As a very young child, I was being groomed to be a little "lady", under the watch of my military father who had rigid ideas of how girls are supposed to look and be, the picture completed with long hair adorned with yarn ribbons, which I totally despised. In rebellion, I spent my summers without shirts running around with the boys in the neighborhood, wanting to emulate their every move, which included standing to pee in the woods. I was very uncomfortable in the dresses my mother put me in for elementary school, not to mention the painful knots that had to be brushed out of my long locks; by the time I hit 3rd grade, I was about to change all that. This was the year of the Partridge Family and its star teen throb -- David Cassidy. I didn't have a crush on him like the other girls; oh no, I wanted to BE him.
Something that I've now come to appreciate about my mother back then is that despite the time period being the early 70's and her own generation's notions of what it means to be a girl, she did actually "get me" on some level. My plea as a 10 year old to have a short shag hairdo, just like ole Davie, was honored by my mother. She took me to my first hair stylist and I held out my Partridge family collector card with his picture and told the stylist I wanted to look like him. Arriving home feeling very free and proud of my new look, I was shunned by my father who mumbled loud enough to be audible "You look like a damn boy." And then there was the silent treatment that felt like an eternity. And this is where the confusion begins about the truth of my gender expression and what is "safe" versus what is "real".
I was a chameleon from this point forward until literally a few weeks ago, at the ripe age of 47. I spent my adolescent days desperately trying to fit in and to please my parents and dressed the part of a young woman, whose heterosexual duty was to attract a young man. This felt about as natural as donning a burlap bag. This "costuming" continued through the majority of my twenties and went hand-in-hand with my drunken one-night stands in an effort to bury my lesbian tendencies 6 feet under.
Putting the bottle down and "coming out" at 28 years old found me with my eyes more open yet not awake enough to let myself feel the fullness of who I really was. I returned to tomboyish clothes for awhile, though shaky with taking off the disguise I'd been wearing; shortly after this, I met the woman who would become my long-term partner and who I'd find myself wanting to please as I did my father -- out of fear of being abandoned thereby forgoing the truth of me and losing myself in her. She wanted a "feminine" woman, not some "bull-dyke". I couldn't tolerate her looks of disapproval when my appearance was not up to par with her standards of feminine. So I dressed for the part over the next 11 years. Until the relationship began to unravel and became abusive and the rage I had carried inside was being acted out on the outside -- passive-aggressively -- in the form of rebelling and hiding. Haircuts became increasingly shorter and more masculine. I frequented the boys department rather than the women's department in clothing stores. This was my "fuck you". To her. To my dead father. To me for allowing myself to give away my power.
After ending that relationship, I continued to hide beneath my boy costume. It was a suit of armour. It was my protection from being scrutinized and from being taken in. I dated femmy, narcissistic women who wanted me to swoon, grovel over, and care-take them. They were too consumed in themselves to notice me. This was safe because I could remain hidden.
Almost 2 years ago, two men in my kabbalistic program made comments to me about not being afraid of my femininity. I rejected those statements because I wasn't ready to hear them.
Not until I was ready to be noticed. To be met. To be fully seen. This has been the longing in my heart. This is the place I've landed today.
I am not under the spell or threat of anyone wanting me to be something other than exactly who I am. I am more centered and I have more of me. I'm interested in who I am and how I want to express that. I am just beginning to understand what is real for me. This is the product of kabbalistic healing and a commitment to staying with myself in the process.
I have given myself the freedom to explore what it means to be a woman and a dyke and a tomboy and how to make room for all of them to live in the same body. So far, it's been pink tank tops & cowboy boots. A few pastel tailored shirts. And a black bra with skinny straps. I actually feel sexy.
My healer calls this "The shining of K".
Here. I. Am.
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