His mom was Ant's first wife. My mom was Ant's second and, at the time, current wife. So, we both called the same man "Dad."
From the time I was 11 until about 14, I took in three specific, harmful messages:
"My vagina stinks."
"He always chooses pretty girls."
"No one can ever know."
My romantic and sexual ecosystem quietly formed around the core beliefs:
"My body is bad."
"I will never be chosen."
"I will never be accepted, valued, protected, and understood."
Those are the voices that still remain the loudest when I'm hurt, afraid, embarrassed, rejected, guilty, confused, etcetera.
When my brain can't make sense of a thing, one of my oldest parts speaks up.
Her 11-year-old voice breaks when she whispers, then shouts,
"We'll never be enough."
More than any other version of myself, she is the one I wish I could meet and hold and offer wisdom, comfort, and perspective.
It's her eyes looking at me in the mirror.
It's her fears popping up in connections with men.
It's her innocence, innocence she never believed she had, that makes me so fucking ready to attack.
She took the ugliness handed to her and turned it inward because what else can an 11-year-old do?
I watched Practical Magic 2 today, and I cried more than expected, even for a crier like me.
I think what really, really got me was this idea that the curse can be broken. It will be. Love will be sweet again, not something to fear.
And life?
It's not one big ass redundancy.
It can get better, richer, fuller, but the only way to that light is through the shadows.
Exactly seven days from my 36th year, inching closer and closer to 40, I'm all nerve endings.
I cry a lot. I process out loud. I express anger, love, and desire. I'm fearful and radical. Unconventional, even. I hold and explore my contradictions, mess, and glory.
But most of all, I am safe.
Even when I feel as cursed as the Owen Sisters; as messy as Queenie Jenkins; as pressured as August and Miriam North; as alone as Eleanor Oliphant; as confused as Celie; or as fed up as Sofia, I AM HERE.
I am here.
Feelings aren't the house anymore.
They're weather.
And I am the house.
I am among complicated women. Not above them because I'm "healed." Not beneath them because I'm damaged.
Among them.
35 years, 11 months, 24 days later...
I am still here.
