Mixed Emotions.

I don’t know exactly what I want to write. I have a thousand little, or maybe big, emotions inside of me. All I really want to do at the moment is jump in my car and drive 845 km to see this boy that has been preoccupying my mind, my heart and all my physical desires.

It’s been a year since we first kissed. A year, yesterday. That first kiss very quickly became a first everything. I’ve never been so comfortable with anyone. Even now, if I just close my eyes and think of him, think of being next to him, with my head on his shoulders, there is this peaceful calm that comes over me. I’ve known for a long time, with an absolute assuredness, that he is something wonderful in my life.

And yet I haven’t talked to him for two weeks.

After every time we reach a new level in our un-relationship he goes MIA. Two weeks ago he met my family. He’d met some of them before, in bits and pieces here and there. This time he met everyone. Him sitting on the couch, my parents talking to him. This was followed by him meeting a lot of people I’ve grown up with. We enjoyed the night. I think about it retrospectively, and maybe I wasn’t there enough. Maybe he didn’t realize how much I loved having him there, how much I love him. I was nervous; we hadn’t seen each other for three months. Maybe he was nervous; maybe his nervous now. Maybe he didn’t actually enjoy it all; maybe he is done. Maybe he is just processing everything; maybe he isn’t processing anything.

What I know is that I can’t stop thinking about him: about how much I miss him again and want to be with him. But also, about how this pattern sucks. How it is probably a pattern that will stick forever; a pattern of non-committal. Boys? What does the boy brain say?

My brain tells me to move on. My heart tells me to give him more time.

I think about the last year. It’s been one good year. Should I take that year and move on? Should I hold out for a little while longer, maybe I can add another awesome year to it.

Just call me, dude. Just call me.

 

** ADDENDUM – May 31, 2011 **

I just re-read this post. Looking back, I feel I was perhaps being a little melodramatic. While I was definitely feeling all those things the day I wrote them, today, my heart is bigger than ever. It takes a little down to truly feel the up.

Single, Female, Mormon, Alone – A Review.

I came across an article recently in the New York Post entitled: “Single, Female, Mormon, Alone“.

Adjective One – “Single”: CHECK

Adjective Two – “Female”: CHECK

Adjective Three – “Mormon”: Yeah, CHECK

Adjective Four – “Alone”: well, most of the time. So, CHECK.

Yes, the link is embedded above, but I am going to quote pieces of it here, to help with my discussion.

 

Most troubling was the fact that as I grew older I had the distinct sense of remaining a child in a woman’s body; virginity brought with it arrested development on the level of a handicapping condition, like the Russian orphans I’d read about whose lack of physical contact altered their neurobiology and prevented them from forming emotional bonds. Similarly, it felt as if celibacy was stunting my growth; it wasn’t just sex I lacked but relationships with men entirely. Too independent for Mormon men, and too much a virgin for the other set, I felt trapped in adolescence.

Yes. Yes. Yes. This I can relate to this statement. There were readers who commented that this was a hyperbole, and perhaps, insensitive to the plight of the Russian orphans. I understand the basis of comparison for literary value. But I also understand where Hardy is coming from. There is undeniably an additional connection that is granted when physical intimacy is present. Even in those first few youthful relationships I had I could recognize the impact intimacy, granted at that time it was holding hands, or kissing (to various degrees) had in the progression of not only the relationship, but in my own development. As I progressed through my 20s, I became increasingly awkward around the male species. I think there was a point where I realized that my peers/crushes/whatevers had reached a certain level of sexual maturity, or maybe a better phrase, sexual expectation. I wanted it, but wasn’t willing to act on those desires. And so, this apprehension, dreading the “sorry, I can’t have sex with – not today – not ever” conversation, led to avoidance of second dates, then of first dates, then of flirting.

Yes, one can argue that there are many who abstain until marriage and who live happy, fulfilled lives. I’m sure they do.

I needed to experience 1) A man’s hands all over me. 2) A man inside of me. 3) The joy of sleeping held in the arms of a man. I don’t anticipate turning into an individual who sleeps with every gorgeous man that crosses her path. In my current pseudo-relationship the possibility of sex is there. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s not an obligation, it’s not even a priority. But it’s really nice to have that option.

 

Obviously, I was left over, too — I was just never sure what my problem was. Until one man let me know. After overhearing a friend and me comparing our weekend horror-date stories, he walked up to me and asked, “You know what your problem is?”

No, I did not know what my problem was. And I was dying to find out.

“Your problem,” he said, “is you don’t need a man.”

I thought that was a good thing — to be able to take care of oneself.

He asked if I had a job.

“Yes.”

“A car?”

“Yes.”

“A house?”

“Yes.”

“Clothes?”

“Of course.”

