Look at my body. What do you see? You read my words, but do you hear me? My face, my form. Blessings and curses. Ready-made excuses to use and dismiss. I get out ahead of it. Here I am! My mind and my heart! It’s still for nought. I am still just a face and a form.
I feel things. Lots and lots of things. I’m what you’d call a sensitive person, but not in the pejorative sense, in the objective sense. I am sensitive.
I smell the sunshine and hear the leaves, I taste a whisper and see the music. My entire being is made to filter every atom of this universe and it is hard. It is hard to feel this way and be a normal person when every raindrop might burn like a wildfire.
This is not a disorder, it is a state of being, a movement. It is my muse and my soul.
I know I’m not like other people – that much is clear – but I am not wrong. I am just different. I think ahead and I listen, I peel off my own skin and put on yours and flex my fingers and wriggle my toes. How does it feel to be you?
But how does it feel to be me? How does it feel to be this pulsing mass of cells that cannot switch off save for that liquid vice that gently dulls the world and turns down the volume? How does it feel to need to connect and relate, but abhor intimacy?
It feels like Hy, I suppose.
Hy is out there and sharing and she is bold. She is sexy and powerful and quick and kind. She holds her space here and elsewhere, but she is also alone. Hy is misunderstood and vilified. She is assaulted because of her looks and her swagger, devalued because she “is asking for it,” or “too quick to give it away.”
Hy fights the good fight every day, blocking and talking, trying so hard to put on that skin, but she is tired. I am tired.
I am tired of the sadness which falls about me like mist. It’s not a downpour, I am not depressed, I am sad.
Sad because I am fucked up, sad because I am alone, sad because I cannot trust, sad because no one wants to put on my skin and flex their fingers and wriggle their toes.
Yesterday my shrink gazed at me shrewdly, gathered her thoughts. “You of all people know what this is about, Hy. You have got to figure out a way to separate this out. Other people aren’t like you and you know this, yet the pain you feel is enormous. There has got to be a better way for you to do this, to enjoy what you do for what it is.”
We talked about my anxious, insecure attachment, the unknown, unmemorable, yet tattooed trauma of my early life which drives me to connect and leaves me in emotional darkness the next day because I feel rejected for any numerous reasons – real or imagined. My dark side of the moon.
I am reluctant to open up to a man sitting across from me, but I welcome his cock into my body. This has long been my pattern to achieve intimacy and I am unapologetic about it; it feels good. It has also been a long-time pattern to choose unavailable men. Men across the world, too young, too busy, too whatever so that they may never ask for more than what’s between my legs.
It’s in that space between, that place where I know exactly what I’m doing and what to expect, that I yearn and keen and cry for my loneliness despite being the designer of it all. And so to control for it I present to you this woman who is fearless and potent, desperate to believe that others can and will see past it, though rarely any do.
I am treated as less than, cast aside in so many ways by both those who matter and those who don’t at all. Strangers on the internet calling me a fucking moron for defending myself and setting boundaries, men I’ve slept with disappearing from corresponding for days without a word. Sometimes they can all get caught up in the same gust of emotional spinning, though they are not remotely the same.
The men who are quiet have done nothing wrong – they owe me nothing, as I owe them nothing – but my sad little lizard brain sinks its teeth into that expanse and I hurt. I roll around in it and soak it in like sun upon a rock.
As I breathe each breath and walk through this life I am sensitive – far too sensitive for what I do to myself. I ride too hard and expect the utterly wrong things. A penis in my vagina triggers panic, a system reboot to the little girl who only wants to be seen and acknowledged just as the wanton woman the night before was so very clearly seen.
It’s that little piece between me and what I know to be reasonable that squirrels under my skin and festers like so many maggots until I am rotten and sobbing for attention. I know that’s my hurdle. It’s not the men themselves, it’s how I react to them waking up well-fucked, sleeping in, playing football with friends, finally checking their phone at 8 pm and maybe saying Hey, how’d you sleep? It’s how I react to touching the stars with them one night and being back on Earth the following day.
I know my feet are firmly planted, I can feel the blades of grass on my bare skin, but my heart is still at the theater, center stage with roses at her feet smelling the sunshine.