Turning 30—With Orgasm

by OneTaste Living Library  Sep 27, 2013

I turn 30 on the 20th. Having newly discovered that I am worthy and deserving of everything I want, and no longer needing to compare, degrade, or harshly criticize my body or myself, I decided to celebrate this milestone birthday in a special way: every day for 30 days, I am posting pictures from each year of my life, seeing the hate, the judgments, and the fears that held me in their grip, and sending love back to each version of me, the culminated experiences of which have created the person I am today. I am writing love letters to myself.

Looking at each of these photos, I see how much there is to heal, and how much withholding love from myself hurt—it is like I can see the void, the holes where the love should have been. It is not that I did not have love or receive love from others, it is that I couldn’t feel it, and no amount of love or affection could fill that void because I was like a leaky bucket. Yes, there are moments of joy depicted in my childhood, but mostly, I catch this look of confusion, and sadness back in the depths of my very dark eyes. They seem impenetrable, like I was protecting myself against the pain I somehow knew was to come.

And later, the emptiness was filled in with hate that I took in and directed at myself. I see the transformation from shy, retracted, and serious child to chubby preadolescent to overweight teenager. Through each awkward phase, the dissociation from my body and the distance grew, the space between filled with loathing and pain, and horror that it was my lot in life to be stuck in a body as unlovable and unattractive as mine.

Then, in college, I started to learn how to feed and care for my body—how to show it love through nourishment. In doing so, I patched a few holes in my bucket. I began to feel some love for myself, but it was always relative to where I had been, a “You’ve come a long way, baby,” kind of a sentiment. In relationship to other women, I still felt less deserving of attention and less attractive. Next to another thinner, prettier woman, I would always be the second choice.

But since I starting OMing nine months ago, I have stripped away, layer by layer, stroke by stroke, the false assumptions, conditioning, stories, and fears, and I have come upon the truth: not only am I worthy of love, I AM love. I am perfect, not broken, and working toward improvement. Seeing that has stopped the trickle of love that I was still leaking and losing out on, and now I feel full.

From this place full of orgasm, I see now what I couldn’t see then: I have always been beautiful. Yes, there were awkward times, growth spurts, and not-so-great decisions. Beauty ain’t always graceful.

As I look at those pictures, looking at 1 and 12 and 23-year-old me, at the smaller version of my hands that type this story now, I find myself asking, is that really ME? Because it feels like another person altogether. I can drop into the emotions and the experiences, can find their location in my body, and yet... it doesn’t feel like me. I feel like a completely different person. I feel all the feelings, the discomfort, the fear of rejection, the idea that I am not good enough—and they have lost all charge, almost all meaning. It feels like they belong to the mask of a person I have stopped trying to be.

Even my eyes have changed color. Whereas once they were impenetrable, an outer wall of defense, they are now lighter, reflective, sparkly, and alive. They are an invitation, a beckoning in to see me, and the love that lives inside.