“Food?”

“Obviously.”

“That’s your problem.”

“Excuse me?”

“Men in the church are raised to be providers. We are the breadwinners, the stewards of the household. If you have all the things we’re supposed to provide, we have nothing to give you.”

“What of love?” I asked. “What of intimacy and partnership and making a run at the world together?”

“Nope,” he said. “We’re providers.”

 

Ahhh! This passage sent the deepest, darkest chills throughout my entire body. I haven’t had these words spoken to me, but I’ve felt them, I’ve seen them. For as long as I can remember I have staunchly believed that I will 1) have a successful lifelong career, 2) I will not be a stay-at-home-all-the-time-for-20-years-mom, 3) I will not be dependent on anyone, although I’m willing to build a partnership in which we both contribute to the best of our ability and 4) I will not date or be married to anyone who does not fully endorse points 1 – 3. Thus, I don’t date Mormons and drive my parents crazy.

 

How unprepared I was to experience tenderness in the place I had been warned so vehemently against. How unprepared for the flood of relief, the bud of hope, after a life devoted to keeping myself separate from my body. Here was a path, an opening; here was empathy.

Dear Mark (not his real name).

Thank you for the tenderness and mercy you have shown me as I’ve explored this thing called sexuality. I was ready. But I was scared. I was worried that you might have expectations seeing as I am 29. Thank you for telling me you had no expectations, as if you read my mind. Thank you for telling me that we could do whatever I was comfortable with. Thank you for being willing to just hold me when it was too difficult, and to guide me when nervousness took over. I have always felt comfortable with you, but your tenderness, love and respect for who I am has increased this 100-fold. Because of this, I’ve felt what it is like to have my body loved after been so boldly rejected previously. I’ve felt what it is like to be a woman, and am slowly learning to embrace the beauty that I have. Thank you for encouraging me to be true to myself. Thank you.

Sex.

Blog Post the First. Well a post over 100 words, that is. No topic filtering. Sex is on the brain today. Sex is what you are going to get. Well, maybe not literally. I know I’m not. Hence the post.

Let’s not be coy about the subject. I grew up in a family / religion where discussing sex just did  not happen. I distinctly remember the day when my dad decided it was time to give me “the talk”. Painful. I was in Grade 9 or 10, and well, fairly educated by that point. He made a nice blue binder with photocopies from his 1970’s medical textbooks and brochures from his medical clinic. My sister and I had to then sit beside him and read it all aloud. Every. Single. Word. I remember crying. Why would anyone want to spend their Sunday nights doing this?

In church we were faithfully taught: “sex before you are married is bad”. Don’t pet, poke, heck, even look. I remember being in my Bishop’s office when I was probably 16 and being instructed that when kissing boys I should only kiss them as if I was kissing my father. Well, I don’t remember the last time I kissed my father. My guess is that I was probably only 6 or 7. So that advice to me was translated as “don’t kiss boys”. And that just wasn’t going to happen. Ok, I know I was much older when I had my first non-drama-class kiss. 21 to be exact. But I quickly made up for lost time.

I digress.

I didn’t have sex  before I was married. I had opportunities. Some I knew I wasn’t ready for. Some I wish to this day I would have taken. And then I got married. And still didn’t have sex. I know there are many folks in MOMs, either where both parties are privy to this knowledge, or not, in which sex does exist. It didn’t for us. Not even the wedding night. As the marriage disintegrated, I again passed up opportunities to fulfill my near-crazy thirst for sex, but vowed to myself to exit in dignity, and wait until the divorce papers were signed. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but I needed to do that. At one point I had decided that I was going to go out the day he left (I kept thinking/hoping that he would just one day vanish), go to the bar and just, well, let whatever happen happen. It didn’t quite happen like that.

I was conflicted for many months. Should I? Shouldn’t I? Ack! Opportunity #1 came knocking. I could tell he didn’t know what he was doing, not worth it. Opportunity #2 came knocking. Almost. So very close. Definitely appreciated what he did for me. And then at that point I decided that if it happens, it happens. The Opportunity #3 … it  happened. And now .. well I have 29 years (or maybe 14, assuming I started to sexually mature at 15) of supressed sexual desire to fulfill.

I’m not sure if I like the way that sounds. But it is true. It’s on my mind. A lot. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a teenage boy.

I don’t feel guilt for abandoning the moral/religious belief that sex outside of marriage is bad. Maybe I will one day. Ok, I do a little bit once in awhile. But mostly, I just feel hungry, and then un-hungry for the times when I’ve been fulfilled.

I’m not getting a lot sex these days. Mostly been taking care of myself. But I’ve been doing this for years. It’s not quite as enjoyable as the real thing, you know, now that I’ve experienced it.