Woman on Fire (7 page)

My first sexual experience, at a primal level, was a rape. It took me years to call it that. Many sexual assaults happen like that. Some people could judge it as something else. It took years more to look at the complexity of that experience, the gender role conditioning that made my boyfriend do what he did, and why I couldn't stop it or speak up for myself with my lack of skills, knowledge, or support, and how alone and scared I felt afterward. It was not an empowered way to inaugurate my sexual life with partners. But it happened, and that's my story, right?

Not necessarily. There are so many stories within the story.

I would guess that if I could talk to that boyfriend today, he probably remembers it very differently. I'm sure he probably has a different narrative about how we began that early sexual relationship and what it meant for him. He, too, was a victim of sexual ignorance and a total lack of sexual vocabulary or communication skills. He wouldn't be able to explain the idea of consent. For me, I suddenly found myself in a sexual relationship at thirteen years of age that I didn't have the emotional capacity to comprehend, that I was unprepared for and didn't want, yet I didn't know what to do about it. None of my friends talked about sex, and all of the girls made it seem like they weren't having it. I was sure I was the only one. My emotions were in a storm, and my teen dating war with my protective military dad was on. Since I had almost no experience in my young life and I didn't know any better, I rationalized the relationship in all sorts of ways, ultimately telling myself that this must just be what boyfriends and girlfriends do.

That experience was pivotal for me and remains important to my life experience. Everyone has a “first time” story. Firsts can be so fun . . . yours might have been. Mine was confusing and painful. How do your stories of “the first time” impact how you view sex today? Or yourself? Or your lovability? I've turned my experience around. I don't feel like a victim, because I have an educated, adult understanding of why that first time went down the way it did. I'm actually grateful for all it taught me. That's my story today.

Today I enjoy toying with new sexual firsts as a way of reclaiming agency over “my first time.” Sometimes we need to do that for ourselves. There are always more firsts to have and new stories to write. You have many firsts that inform who you are sexually. Who you are as a sexual person developed over time with your experiences in becoming aware of your body, experiencing pleasure, orgasm, first love, first sex, understanding gender and your sexual
identity, and so much more. These are the tales that make up your collective sexual story, your sexual lifeline.

If we can share our story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can't survive.

—B
RENÉ
B
ROWN

As I mentioned, it's important to assess how and to whom you want to tell your story. You might choose to share it with a friend or a lover whom you trust as you test the waters and see how it feels. Maybe you process a lot out loud, as I do. For me, it has been essential that I express my story to people with whom I felt emotionally cared for in a context where I can talk about it and gain deeper understanding. If this is the case for you, find the right people to be your confidants, therapists, and healers.

Writing about your story is another important way to tell it. You might write in a personal journal just for yourself, giving yourself space to lay it out. Some people come to a place where they are comfortable blogging or even publishing their stories. Not everyone will choose to come out about their story in a public way as I am doing here in this book. I could not have shared my story so openly years ago. It was a process to be able to do so. I would advise that you use caution if you decide to blog or write publicly about your sexual story. You may indeed find you are not ready for your story to be forever in print for the world to read. You may never be, and that's okay.

WRITE YOUR SEXUAL STORY

Just write it for yourself, not for an audience. You can start it with “My first memory of my sexuality was . . .” and just go. Let it all out. See what is revealed. For some people, their sexual story is painful and this is not an easy task. Part of healing the painful parts is bringing them out and not staying alone with them. Often, as you dig deeper, you will find the golden parts and the joy.

CONSIDER WRITING ABOUT:
sexual firsts, how you learned about desire, arousal, what you discovered about sex and how, meaningful relationships, your relationship to your body, family beliefs about sex that you had to work through, places of sexual shame, your sexual identity, your experience of gender, sexual power, attraction, pleasure, and orgasm.

Some people have intense sexual stories that are hard for people to hear or even believe. I worked with a woman who had a multilayered sexual story of abuse that touched me deeply. I've heard a
lot
of stories, and hers was troubling on many levels. She was committed to her process of healing and was using art to do it. This had been a lifelong process for her. She used her photography and dance to heal her stories, sharing them through photographic portraits that allowed art to tell the story. Art changes people's lives, and it was this woman's lifeline. She built her life around her art and was committed to finding her voice through art because her story was hard for people to hear and believe and she needed this outlet for it. She was slowly finding her way in real-life relationships and working on finding ways to trust—herself first, and then others. I admired the way she cared for herself in her healing process. Art is a great healer. How might you use your favorite art form (visual art, music, dance, drama, writing, performance) to explore or share your story?

