you can take the girl out of repression, but you can't take repression out of the girl

I was in a workshop recently, during which at one point the subject of 'sexuality' became relevant. Not 'sexuality' in terms of gender and preferred sexual desires - but 'sexuality' in it's broader sense. And, I came to realise at that moment, that I really didn't know much about it at all - a fact which kind of scares me... but one that is not altogether surprising.

At one point we were challenged to grab a partner, and discuss with them our 'sexuality'. I had nothing, didn't know where to start - didn't even know how to fake it - I had no point of reference, no pearls of greatness to regurgitate from an outside source - zip. Realising, after some blank stares and red faces, that the facilitator really just wanted us to experience the awkwardness that can arise from the subject, I sighed in relief and tucked my chair into the desk, sat up tall and waited attentively for this lady to tell me what I should know.

During the partner theatrics, an amusing thought crossed my mind - I imagined myself standing up in the room and announcing "hello, my name is StrangeBird, and I suffer from unrequited love." Sometimes I think there'd be great relief in owning up to those feelings. But then, there's my familiar friend repression. It brought back memories of another equally confusing time.

When I was 'coming of age'... getting the boobs, the period... you know. Well, my Mum sat me down and tried to reassure me in her matter of fact kind of way that it was exciting to be becoming a woman. Congratulations she declared - I didn't feel like congratulations was in order.. as far as I could see, there was no real benefit to bleeding on schedule or being ridiculed by my class mates for having to wear a bra. Nothing cool about that at all... still fail to see the complete awesomeness of it all.

To accompany my small chat of avoidance, my Mum one day presented me with the stock-standard puberty book of the day - I can't even remember the title now, but it was something like 'So now what?... or 'What to expect?' When she gave me the book - she gave me strict instructions only to read the girl bits - and to help me avoid the naughty boy bits, she pegged the pages shut she didn't want me to read. Yep - that's right, I said pegged... I suppose I should've been grateful she didn't glue them - but then the shame of slipping away unseen with a large book on puberty covered in masses of pegs clipped to it, just wouldn't have been matched. So, by the end of the brief chat, not only was I scared, but also ashamed. I ran off with the book - immediately hid it behind my desk, whereupon some many days later I would brush off the dust and have a look. From memory I think I may have maneuvered some pages in such a way that I took a peek at the boy bits... but I still felt dirty for doing so.

Remembering this made me realise this is probably part of the reason I wasn't able to comprehend 'sexuality' it all it's complexities. This was just one moment, out of my whole life where the people around me, sheltered me and also themselves from the discomfort of awkward subjects. I can see now that my 'issues' with men, sex, body probably seeded from moments like these.

I guess the question is now, how to fix it? An answer I suspect, that will be a long time in the making, and probably not to be found in the procrastinations of this blog.

SB xx