So, alright, lets do this!
Yes, I have a sketchy past. One I don’t always share with everyone because I feel like it throws me into a pity party or people look at me like “Oh poor girl.” No. Not poor girl. Not pitiful, not weak. Stuff happens and sometimes good things happen to bad people and sometimes bad things happen to good and innocent people. Its called life.
My life was not always pristine but it was not always horrible either. I was molested at an early age (around 4 yrs old) until I was in 3rd grade (around 8 yrs old) of elementary school. 2 males and 1 female, not consecutively but over the course of that time. I knew more about sexuality by the time I learned to tie my shoes than most grown women will ever know in their lifetime, sadly.
I had issues with my own identity throughout my adolescent years. In fact, I was certain I was going to be a boy. Pardon my explicit nature for explaining this, but I thought my clitoris would grow to eventually be my penis. As a young girl I stuffed my pants to replicate a penis and dreamed of having a wife or girl friend. I always played role playing games where I was a male. An army man, a hunter, a motorcycle gang member,etc.
Once, my uncle threw away all of his girly magazines and my younger brother and I happened upon them. What a treasure that was. We looked with wide eyes and interested minds wondering a million miles a minute. My mother and father found these magazines and proceeded to whip us for stealing them and looking at them. I will never forget the question my mother asked me and the shame my chest grew heavy with….”Do you like looking at stuff like this?” I quickly shook my head ‘no’ but boy oh boy, yes I did. I liked seeing the beautiful women and their naked bodies. I enjoyed seeing the expressions of pleasure on their face and imagining it was me providing that to her instead of some stud on the other page layout. I like women. A lot.
As a teenager my sexuality issues only grew. I hated the day I started my period. Up to that point I could do everything in my power to deny I was a girl. I refused to wear bras or pretty girly clothes. I refused to do my hair or have any interest in makeup and purses. I stayed true to the ‘tom boy’ that people labeled me to be. The summer between 5th grade and 6th grade was when I first cut my hair off short. That winter I started my period and I could have cried. I continued living my life as the girl I was forced to be. I put the bra on, but only because I had to change clothes in gym class and didn’t want any of my class mates seeing how large my breast were. I had a tough image to uphold and could not have it tarnished by the fact that I had a female body.
I took up sports as a hobby. Softball to be exact. It was the first crush on a girl that I let myself have. I was 12, she was beautiful. Dark hair and eyes. We played on the same team. I was so chicken to approach her with my feelings and so I used my younger brother as bait to find out about her. I let on like he was the one with the crush and called to get questions. I made comments about her body to her and how amazing her form and figure was, all while saying it was things he thought and said. It never developed into anything more, for him or me.
The first girl I kissed was when I was in 8th grade. She was also the first sexual experience I had and kept having for the next 4 years. I was so in love with her. I wanted to marry her and run away to our own little paradise. She was abusive, both physically and emotionally. It was during this relationship and the way she conducted herself with males around me and (for all intent purposes) in my face, that I attempted suicide, twice. I became a cutter and I would beat my fists into block walls until I literally couldn’t feel my hands anymore. She would walk past me with her boyfriends, who was only suppose to be decoys since the world had not caught up to our kind of ‘loving’ at that point in time, and rub it in my face that she was with them. She bragged about having sex with them and giving them blow jobs while driving to and from places they would take her on dates. I was losing my mind but staying faithful to her. Bitch.
It was in high school that I developed the ultimate plan. I was going to graduate, leave my little hometown in southwest Virginia, and go have that sex change operation. I would no longer be a daughter ashamed of her body, but I would be a son…strong and proud, with a beautiful woman on my arm, whom I would work very hard to provide for and one day…be called “daddy” by my own little bundle of joy.
So what happened between then and now?
I am still very much a tomboy. Still masculine in many ways and sometimes still wonder what it would be like to be a male. I especially wonder when making love to a woman and having to use devices in order to free my mouth and hands to explore other areas of her body. I suppose the answer lies in a realization I came to of my own self.
