Why I Became What I Use to Condemn

Sometimes when my heart is hurting I write. I write a lot. Sometimes I only write a little. But when the heart is sick there is still the chance to write something. Even if it's just a short piece, or a poem to express the feelings of anguish.

It's different when the body is sick. A sick body means frequent visits to the bathroom and little time for actual writing. Maybe a blog post, or a mail chat. But to actually write. Doesn't usually happen.

I've been making bathroom trips. And so I have not been writing. My heart is in that numb stage after being hurt. You know? That emotional catatonic state in which it refuses to acknowledge any feelings whatsoever. Not easy to write without the passion.

But like I said, maybe there can be a blog post. And so here I am again.

There is a shame in being someone else's one night stand. I'm not sure exactly why that is, other than to guess it has to do with the reaons behind acquiessing. When the reasons can pretty much be boiled down to "I wanted to feel loved again" I guess being a one night stand is something of an indictement against my own intelligence.

Catching someone on the rebound isn't much better. Not if the relationship doesn't last. The feeling becomes that which is suspected of a ping pong ball. Bouncing from one lover to another. Do it too often and you get a reputation. Whore.

To be honest, I used to look down on men and women who behaved like that. Running from partner to partner. How could they do that, I wondered. Didn't they have any desire to just have one person to love and be loved by?

And now I'm the whore. And suddenly I understand something I never did before. It is precisely the desire to be loved by just one person that inspires the behavior. And with each failed relationship the desire becomes stronger. And more desperate.

I don't look down on "whores" anymore. I don't like looking down at me, I guess.

Anyway, I was thinking about it. Nobody becomes anything without some sort of history behind them to encourage it. This is important for writers to know and understand. WHY is my antagonist the antagonist. They're greedy? Why? What caused them to be greedy while the heroine is not? Why is the heroine going to stick with the story mission, instead of just chucking it away in boredom and indifference?

These things do not always need to be in the story itself. But the author should have answers to these questions. Many authors will write entire backstories for their characters. That way, the author understands what is "in character" for each and what is not. It is just as important to know why your antagonist has a soft spot in her heart as it is to know why she is such a bitch the rest of the time. And if you tell me it's because "that's the way women are" I will slap your face. All behavior has a reason. Those reasons do not always belong explicitly in a story, but they must be there as a background to keep characters in character.

Meanwhile, this whore needs to visit the bathroom again.

Just a Work Friend

Sarah L posted a comment on my previous post that kind of struck a cord with me. It made me feel guilty and ashamed of myself. I tried writing a post about it but I had to delete everything I wrote because I wasn't getting my message across. I guess I don't know how to say it. But I'm going to try again.

Basically, it comes down to this: Why do people feel this horrible need to be mean and cruel to people who are different from them? And why do we try to force everyone around us to be like us?

Again, because this blog is specifically devoted to discussions about women-to-women relationships, I will confine my thoughts to lesbians and bis. Why do we have to be so cruel? And why did I allow myself to be part of that cruelty for so long?

When I was growing up I was taught in church we are supposed to love other people. That is in the Bible. I've read it myself many times. But why was this addendum added? "If they are like the established norms we have created." That is NOT in the Bible. I know. I've read it cover-to-cover several times. A few times looking specifically for that message. It isn't there. So why are we teaching it?

I was not taught to love people who are different than me. I was taught to love people who were like me. Conversely, this also meant that if I wished to be loved, I had to be like the people around me. I had to say the things they said. I had to do the things they did. I had to wear the clothes they said were appropriate for my age and sex. In fact, I remember punishments I received which involved clothing. I would have to wear clothing belonging to a younger age and the opposite sex. This was to show the world around me how 'bad' I was.

And so I would join in and harass people who were "different". Generally, this meant holding boys who didn't "act like boys" and girls who didn't "act like girls" in utter contempt. Inevitably, these children would be pushed into one of two areas. Either they became complete loners, waiting for the day when they could leave our small town rural community and go hide in the city, or they joined the majority and acted like they did. I did the latter. As much as I could.

But you know what? People seem to sense when someone is only pretending, and the older I got, the harder it became to fit in. I became more uncomfortable with things like harassment and began walking away from it. Did you know that if you don't join in with harassment you are somehow guilty of a crime in the minds of those who do? It wasn't until I became older that I found the strength to admit, not just to myself, but to others, that I don't hate people who are different from me. For one thing, I'm not so sure anymore that "they" and I are that different from each other after all.

I commented back to Sarah L that I now openly challenge people who make fun of, or laugh at the discomfort of, GLBT people. It's kind of become a one-person crusade to stand up against the same people who I grew up with and tell them they are wrong. Something I should have done all my life. But didn't. What I find comforting is that a couple of the people I have been challenging seem to have changed their tune (at least around me). Maybe they never wanted to be part of it either, and now that I have challenged them they are relieved they don't have to be that way anymore. Maybe I'm deluding myself. Listening to all the hate messages in the news I would say I am.

