"I was once a tomboy. Now I'm a full grown lesbian."
Perhaps it's fair that I revere this "Ana". I have, as it has been often said, a taste for women who are not always the best for me. Absent of a true partner in this realm, I make one up who claws it's way from the center of my being, and wish to immerse myself so completely in this unattainable perfection that I become blind until I see.
What a contradiction.
There is one sight. One mind. I have lost view of this world and leveled it upon another. A higher goal. A loftier aim. In the process, I thought I lost myself, but in fact, I have discovered me, and I find that no matter my name or label, the definition of self remains the same.
Time has passed. This I can readily admit. I abandoned, for a few days, this quest for hunger, but with cause. There is fear, when you cannot move. Fear, when all you feel is pain. My body has rebelled and I daresay I am the victor. Emotions of mind, and body, and rage and ailments...feelings and sensations....these are things we desire to control. To grasp. I tell myself, "I will not love her," and to do so, I must find another target for my wants to replace her. So I have. The process is slow, but all things are, that are the worth it in the end.
I tell myself, "I will not feel pain", and it does not work quite as well. So instead, I say, "I will overcome it, and I will move on." And so I do.
I'm still sick. But it has peaked. Three months without a feminine cycle until my insides rebelled and screamed and forced the process to begin. My ovaries knotted, my nerves were pinched. I grew dizzy and weak and slept for days. And now it started. It hurts to bleed, like I don't think it was intended. Or perhaps this is the price we pay for being what we are - for being women. Not because we tempted adam with the apple (as I believe not in Adam, nor the apple, nor do I have the absence of sense to believe a story about a talking Snake), but because we possess breasts, and faces, and the things men need, and a smart woman knows that no matter her looks, it is she who controls the world. It is she who has whispered through out history in the ears of men and led countries and wars behind the living guise of a male body. Paternal-based religions, debunking the long held "mother goddess" of ancient days arose as man's attempt to shake themselves of womans wiles and bonds. They burned us, they opressed us, they tried to controlled us, but in the end we prevail. In the end our legs and eyes and lilting words and smaller hands and bitten lips become their downfall. They struggle to unwind from the web that woman has weaved, and find themselves infinitely more knotted, until they can no longer breathe....
Homosexuality, of course, is different, but we will not speculate on that here.
My head hurts. I'm afraid to eat, because my body is numb but hungry, and the pain is just a thrum. If I eat, I fear I will forget that numbness, and the pulsing will resume, and with a reason for my blood to pump so too will the muscles constrict and my eyes will go blind again and my stomach will kick back up all I have consumed. But this will pass, as everything does. A day or two, and I will be normal again. I will have had this time that all women suffer, and I will be free for a few more months, until I become sick again from this strange anatomy inside of me.
Liberation of thought. Of religion. Of labels and sexuality.
Liberation of body - the reduction of fat, the increase of strength, the heightened mobility and grace of movement.
I idolize ballerinas for they seem to have no ties to the limitations the average body places upon them. They move, free from gravity, free from bones and tendons. Free from reason.
Perfect emancipation gained through perfect discipline.
The ability to fly comes not from acting without regard, but from constant training.
You cannot make it to the sky if your wings have never been spread.
Which is funny. I was speaking with a girl who is complete opposite from me - in body, at least. She is wiry and all that I wish, and I am full and all that she wants. But we both think of rage when we think of motion.
We need impact when we run or climb. When we jump or work out. She climbs mountains and walls and cliff sides, and is not satisfied until she has jumped from hand hold to hand hold, and pulled herself up by the brute force of a single limb demanding absolute success.
I am a fighter, a jumper, a beginner parkour runner. When I first started learning, and when I feel light enough to leap, I am not pleased until I, in my jump-to jump-to jump from place to place, feel the impact of a fall beneath me as it scratches up my skin and jerks my joints, and I am forced to start again.
There must be sensation with each move. From the heel of the toe to the top of the head. Violence in each push of the body with the physical practice. I envy ballerinas their peace.
Every day I fight a war within myself. Every moment at the gym I am shadow boxing my reflection, and I think I have become too addicted to the bruises to lay down my gloves.
And thus ends my migraine induced ramble.
Thank you for suffering this moment of pain beside me.
And thank you for the support you all gave me when this began.