February 24th, 2015

One thousand-three hundred and forty six.

That equals to 3 years, 7 months and 24 days. It also is equivalent to 32,304 hours as well as 1,938, 240 minutes. Unfortunately it is also the number of days that have passed since the last time I experienced vaginal sex. This blink into reality came crashing down on me the other day when I had the grand idea to try to insert something into my misbehaved hole.

I had spent the morning training with my anal plugs, welcoming the slight burn as I moved from toy to toy,  when, quiet unexpectedly, I was tingling with arousal. As the blood rushed through my body, my hands quickly raced between my legs and without reflection I slid my index finger between my slick slit only to then push into my relentless, unforgiving cunt.

The pain was immediate as though I had felt the end of a searing blade slice through my abdomen. I had forgotten it would hurt. With my flesh all a tizzy with lust I failed to remember that orifice was unwelcoming. As I cautiously retracted from my vagina I watched the droplets of blood splatter onto the bathroom tile, a persistent reminder of my failing womanhood.  In those moments before penetration I was aroused, excited to explore my sexual hunger and then as I wiped the evidence of my torture from the cold floor, I could feel myself recoiling. No longer did I wish to touch, that all too familiar disappointment in myself consuming all thoughts of pleasure.

I have a hole that serves no purpose. I have a womb that will never house a life. Sometimes, in those dark cryptic moments of sexual isolation I wonder why I was ever born a girl. I feel frustrated and betrayed, oddly not so much by my body this time but rather my mind. You see it tricked me. It allowed me to forget I had a broken cunt only to remind me with such cruelty.

My lesson has been learned. Next time I will not forget.




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When physical pain holds emotional pain hostage.

January 10th, 2015

I am uncomfortable with feeling. Feelings which come from sadness, happiness and or even arousal. It does not matter where the sensation derives from I am awkward in experiencing them. When I look at my past I do not recall this unfamiliarity and yet I can not pinpoint the exact moment everything shifted. I have my ideas mind you and although there is no data with facts and statistics I think it is safe to say this peculiar phenomenon started when my body began to hurt.

The last two years have been challenging. My body has had to fight a great deal in order to be healthy and although I am confident I am moving forward strong, I can not deny that my previous ailments have affected my person. My entire person. When we are ill it is not just the flesh that experiences trauma, our psychological health is also affected. Of course in our moments of crisis we rarely consider our feelings, those quiet emotions that tell us when we are sad or lonely or afraid or even happy. We do not have time to focus on the emotional wounds and so we forget about them, leaving them to heal without  attention. Unfortunately our neglect often leads to hardened scars, the ones that still prickle long after the injury has healed.

I can not imagine anyone wanting to ignore how they feel. I think it happens out of necessity. When the body aches, when every bone and muscle and tissue is riddled with constant pain it is nearly impossible to think of anything else. The physical pain does not negate the emotional it is simply that a person can only fight so many battles. A person can only invest x amount of attention to one thing and when a constant acute pain runs rampant through your body I assure you it consumes every waking thought, often even the sleeping ones.

A scientist at heart I dare not assume my lack of emotional connection is a causation of my constant physical pain; however, I will say there is an absolute correlation to the two. Perhaps my withdrawal from feeling is a result from wanting to shield myself from feeling anything more, even if that means moments of joy. This does not mean I do not feel anything. I still laugh, although I admit it is not as often. I also do not cry.  I also refuse to allow myself to experience tears anytime I have felt physical pain and looking back there were times when the pain was overwhelming. When I ached to the point where I thought death would feel better. This does not mean I wanted to die I merely wanted the pain to end. When you hurt, when everyday movements cause you to wince, to hold your side, to gasp in shock it is difficult to want to wake up. It is difficult to want to do anything but we have to. Movement, engaging, participating in the day reminds us, reminds me of how beautiful life is and it is beautiful.

So if I know this, if I understand just how precious life is, why is it that I remain shielded? Have I pushed emotions so far away they simply are out of reach? It isn’t that I do not want to relish in a fit of giggles or even bathe in a shower of tears. I do. All sensations are welcome I just do not know how. Bizarre really. I do not recall ever being taught to feel, it was something I just did. Why then am I unable to do it now? Perhaps, as my body grows stronger I will regain what I have lost. I can certainly hope so.


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