There are many events that have succeeded in giving people the space to actually speak about their violations—the “unspeakable things”—publicly. Take Back the Night (TBTN) is an event that uses the testimonial model to give survivors of sexual assault and abuse a platform where their stories can be spoken and heard. I cofounded Take Back the Night at New York University in the nineties and have attended many TBTN events over the years. I have seen the profound impact storytelling has on both the people who speak and the listeners. I've seen many people tell their stories for the very first time because they felt supported to do it, a first step in their healing process: witnessing.

I've also seen people who tell their stories over and over, year after year, wearing them as badges of honor. In these cases, the act of storytelling ceases to be empowering. A person can begin to identify so strongly with the role of victim that it keeps them in a perpetual state of victimhood that does not allow for growth. Your story may need to be processed further and retold. Tell it as many times as you need to work through it, but at some point, boldly redefine it so your story can change to one that empowers you.

The Vagina Monologues
is a play that has been very popular for more than twenty years, produced all over the world. I believe its popularity stems from the fact that it breaks the silence about our sexual bodies and the history that goes with that oppressive silence. It dares women to utter words like
vagina
and
cunt
with pride, tell stories they'd never dared tell and to do so with confidence—even if the stories are not their own. The actors almost always connect with something personally in each monologue. Often the experience of revealing these stories theatrically gives the actors more courage to tell their own stories.

I traveled for years teaching workshops around
The Vagina Monologues
and V-Day events (designed to raise awareness about sexual violence at Valentine's Day), in which I got people talking about the issues raised in the play. My favorite workshop was “My Own Vagina's Monologue,” in which I helped women write their own version of their vagina's monologue, giving them a platform on which to tell it—which most of them welcomed. It is a courageous act for any woman to break her silence about her own sexual body and herstory.

Today one of my favorite and most recommended storytelling events is Bawdy Storytelling, organized in several U.S. cities by Dixie De La Tour, in which real people tell real stories about sex, relationships, desire, and the body. It is powerful both to witness and be witnessed in the humor, pain, frustration, angst, and celebration of our sexual stories. There are other similar events too, so if one comes to your area, go. It's a treat.

MY OWN VAGINA'S MONOLOGUE

Write a monologue from the perspective of your own vulva/vagina. What would she say? What does she want us to know?

Try freewriting using any or all of the following prompts:

• My favorite word for vagina/vulva is . . .
  
• My vagina/vulva desires/craves/wants . . .
  
• I want more than anything for my vagina/vulva . . .
  
• My connection to my vagina/vulva is . . .
  
• My vagina/vulva makes me feel powerful because . . .
  
• When my vagina/vulva heals, I will . . .
  
• An important memory I have about my vagina/vulva is . . .
  

Pilar was an accomplished woman from the Caribbean. When she came to work with me she told me what many women do: that she had done a lot of self-development work and felt powerful in her life and as a businesswoman in so many ways, yet she had not tackled her sexual power. It was time.

When I started this work I had no sexual voice—I was unable to express my wants and needs in both physical and emotional contexts. Although I perceived myself, and was always perceived by the public, as an accomplished, fulfilled, and confident woman, behind closed doors I was still shy, afraid, and believed that I was undeserving and unworthy of recognition and acknowledgment. Accordingly, in the bedroom, and by extension in relationships, part of me still reverted to the meek child from middle school who never asked for what she wanted, never expected to get it anyway, and was always willing to compromise and accept less than I deserved. I began to recognize my passive-aggressive tendencies and realize that I never seemed to get what I wanted because I was afraid to ask for it. The resentment I would feel as a result of this immobilized me—throwing me back into a cycle of feelings of unworthiness, depression, anger, and self-blame/pity. Despite years of therapy, counseling, spiritual work, yoga, and meditation, I did not realize that at a core level of my being, this was my default mode in all of my relationships. Mind you, not that anyone else would have seen that—in romantic or sexual relationships I was always perceived as cold or unfeeling, when I actually was simply immobilized by fear.