chosen wound

This is a letter to my lover, or to someone who was my lover, and I hope one day they’re my lover again. It’s about my chosen wound.

Dear one,

My chosen wound is partly about fatness. You know what the world does to very fat people. But it’s more about home and safety, and being preyed upon by men who were much older than me. Men who are mostly dead now, thank goodness.

Being considered unattractive by my peers, while being considered very desirable by men much older than me who wanted to prey on me, was uncomfortable.

content warning: sexual predation

There are layers to the harm, and it affects several areas of my life to this day. If we count all the teenage boys, and then the rapist who was 50 when I was 20, there are many boys and men who behaved badly. But the most harmful aspect is from when I was very little.

My grandfathers both molested me when I was around age three. I’m not sure why that happened, on both sides of my family, and it never goes well when I try figuring it out. Like getting into the mind of a shooter or serial killer– it’s best for me to avoid the psychoanalysis.

Harm that young… became part of how I see the world. I hope I’m wrong– I hope to heal the chosen wound bit by bit. My therapist says “but neuroplasticity.”

developmental

But the truth is, the way I see home, family, community / culture, sex, gender roles, my own body, other people’s bodies, power in relationships, and all the feelings around those topics– that whole entire mishmash of reality– was partly frozen at the developmental stage of a three year old.

I’m sorry to admit this, but it might help you understand the weepy, clingy, panicked pain you witness. It’s not age appropriate or appropriate to how brilliant and otherwise strong I am. You’re right–what you see me feeling and needing makes no sense. That’s because it’s based on the needs and feelings of a violated three year old child.

Most people (I hope) are fortunate not to exchange sexual energy with anyone until they’re teenagers or at least tweens. I didn’t have a choice about exchanging sexual energy with my grandfathers. You know those experiences weren’t done in a caring or skillful way. Necessarily, they were done with shame and violence.

There’s the non-consent sexual physical contact, but also the emotional-spiritual violation. And deep abandonment. If we imagine the grandfathers using me sexually, they didn’t then support me as I panicked afterward about the confusing event that just happened. Of course not.

So when you see my fear of abandonment being a 10/10, that’s partly why. I need aftercare that’s responsible and skillful after having sex in modern times. But I need magical aftercare as well, which reaches back through time to comfort my three year old self, panicking and possibly bleeding, crying, and alone.

survival

In addition to all that, my survival was wrapped up in being chosen. Because I couldn’t feed myself yet, or do other basics of life as a three year old, being chosen sexually by my caregivers was a matter of life and death. I mean that if I tried to refuse, the basics of life such as food and water were denied to me.

I’m sorry that’s horrific to say. It was my life.

When you see me panic over not being chosen, or panic over rejection or even partial rejection or perceived rejection, please understand that death-fears infect the chosen wound.

healing

This topic is super sad, and why am I telling you this? Maybe you could have compassion for me, or at least understand what I mean by the three year old part that I hope you’ll have mercy on and love.

My parents married when they were 19. My mom birthed me when she was 19. Both parents were partly stuck at the developmental stage of 19 year olds. Sometimes I marveled at their strange immaturity that caused errors in how they saw safety too.

Getting stuck at a stage is a thing. No one should be in a position to be stuck as a three year old around sex, in aftercare needs and emotional overwhelm. I’ve done amazing healing work through kink, and building stability in general. Yet pieces of the struggle are as difficult as ever.

You’ve mentioned confusion, and I hope this letter clears up some confusion.

worth it

I’m tired of my chosen wound. I’m exhausted, hoping you’ll love me more, so I get more space in your heart and in your life. So many close relationships– almost all of them– I’ve been the one who wants more. It’s exhausting to wait for the other person to decide I’m worth it.

Logically I know my worth is immeasurable– my strengths are shining. I’m a love goddess. Were deities ever easy?

One person’s choices don’t determine my worth. Your choices don’t determine my worth. But it never feels like a neutral question of needs and capacities. Thank you for understanding how it’s charged by fear and my insatiable hunger for safety and home.

light

The solution I see is to become less concerned about what you want, and mind my business. If I focus on my own life and projects, and diversify with friends, maybe one day you’ll want me in your bed again and close to your body.

But I can’t live for that. I need to nurture myself and do my thing. You may or may not choose me later.

But in a way that tactic feels like pretending. My heart is with you, in your zone 0. I wake up wanting you, wishing you’ll invite me to your trailer and ask me to take my shirt off. I’m wishing to hold you, kiss you, and let the pleasure of being near you flood me with light.

We can call it bonding hormones or NRE addiction. I call it the bliss of contact with the divine. I’m not making up the God that shines out of you.

Maybe I should try to see it as just chemicals. Or should focus on my spouse who knows me and loves me for real, in everyday support and disabled interdependence.

ask

But I’ve never felt toward anyone how I feel for you. The unique love is so intense, it’s disturbing. I protect it like a vulnerable being.

I could try to reframe my love for you as mundane hormonal urges, but I know better.

Would you do a difficult thing, and have compassion for the suffering three year old inside me? Not that you owe that to me, or owe anything to me. Not as a responsibility. But as a gift.

Not to the point of sacrificing yourself. But maybe bit by bit, you could trust me that my motivations are good. I think the confusing parts are about this damage, and some self-protective automatic shuffling I probably do, trying to hide the damage.

I can become more aware of myself. And I have this ritual planned which includes destroying bullshit ancestral soul contracts written by other people, and soul contracts I wrote under duress.

Contracts written by a three year old are going to be bizarre, right? Written in crayon on a placemat by someone who doesn’t have adult language yet. My E’s were probably backwards. Or it was just a scribble of greens, oranges, and pinks.

I’m happy to burn the contracts that are hurting me. I’ll let you know.

I love you, Nest