For, as long as our behaviour doesn’t make anyone else suffer, why should it be wrong for us if it feels right for us?

Why should we be judged on who we choose to sleep with, or how many we sleep with, or have slept with, or what we do with our consenting humans? Isn’t this the essence of our humanity? Is it not inhumane to subject others to your ideas of what is ‘right’, when we all know that those ideas were just put there in your heads, probably just to appease others’ insecurities and make them feel good about themselves in a completely oppressive-to-others kind of way?

What makes us human is our ability to think for ourselves & to make our own decisions. I don’t have anything nice to say about those small-minded enough to impose their wills on others. Conforming just for the sake of it & ridiculing/discouraging others who choose not to, is a kind of dictatorship – trying to control others because of your own mental limitations & fears/insecurities. It’s also really boring.

The Boy is quiet

I’ve been getting quite fond of The Boy. We see each other about once a week now. Mostly we go do something fun & social, get very drunk, then back to mine for sex & mooching.

It’s fun discovering each others’ bodies and sex is good too, but he’s so quiet. I’m not so very vocal or noisy, but I feel like I am being, because he’s so quiet next to me. He’s definitely having a good time, but I’m finding myself wishing he’d say more. It’s strange as he’s quite a talkative and articulate Boy & we are both very good at sex with each other.

It feels very decadent, having him as my lover. I think that’s what he feels too. So, my master-plan seems to be getting off to a good start. Seems like not very long ago, I was wondering what would become of my love-life & it’s pleasing to know that the little voice in my head was right. There are other, better ways of doing things, and experiments in living, are the way to find out.

Not seeing the woods for the trees

Today’s cliche of the day is ‘you can’t see the wood for the trees’. Which is one I agree with and see the wisdom in.

It’s good occasionally to take a step back and take stock of your life. Especially if there’s a lot going on. I’ve had a lot going on. The divorce, which I thought was going well, suddenly isn’t, and it seems that communication has broken down. I think the next few months will be very messy as we fight over the house, money and so on.

It kind of took me by surprise as I thought we’d agree to try & make it amicable, but I guess that money brings out the worst in some people. Am happy to say it’s quite nice up here on my moral high-ground when it comes to that. I decided long ago, that self-respect was paramount, it’s nice to be able to maintain that & it’s kind of showing him to be more of an arsehole than I’d realised.

All of the coming and going has got me down though, I’ve been feeling blue and under a lot of pressure. It made my perspective quite skewed and I’d lost my appetite for life, a little. But, it’s the little things in life which make you happy. Dealing with The Ex for the first time in so long, really dragged me down. I think it brought back some of the misery that I felt when I was still with him & trying to make it work. This morning I woke, feeling pure relief that I’ll have a clean break soon. Life’s not too bad, I was feeling sorry for myself when I woke up, I pulled the muscles in my backside & it hurts when I walk, sit or move – getting out of bed made me miserable. It was in the shower that I figured out that I must have pulled it during all the sex I had with The Boy yesterday. Then I smiled. Felt satisfied. Saw the woods again, in spite of the trees.

It’s not you, it’s me. Another cliché today.

I think I might have to have the “It’s not you, it’s me” conversation with the person I started sleeping with very recently. I think it would be cruel to do anything else.

On the whole, in the past, when I’ve had this conversation, I’ve just been polite. Mostly, it hasn’t been me, but them.

This time it’s different. It really isn’t him, it really is me. I have no fault with him. He’s lots of lovely things, I’m just not really into him, for reasons I can’t quite fathom. This makes it more difficult.

I hope he doesn’t feel hurt. I feel very sorry/guilty, even though I’m not sure I should. I feel cruel, but I know I’m not.

Sigh.

Todays cliche of the day – Once bitten twice shy.

Once bitten twice shy? Well you’d think so, wouldn’t you?

Having read my last post, you wouldn’t have thought that I’d make the same mistake twice. Yet alone with the same person!

Shouldn’t have slept with him again, really. Have always felt strongly that no sex is infinitely preferable to bad sex and I’ve proved myself twice right.

He stopped halfway through to ask if I was bored (I was, but I’d never be cruel enough to say so). He’s lovely, but there’s an absence of excitement and chemistry & that was reflected by my… unenthusiasm. Poor thing, it isn’t his fault.

Worst thing is I think he’s started to get attached. He’s using “we”, he’s started to talk about stuff he wants to do next month with me, even though I said at the start I was non-committing. He did that gazing at me with big eyes thing first thing in the morning, saying “you’re so lovely”. It’s freaking me out a little!

Ah, I’m a numbnut sometimes. I hope this post acts as an aid memoire, and I don’t find myself posting about twice bitten, thrice shy.