Sexual (dis)Orientation
When I was 14 years old, I told my mother I was bi-sexual. It was 1989. I lived in a small, middle class, homogenous suburb that consisted of a large population of Italian Americans. It was a dominantly Catholic community. It was not at all the norm, and certainly not acceptable, to challenge the sexual status quo. Lucky for me, my mother did not respond with anger or tell me she was going to disown me. Unlucky for me, she responded with something that was equally as painful – dismissiveness. She told me it was just another phase and it too would pass. At the time, I believed her opinion didn’t have an influence on me.
Throughout the years, my mother continued to unintentionally dismiss my sexuality. When I fell deeply in love with a woman and entered into a long-term relationship with her, my mother maintained her stance of “it’s a phase.” In my thirties, now a mother myself and in a long-term relationship with a man, she chalked my sexual orientation up to “being easier to love a woman than a man – like I was copping out by loving a woman.” Now in my 40’s, I imagine she might say a similar thing.
During high school, I was in relationship with a boy. I shared with him my attraction to girls, but it didn’t amount to anything other than this admission. By the time I entered college, I felt torn between these two versions of myself – the heterosexual one and the homosexual one. I had not met anyone who was openly bi-sexual, therefore having no models for how to navigate sexuality with more fluidity. I felt like I had to choose one side or the other. This choice didn’t effect only who I was intimate with, it fully affected my lifestyle – the friends I had, the clothes I wore, the way I walked through the world.
It wasn’t until my mid-twenties, 8 years into performing as a full time lesbian, that I shared with my lesbian friends the attractions I had towards men. Overnight, many of my peers began dismissing me as “not a real lesbian.” It was then that I started to feel the effects my mom’s initial dismissiveness had on my psyche. As I opened again to intimate relationships with men, I felt isolated. My coping mechanism was to flip back to the other side. As I began dating men, I transformed back into the heterosexual, “pretty” girl that was molded by a lengthy rulebook of disempowered strategies. I didn’t understand how to include all of me. The pendulum swung back and forth, with me honoring one part of myself while abandoning the other.
How do we express all aspects of our sexuality?
Where is the safe space to do this?
After years of searching for the answers to these questions, there is one very important discovery I made. The answers will never be found outside of ourselves. We have to learn to cultivate an inner sense of safety and self-acceptance. From this place of unwavering support, we can then express ourselves with confidence and authenticity.
At 30, when I entered into a relationship with my husband, another question presented itself.
Once we fully accept our sexual fluidity, how do we get our desires met in a monogamous, long-term relationship?
Monogamous translated to me as, “there is no place for attraction to others.” I harbored so much guilt and shame when I was attracted to other people. This led to intense sexual repression. I became less willing to share my desires. The result was immense stagnation of my sexual/ creative energy. My passion paled and I became a shell of me. I passively let my unconscious fears dictate the terms of my partnership. This was devastating to myself, as well as my marriage.
Over the years, I used movement to come home to my body. Brazilian dancing and contact improvisation in particular helped me feel safe to move in a way that was authentic to me. These practices awakened my sexual flow and created more spaciousness and freedom of expression. I began letting my body (instead of my mind) tell me how I felt. I used these sensations as a barometer for making choices. I began to dress for me, to feel beautiful for me. I chose to do things in my day simply because they felt good.
I awakened my sensuality and self-trust through letting my body guide me toward pleasure and following those impulses. The more I did this, the more alive I felt. The more alive I felt, the more connected to my true sexuality I became. I nurtured myself from the inside first creating a sense of safety that I could then bring into my intimate relationships. Because I knew how to create safety for myself and bring myself back to safety within moments, I was willing to open and be more vulnerable. It is here that I was able to fully express all aspects of my sexuality. It is in living in full integrity with myself that I bridged the gap and fully opened the channel of my sexual flow and power.
Dare to Desire!
Kristen