November 24th, 2014
I can not remember the last time I visited this journal. I could look at the last entry; however, the actual date is of no significance to me. What does matter is that I miss having a space I can share my thoughts without the fear of someone I know reading them. When I first started this journal I thought no one read my ramblings and then when I received my first comment I had a moment of panic thinking someone was actually paying attention to what I was exposing. Over time I have met the faces of many individuals who have frequented my pages and although I am happy to have made new friends I can not deny a sense of loss in knowing I am no longer anonymous.
Journalling has been a part of my life since I was five years old. My first diary was a small square pocket book with a fake gold lock and two teddy bears hugging on the front cover. If I close my eyes I can still feel the puffy texture of the cushioned binding. How I adored sharing my secrets on those tiny pages. Throughout my adolescence I filled hundreds of pages in numerous books and although I kept them neatly lined upon my nightstand never once did I fear someone would read them. I was blessed to have a family that respected privacy and although each family member could, at any moment, read all I wrote, they never did. My emotions, my experiences, my doubts and insecurities were just that, mine and I took great comfort in knowing I had an outlet.
This space was once an outlet. Unfortunately now I just feel vulnerable. I have numerous thoughts I wish to share and yet I hold back because the eyes that scan these pages are ones that will eventually see my reflection. It is not easy being exposed, naked to the public world and although I am only seen by a teeny tiny part it still feels like a violation. I wish I was anonymous, like in the beginning. I could disclose everything then and do so without worry, without the concern that someone would know a part of me that I worked so hard in keeping a secret. I am a private person and now I feel as though I am standing in the middle of a crowded street buck naked with every thought written upon my flesh.
I have missed this place of mine but I am uncertain if I can ever really return.
May 21st, 2014
I do not wish to write in poetry or philosophical reflection. I have no desire to prettify my experience or ramble words of life lessons. In this moment I want to own my anger. I wish to accept the hate I feel towards myself, towards my female anatomy. I desire no pity or words of wisdom. I care not to be told to remember the blessings I have nor to hear what strength I will gain from having this experience. Right now I am just mad. Nothing fancy or catastrophic. Just plain old mad.
Fifteen sessions. Fifteen 60 minute sessions of having my legs spread while my vaginal physiotherapist pushed and probed my labia. While she continuously attempted to penetrate my vagina, getting at most, one finger to the second knuckle inside of me. Yep. It took 900 minutes to get a mere one finger inside of me and even then it hurt. Not just a little pinch kind of hurt. Not even a momentary pierce kind of hurt. Nope. After all that vulnerable exposure all I succeeded at doing was to cause a deep fuck off kind of hurt and from just one digit!
Maybe, just maybe if she managed to push three fingers in I could have felt some accomplishment, (whether I experienced pain or not), but nope. I feel nothing. Nothing but anger. Right now all I take from my time on that bed is the realization that I am never going to get those 15 hours back. I could have just as easily burned that $1,350 dollars, using the flames from the bills to keep me warm. At least then they would have been well spent.
I am so frustrated. I have seen countless specialists. I have been snipped. I have been lasered. I have been a science experiment for every gynaecologist, massage therapist and meditation/tantric expert. I have done everything, short of sewing my cunt up in the hopes of fixing my vagina. No matter what I try though I am left hurting and hopeless. I am even at the point where I no longer have any desire for intimacy. Oh I want it, I want to be intimate. I want to be fucked. I want to be used and violated and hot and sweaty and full of fantastic sexual endorphins. Rather what is more accurate is I want to want all of that. It is a dramatic statement; however, I can not deny that I feel as though a part of me has died.
I no longer want to even touch myself. I do not want to have an orgasm or be caressed on any part of my body cunt related or not. The idea of being sexual actually terrifies me because all I can think of is the pain. That fucking pain. What I wouldn’t give, in this moment, to be a masochist. To love pain for the sake of pain. Wouldn’t I just be the happiest slut ever.
I do not think I have ever felt such seething hate yet in this moment I loathe my vulva. I despise absolutely everything to do with my female reproductive bits, starting with the outside and working all the way in. I feel betrayed by the very skin I live in and there is nothing, absolutely nothing I can do to win this war.
I am tried of fighting. I throw in my white flag.