A Bigger Ass, Love, Insecurity & Sex With Men.
{Photo via Tumblr}
By Amy Jones
I sat alone contemplating my ass.
Oh, if it were just bigger, he would have liked me.
“No,” the Voice says, “it’s not that.“
I stare into the mirror and see myself, but I don’t see my Self. It’s as if a blur has taken hold of my eyesight; the morning blindness of a deep sleep that was disturbed by something less important, something less than a dream.
I thought that I was over this. I thought that I was over blaming my body for things I did and did not have.
“Remember when that guy gave you gonorrhea?” the other voice says. “Remember how you thought that because you two had a spiritual connection that you were safe from disease and pain?“
Right. I remember. I re-member. I mourn that to this day, as I am still re-membering the pieces of my body that I chopped and cut.
I destroyed my breasts and my womb with my thoughts. How could I forget? I fantasized that I was Isis and he was Osiris, the Lover healing her Beloved. Only now, I realize that I was Seth — the one who destroyed it all out of jealousy and rage.
“I think you have endometriosis,” she says.
“Oh,” I mumble quietly, coming back into the room.
“Why don’t we try birth control to help your hormones?“
“No,” I say.
“Are you using protection?” I shake my head. She is angry.
“You should be ashamed,” her eyes say accusingly. I hear her thoughts.
“Isn’t it enough that you had an STD and HPV?“
“Reel it in, sister,” I think to myself. “Stop judging me. You too, have been here before. Besides, my choices were all out of love — or so it seemed. I never said No to them. I never put myself first. And here I am, sitting in your office being judged once again.“
“Why are you here?” I think to ask her. “To make up for the mistakes you made?” I am upset now.
But I say nothing, and let her examine me.
I wonder what the difference is between her and most of the men I’ve slept with. She is angry and between my legs. I am shut down and receiving her.
She moves to my breasts. I decide to compliment her earrings.
She shifts and becomes light and soft. She is partially human now. I realize I am scared of her. She reminds me of my mother. I want her to like me, regardless of my choices. I want her to see that I am sorry for all the things that I have done to my body. It dawns on me.
I think I am older than she is. I am embarrassed now of the life I have lived.
I think of my grandmother, my mother’s mother, who always told me, “Good girls don’t do this and that.” I think that I must feel like my mother did when she was growing up — never good enough, never loved — my grandmother competing with her all the time.
“Don’t you think your mother has more wrinkles than I do?” she asks me.
“Didn’t you get a face lift?” I snap back. She turns up her nose; the same nose that was beaten and broken several times by an ex-husband.
“No man is ever good enough, according to your mother,” she says curtly. Yet every man won over my grandmother’s children, even the ones that beat her.
I am back in the exam room. My heart is aching for my mother and my grandmother.
I feel so sad. I look at the doctor, and now, I see an empty woman just like me. I lie and tell her I will think about birth control, just so she favors me.
“I’m just not sure, as I’m hoping to have a baby soon,” I say. She looks at me one more time. “Yes, you will be a good mother,” the Voice says.
I leave her office and start to cry. I call one of my girlfriends to tell her of my sadness. We talk about the doctor and the exam and how it made me feel. We talk about our mothers, and our mothers’ mothers, and their mothers, and their sisters, and our sisters, and soon, we are talking about every woman on the planet.
We are speaking of jealousy and envy, competition and self-worth; insecurity and loneliness; love and sex and men. And somehow, through the grace of our pain, we are speaking of the Sacred Wound.
*****
Amy Jones is a force to be reckoned with. As a writer, teacher and singer, Amy dreams up ways of putting into words the magic of life that often gets lost, as we grow wiser. Fiery, passionate and with a child-like Spirit, Amy can be found writing poetry (The Blue Oracle and The Cave of Woes, 2015 publishing date), teaching and traveling the world. She makes her home in Los Angeles and Santa Fe — close to the desert for retreat, and near the ocean to sail the seven seas. Find her musings on her blog.
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