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.