For a long time there were certain things I never spoke about to anyone, and I do mean anyone.
Growing up in a household where nothing more serious was discussed than what chores needed to be done next, or if it was time to take a shower, or get ready for bed or dressed to go somewhere, or what things to pack for our summer vacation.. well you get the point.
Emotions were not discussed. How some things made me feel were never brought up. If something frightened me then it was as simple as not being exposed to whatever it was again, like a particular movie or television show for just examples.
My parents ruled. Well, more like my father ruled. What he said goes and it didn’t matter how we felt about it. It didn’t matter if I wanted to understand why, it was do it and that is all there was to it. Questions of why were frowned upon and if I insisted on continuing to ask then I was threatened with a backhand. I learned quickly not to ask and not to want to talk about anything.
So sharing some of my more intimate feelings with anyone was not something I did. Asking questions was something I found hard to do, even in school. If I didn’t understand something, I either let it go, or I struggled with it within myself until I either understood or thought I understood. In most cases, I accepted what I was told by adults as fact and never questioned the validity of it or why it would apply to me even when my instincts told me it didn’t apply.
I have three brothers so I was more of a tomboy than a frilly little girl which I found out later disappointed my mother. She had been looking forward to having a girl after the first two boys. A little girl to dress up, who wanted to play with little girl things, and wanted to do girly things, like a baton twirler. Unfortunately, she ended up with a little tomboy who wanted to do boy things who rarely had girls as friends and struggled with the baton and more often than not left it lying in her closet on the floor along with all the dolls she never played with.
When puberty came I was given a book to read and the only discussion I ever had was with my big brother who had also been given a book to read when he hit puberty. He had questions he wanted answered but like me never felt comfortable asking our parents, so he came to me thinking I would have the answers. In the end all I could tell him is the book I read didn’t answer that question. In those days we didn’t have the internet to look up such things and I couldn’t imagine looking it up in a library where anyone could see what I was reading about. Besides my parents would be in the library too, heaven forbid they ever see me looking up such things.
About a year after my period started I began having awful cramps. Nurses at school would let me lie down for only an hour telling me it was over now and go back to class. I tried to explain to them that mine would last for hours, not one hour but many hours but they didn’t believe me. The only reason my mother did was because she saw me going through it each month. Then one day I finally told her I wanted to see a doctor to make sure there wasn’t anything wrong. She took me to see a doctor who didn’t examine me, he just prescribed me pills which helped but always left a question lurking in the back of my head as to whether there was anything physically wrong with me.
My choice in life was basically to live in the dark until I was eighteen and moved out on my own. I didn’t talk to any of my friends, or ask them questions. The interesting part is when I went into the Air Force, I made an appointment with a doctor to talk about using the pill to stop the monthly pain since they had taken away my pills when I entered the service. There was no discussion, she handed me a pamphlet and said read it and come back to see her. I was flabbergasted to say the least. I walked out and for the first time told my roommate about what happened. She advised me to see the nurse practitioner since she could do all those things for me and she was nice. I went and sure enough she was nice. We talked and decided to try out the pill and that was the most of my discussions from then on out with any doctor for the pill stopped the pain. Made my monthly periods livable again.
This of course made me also comfortable with learning about sex. Sex became an exploration first of making a decision to lose my virginity and I chose someone I felt safe with both emotionally and physically. In other words, I knew he wouldn’t hurt me, and I also knew I would not become emotionally attached to him. I had been reading romance novels and from them I had an idea of what would go on and had learned the first time would be painful for most women both physically and emotionally because their first time would usually be with their first love. I decided if it was going to be physically painful I didn’t want it to be emotionally painful as well. It turns out it wasn’t either one for me.
I was surprised when the first time didn’t hurt when he penetrated me. I was also disappointed. I didn’t have all those rush of feelings and what they called an orgasm and it left me wondering what the big deal was. In other relationships where I fell in love, I was again disappointed. Most times, the foreplay, or playing around we did with each other long before we ever crossed the line into having sex was more enjoyable than sex, mainly because I would never reach an orgasm from sex alone. I could when I masturbated but I couldn’t when having sex. Touching myself in front of another was one of those taboo things that seemed to be ingrained from childhood and the men usually didn’t know precisely what to do to get me to peak. I also couldn’t find my voice to be able to tell them what I needed.
I never talked about these things with my boyfriends. We would have sex without discussing any of it, other than the boy sometimes would ask me if I came or if he was good or if I enjoyed it and even if I didn’t in whatever capacity he asked I would tell him I did so as not to disappoint him too. Besides the talk never came until after the act. I could tell the way they asked it was all about their ego, not about really pleasing me.
It wasn’t until later in my twenties when men would want me to discuss intimate things with them. Whenever they brought up the topic I would feel myself shutting down. My throat would close up, become like a tight knot where words just would not flow out. Breathing would feel difficult and I would find it difficult to look at him. I just couldn’t discuss these things.
I knew I needed to be able to talk about these things. I had known it for a long time. Each experience with a man had left me feeling as though something was missing and during sex I wanted things differently from how they were and yet I could never voice this to anyone. If I tried, my voice failed or my courage failed.
I kept hoping the next man would be different. I was sure the reason I couldn’t talk about these things was because I didn’t feel safe with him. I was also sure if I found the right man, my voice would suddenly be free and we would be able to discuss anything we wanted to without reservation and without judgement, that he would want to know me as deeply as he could. Just as I wanted to know him. However, this never happened and year after year, man after man, it was all the same.
I continued to not talk, to not speak about the things I felt deep inside. More and more I also didn’t understand why I felt these things when it seemed no one else seemed to feel the same way.
Eventually, there was a man who I opened up to about a lot of things through email. Writing this way made it easier than talking face to face, however, he was not someone I should have put my trust in. He used those things I told him to manipulate me into believing he was someone he wasn’t and was someone who really cared but he was a user and he took and took. In time I finally left.
This led me down a path of trying to understand myself better, wanting to know why I am so different from those I have grown up around and why I attract to me the men I do, or why I am attracted to the wrong men.
This is when I learned about submissives and dominants and when I finally opened my eyes to being submissive and the desires I have are related to being submissive.
I opened myself to one man, told him many things I have never told anyone. I was not mistaken in my trust of him. I was however mistaken in thinking he could be mine. I have accepted the fact that he was placed in my path for a reason. He calmed my fears in regards to what it means to have a dominant man. He helped me to understand dominance does not mean domineering or abuse. He was an important step in my understanding and acceptance of who I am. But we had to go our separate ways. This is the way of life. People are brought into our lives to learn, some stay a long time, some stay a short time, some just show us things in passing but regardless they are here to help us learn.
Now, I am faced again with opening myself to someone. Revealing to him, speaking openly with him about intimate things. Things which I have told only one other person. Then too I know if this progresses that I will have to learn to release my voice. Writing is easy. Speaking is hard. I can only hope that he will be patient, understanding, and maybe one day I will be able to speak without feeling the tightness in my throat or the solid rock weighing heavily upon my chest. Or be afraid to look him in the eyes.
I have opened up some in writing to him, however, I have left other things for hopefully being able to be said to him in person. Maybe not the first time we meet, but sometime along our journey together if it should go any further than our first meeting. I know I need to learn to find my voice. To be able to speak the words and not just write them down for someone to read when I am not present as if I never wrote it and he never read it. I need to release my voice and learn there is nothing to fear in using it. Just because my father didn’t want to hear my voice, does not mean another man will not appreciate the beauty in what it has to say.