1. I am a female who is attracted to females, and thats ok. I kept my secret about this attraction from my parents and family and friends for as long as I possibly could. Fear, shame, guilt, all of that were resounding notions to me if I confessed. I grew up in a home where ‘fags’ were made fun of and when someone on television came out I would hear an echoing, “Ewwwww” from my mother and often my sister also. I grew up gay before Melissa Etheridge and Ellen had came out. When they did so I thought, “Yeah, I called that one. Gay-dar works just fine!”
2. I hold a huge amount of respect for my family and especially so for my parents. I consider myself a peacemaker and have tried to keep it peaceful as possible around my home for as long as I could remember. I don’t want to do or be anything that would bring them shame. When my mother caught me kissing a girl at age 15, I was left with a choice. After she told me I was ‘sick’, I could do one of two things. I could go to my grandmother, who is very old fashioned and precious to me, and tell her I was a lesbian; or I could be sent to Maryland and be removed from the current influences in my life that were obviously persuading me to be gay. After I walked to my grandmother’s home, determined I was going to tell her who and what I was, I crumbled. I could absolutely not bare the disappointment and anger of my mother and just couldn’t bare it if my grandmother were to react the same way. I chose to leave home instead.
So I spent the summer burying myself in work and day dreams that would never come to pass. I spent the summer burying hopes and dreams and relationships that never had time to develop or fail on their own. I compromised to make those around me happy and I still do that to this day. Why do I do that?
While I no longer hate my body, I do hate the fact that I still have to reside in hiding for the sake of peace and acceptance. I tried coming out again in December two years ago and while my family stated they loved me and would support me, they stopped calling and distanced their selves from me. So I crawled back into my little closet. My mother refused to meet the lovely woman I was dating, Ashley. Flat out told me ‘no’. and proceeded to tell me that she just couldn’t support it and reminded me it was not biblical. Of which I told her I respected her opinion. I hold a deep fear of being with a woman, afraid of the judgment that may follow…the eternal judgment more than the earthly one. Mother still knows I see her. Ashley and I are keeping our relationship open in hopes that one day we will both have our stuff together to become partners; but we are still not welcome around my parents and we are still not accepted by my family, most of my friends, and definitely not my church.
Which brings on the question, Does God love a gal like me? When it seems His other children have such a hard time loving and accepting me as I am?
I sure hope so! My heart is very tender toward God and the Kingdom of Heaven. I’m very adamant about being respectful to people of every religion and realize not everyone feels the same way. I spent 15 years as a minister in a Pentecostal church. I was operating in gifts of music, prophecy, healing, and revelation. I miss that. While my heart longs to be in that again, I am afraid. It has been taught to me for years that homosexuality is a sin, worse than a sin, an abomination to God. A spit in His face. How could He, knowing me inside and out, knowing my struggle, use me in His service if He hated me and if I was so gross to Him? I believe God to be my Father and as my Father I believe He does love me. I believe He loves us all. I am a mother. As a mother I am not always happy with the choices my children make, but I certainly do not hate one because he/she isn’t a replica of his/her other siblings. They are each precious to me, each have their own personalities, each have their own strengths and weaknesses. I love them for who they are and I don’t waste my time with the things they are not.
I hope God is much like that in His way. Seeing as how biblical passages teach me that God is love, I wonder how can someone who is the embodiment of Love be anything but?…how can hate dwell there?
So, does God love a gal like me? A polished mess, a fearful woman who is the entombment of a broken little girl, kept voiceless to protect her family…molested, abused, used, scarred, and yet determined to not only rise above all of those truths; but rise through them, using them as the driving force of strength; a woman strong and proud?!? Does God love a gal like me? A struggling mother who just wants to find her one true love without all the drama and strings attached? Without all the stress and heartaches? A woman looking to finally find peace and happiness, real, true happiness? Does He?
You dag-on right He does! Whats not to love anyway, right? Heck, I might even be His favorite!!! 🙂 🙂 🙂