sex

I've been avoiding the computer.
Because what I have to write about is sex.
And sex is not "appropriate."  But appropriate for what?  For children, okay.
But for adults?  How is it hidden?  Why is it hidden?
Who am I afraid to offend?
Hell, this is a blog about a woman who eats and throws up her food on purpose.
 Gross?
   Inappropriate?
      Raunchy?
         Life?

It is not the sex that is significant.
It is the panic clench which comes after it.
It is the crying.  It is the body trembling.
It is the compulsive smoothing back of stray hairs in effort to compose an unraveling form.
It is the rapid breathing and never enough oxygen.
It is the Lydia voice, which is self-loathing-in-Cruela Deville-form, who comes roaring at me from every corner of the room.  She pushes on my body until I am in origami fetal position.  Everything is sharp.  There is no perspective distance between myself and every other object in the room.
She drips acid from the corners of her lips as she hisses,
"How dare you put yourself in this position.

Origami Lydia

See how disgusting you are.
You can't trust anyone.
You are not worth saving, not worthy of gentleness.
What you want doesn't matter.  How you feel doesn't matter.
You are an object.  You are a performer.  You do not exist.
It is easier this way.
Why would you ever hope for anything more.
Stay down....this time....stay down."

These are the same thoughts I hear each time I approach the toilet to purge.
Eventually they were distilled into, "You know you have to."

This is not my husband's fault.
This is 17 years worth of programming.  Programming I allowed.  I accepted, because I thought it would make things easier.  I thought it would make me Beautiful.  Simple.  Manageable.

I haven't felt this way in years.



On Halloween night it came raging back and filled me.  I thought I was rid of it.  But there was more.
I let it come. 
It started with me holding my breath.  Trying not to cry.  Pressing face hard into the mattress.
"My body wants to cry."
Let it cry.
Quiet into the sheets it seeped, fiber by fiber.
Then gained in substance to a moan and gasping for breath.  I need more air to make this voice.
Still trying to hold it in...no...let it come.
Then it bellowed out in rolling waves like the ocean during a storm.
I was startled by its force. 
I sat up cross-legged and slid palms over forehead and across hair over and over.  Trying to smooth myself.
Keep it together.  Keep it together. Breath.
Scared of myself.  This is real.  Let it come.
All identities outside of this moment do not exist.

Is my body grieving her abuse?  Her prison I put her in? 
Is she telling me it hurts...she wants out?

I don't know.
I want to be able to explain all of it, but I can't.  Not now.  Maybe not ever.
How do you explain grief?
I want to, but it's not necessary.

When I first met my husband Andrew, I warned him,
"Sometimes I fall in a hole.  I become Lydia.  It's like my brain is screaming.  I can see everyone outside of the hole, being normal, but I can't get to them.  I can't do anything, and everything is dark.  I shut down.  It's not your fault, but I just want you to know."

He was quiet for a minute.
Then he said,
"I guess I'll just have to learn to love Lydia too."

And he amazed me once again.
No one had ever approached my snarling dogs this way.
"Ok," I said and cried a few tears.

On Halloween night he let me cry.
He did not try to fix it.
He held me, he held Lydia.