I look back on my past and I see certain patterns emerge. At the time I remember only vaguely wondering about it. Now it fills more of my thought.

Why was it that the boys who were attracted to boys, and the girls who were attracted to girls, found me as a person to be friends with? This began in my high school years, after I had quit joining the public harassing. But even after school, when I would be at work, if there was a gay, bi-sexual, or lesbian in the company, they seemed to find me and we would become work friends. (Work friends are people you only talk to at work. You go to lunch together, and sit next to each other in company meetings and at company events, but you don't socialize apart from work.) Often, their sexual orientation was only a rumor, and seldom did they ever talk to me about it. Sometimes they did, but mostly we were just work friends. Often I was the only work friend they had.

I find myself wondering about it. For one thing, I find it interesting that, as I became friends with the gay, bi, lesbian people who had sought me out, the non-gay, non-bi, and non-lesbian people wanted less and less to do with me. 

I think I know now what I am trying to say with this post. I'm trying to say, "I'm sorry", to a lot of people who befriended me, and with whom I was embarassed to be friends. Yes, I was their work friend. I wasn't mean to them. I didn't avoid them. But I was embarassed to be seen with them. How awful I've been. And do you know what's the stupidest part of it? All of my life the one thing I have wanted more than anything else is to be loved and accepted for who I am. And guess what? The people who I was embarassed to be seen with were giving me exactly that. And I never saw it. And now they are all gone from my life. I never socialized with any of them. Instead, I have lived a lonely life. And I'm not talking sex! I'm talking love. I should have loved them back. Because you know what? I think that's all they wanted, too. I didn't give it to them. I was just a work friend. And I'm sorry.

Why are We Taught to be Ashamed of Who We Are

I'm going to take Sarah's advice. Haven't yet. Kind of timid. But I'm going to do it. I'm going to write a fleshy, down-and-dirty, love scene. Going to use all the words I can think of. Just because. Just to say I wrote them. Just so I can look at it afterward and say, "I wrote that." And not, "I wrote that?" Won't be posting it here, that's for sure. What Sarah said was to keep this one secret. This is just a break out piece. Once that's done perhaps I can write something a bit more tame? More in line with what actually turns me on. I'm blushing writing that. I know I am. My neck feels warm.

It's funny about sex, isn't it? I don't mean "funny ha-ha". I mean funny, as in strange. Well, that was probably a bad way of putting it, too. I don't mean strange sex, I mean talking, or writing, about sex is so different than talking or writing about anything else. I find it far easier to confess my failures as a person, an employee, a parent, a child, a sibling, a friend, an athlete, a writer, a singer, a performer, or anything else, than to admit my failures regarding sex. I can talk about those other things, usually without blushing, with complete ease. But as soon as sex becomes the topic I'm blushing.

Is it me, or am I just the product of how I was raised? How I was raised seems a bit too easy, although it certainly has to come into play. Maybe it's because so much of the punishment I endured as a child was sexual in nature. One wasn't just spanked, one had their pants pulled down. Generally in public. Bedwetters were publically diapered and laughed at. That was the thing, you know. Punishment not only involved physical pain, but emotional pain always had to accompany it. Humiliation was the order of the day. And it always seemed to revolve around sex somehow.

And so we grow up with all kinds of inhibitions about sex. Taste a beer and one might get into trouble. What was the standard punishment for trying beer and cigarettes when I was young? "Make 'em drink until they get sick." "Make 'em smoke until they're ill." No one ever did that with sex. Get caught masterbating, or worse, experimenting with someone else, and the cry certainly wasn't, "Make 'em f--- until they throw up." No. The whole thing was treated as though it was the worst shameful act that could happen. More beatings and more humiliations.

And so we learn to keep it secret. That's private. Hell, I find it easier to talk about problems going to the bathroom than I do problems about sex. I suppose that's fine, but I want to write. I really do. And if I'm going to write something that seems real, I have to write in a way that presents whatever I write about as being real. And so I have to get past the past - without actually forgetting it. There is great value in remembering the pain. The shame. The anguish. The utter humiliation. Remembering these things helps me write characters who are experiencing pain, shame, anguish, and utter humiliation.

But how do I write a character who is comfortable with her sex, her sexuality, and her sexual preference (be it straight, bi, or lesbian, or whatever) when I am not so sure I am comfortable with those things for myself? I find myself envying those people who have come to terms with who they are regarding sex in all its forms. I think, if I could just be at peace with who and what I am I just might be able to write the things I want to write. But it's this shame thing. Still, maybe I can use that, too. Maybe that's where the tenderness comes from. The loving compassion which, to me, absolutely has to be part of good sex. If I could just put my feelings into it.

Meanwhile, I have an assignment. Going to write some rough, fleshy, down-and-dirty sex scenes. I doubt I'll find them arrousing, but the ice will be broken and maybe I can get through to the other side.

Good luck to me, huh?