under my skin

Lately to my surprise I have been discovering the oppression that occurs under my skin.

The internalized voices of “unworthiness”, “self-doubt”, “homophobia” have been (literally) slapping me in my face, so hard that my whole body feels the pain.

I will try to explain this as much and as best as I can.

I’ve been reading a lot on the general topics of trauma, memories, healing, sex and how the 4 intertwine inside my body.

The distance from my family (specifically from my mom) has forced a new “freedom” onto me. A freedom I longed for but didn’t really want because it meant that I would have to turn myself inside out to discover who I am and what I want.

I was surprised that I at my 26 years of age still don’t know answers to what I thought were basic questions about my identity. So I keep reading, dialoging with people of all walks of life, writing, and sitting with myself so that I can welcome me into my own life.

Among a million other things, internalized hate, caused by such forces as homophobia, sexism, and patriarchy are surfacing onto the shores of my skin. Its an intense process to say the least. I don’t know everything about it yet but I’m trying to stay with it, not run from it like most of my being is telling me to do so, out of comfort and safety to stay “together” not fall apart like I often feel like I am about to do.

Not understanding how homophobia (and all other systematic forces that support homophobia to live in my body) lives itself out in me, I have to describe how it feels. Ugh, sometimes I feel like I am not articulating what I feel in the best way possible. Let me keep trying.

The blood in my veins is shaking. Does that make sense? Its rumbling, boiling cold. Like a volcano about to erupt with red, blue, orange, and magenta colored heat. But yet my skin is so cold. Cold heat that reminds me of something, someone, memories of a past not understood…? Maybe its what I felt when my uncle decided that at 5 (6 or 7?) years of age I was old enough to be sexualized by his desire to fuck with my mind and body.

The flower cards I seek refuge in, for the past few months have been telling me the same thing over and over again. They tell me I have to heal old wounds, and in my naivety I think, “oh they are talking about my parents, my mom, my older brother”, leaving me to think that the old wounds the cards are pointing to have to do with the last 5 years of my so called “coming out narrative”. But today as I finally write, in part because the memories have been surfacing, in part because my female clients have been sharing with me their personal stories of rape, abuse, and torture that my own story is rising, screaming so that I finally take care of it instead of bandage it by simply excusing my uncle for his actions because, “he was mentally sick”.

Deep breathe. I am typing fast, thinking fast. My stomach in a knot. Is it the coffee at this half-bugi café in highland park that I feel pumping blood to my hands, fingers and out onto the keyboard of this computer?

I end here for now.

Deep breathe.


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