Monday, March 22, 2010

why am i posting this!?

Dear Mikael,
if you read this before i see you tonight:
I wrote this, but i don't think i can share it at the coffeehouse. i'm sorry.

Mikael asked us to write our own vagina monologues based on the prompt "what would your vagina say if it could say two words" to perform at the women's coffeehouse for theatre of the oppressed. at first i felt weird about it. i felt like it reduced me to being my vagina. But in talking about it i realized that a great deal of my personal "heartache" does have to do with a kind of "vagina issue." I don't think i can share it though. i am not a real big sharer... as evidenced by the fact that i have given 4 people the url to this site.... i think it is just too deep in me to share like that. i'm not ready. but i will post it here. for 4 people to see. because i am ready for that. so here it is, my vagina monologue:

Why would you want to hear about my vagina? I guess you could say all women have a vagina monologue, and, since that is true, I just have a hard time thinking that you would care to hear about mine. There are much more important vagina monologues out there. Ones that are meaningful and actually heart wrenching and ones that can make you stop and wonder about the state of humanity. Ones that can make you laugh. Ones that are less pathetic than mine. I hate mine. I hate that it matters to me. I hate that no matter how hard I try to will myself, I can’t change it. And I hate sharing it right now.

When I was a kid I never went through one of those “boys have cooties” phases. I always liked the boys. Of course I put on the appropriate show for the rest of the class should we all have to hold hands for prayer or something. I would make faces and try to pull the sleeves of my sweater all the way down over my hands. I would make some loud proclamation about how I would need to wash the sweater the moment I got home. But secretly, I loved it. I loved holding hands. I loved that at the end of one of the songs in show choir I had to sit on Andrew’s lap and pose cheerily. I loved being assigned a swing dance partner. I always loved boys.

Around the time I turned 12 my parents told me that I was not allowed to “date” anyone until I was sixteen. I didn’t really mind. I couldn’t see the point of dating anyone when I was twelve anyway. Neither of us could drive or anything. What would we do? I was always rather practical…except for this one notion, which escaped my carefully executed logic and reason: For some reason I thought I would have someone to date when I was sixteen. I just assumed that by the time I was sixteen some handsome fellow would be waiting in the wings. That was not the case.

16 passed. So did 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. and 22. High school ended. College began. And ended. For a really long time I still believed that someone would want me. It was just around the corner. It could happen tomorrow. I watched each and every one of my friends get a boyfriend or a girlfriend. I listened to the stories of their first dates and first kisses. I rejoiced with them and I helped them put their hearts back together if it ended. I waited patiently for my turn. I had a lot of friends. I liked who I was. Other people liked who I was. I was appreciated as a good friend and as intelligent and talented. I still felt happy for a long time.

Most struggles become easier over time. We learn how to handle them and we can move on, but not this one. This struggle only gains fuel as time goes on because each day is another day that no one noticed you. I noticed a few people over the years, but they never looked my way, and I started to learn things. I learned that no matter how smart I was, or how supposedly talented, or how funny, or how interesting, or how many hours I spent hanging out after midnight, or how much time I gave listening, or how many other people who say you are perfect for each other, or how much of myself I shared with someone-- there would always be someone better. There would always be someone he wanted more. And I would find myself watching the two of them walk away together under the stars at our group camping trip, or I would see him at the airport and then I would see her and then I would watch him kiss her and not be able to move my eyes. Or he would move away without even saying goodbye to me. He asked my best friend to the dance. I became the consolation prize, time after time. If he couldn’t hang out with her, I would do.

And now I realize that it does not matter how many times I have been appreciated for my mind because no one even wants me enough to hold my hand. Let alone have anything to do with my vagina. And all I want in this world is for someone to hold my hand.

Lots of people have told me I am pretty, but I am not beautiful enough for anyone to want me. I mean really want me. To want my mind and my body. To desire me. Everything I am always adds up to a little less than the girl next to me. So he picks her. It’s simple math.

What would my vagina say if it could say two words? Nothing. It doesn’t have anyone to talk to.

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