History of Us, the Two Sides of Me: Above and under the Rug

I appreciate all the followers and likes my first post brought. Naively, I hate to admit, I thought these words would be lost in cyberspace for at least months, if not years, or preferably forever. I really am using this just to close a door that not enough of me wants closed yet. Ah, but if I have an audience, so be it. Maybe these words will be useful to someone, if not mildly entertaining…
So, since I’m feeling a little less swoopy and dramatic today, I thought I would back up a bit in my story and describe how I have come to this day. Only a few people in my life know these things about me, and there are a couple people I wish didn’t know. But, their knowledge is part of my story, so…
I am bisexual. That is only the second time I have ever typed those words. Ever. Part of this story is a coming out story, but only to you who do not know me.
Being bisexual (I am writing this as if I know more than I really do) is much different than being lesbian. I did not know this about myself when I was very young, in contrast with how my closest lesbian friends shared with me that they did know. I never had to go through feeling like an outsider, like something was wrong with me. I blended because I could blend, not because I had to in order to survive close-minded others.
Nor am I one of those wives, as my very-best-friend-in-all-the-world-who-happens-to-be-lesbian shared with me, who likes to have sexual interactions with other women on a whim. I don’t know what category they belong in, but that’s not me either.
0 a picnic
When I was eleven years old, I had a huge crush on “Birch”, the nurse at my Girl Scout camp for a week one summer. Every morning during breakfast announcements, I hoped, prayed, that she would come out–come to the front, I should say–so that I could just look at her. She looked like a boy. Tall, thin, short dark hair, with a shy and beautiful smile. I wasn’t smart enough to hurt myself, or at least pretend to, so I could make a trip to the nurse’s station. The thought never even passed my mind.
Then, when I was in college, I saw a picture of Amy Ray of the Indigo Girls and was aware of similar feelings. Her voice, her eyes. Oh my! My mouth waters just thinking of that woman! I’ve never been such a fan girl for anything or anyone…but Amy Ray is my one exception. If I could get by with hanging life-size pictures of her in my bedroom like a teen-ager, I would in an easy minute.

In both these situations, it was easy to just brush them aside, you know? Birch looked like a boy, and I was only eleven, so I was just confused. I loved Amy Ray’s voice the first time I heard it, and every time since then, so my feelings were brushed aside (by me) as a deep “music appreciation” experience. She is a genius, anyway.
I don’t remember having feelings for any of my friends who were girls. I had lots of crushes on boys, boyfriends in college, plenty of sexual experiences with them–enough for me, anyway.
After I married my husband, I had a lot of sexual issues come up for me. Much of it were falsehoods my mother taught me about men. You know how, when you are in an intimate relationship, all your shit comes up. Yeah, I was all over that one. Fortunately (and you’ll learn this about me), I’m a processor. I process the hell out of things that come up. Twenty years later, it’s automatic. Beats the heck out of pints of Haagen Daas, over and over and over again. Or alcohol. Chocolate is a different story…
Anyway, I was under the belief that when I processed all these sexual issues that I had (interestingly, my attraction to women was not even part of this process then…still swept quietly under the rug), I would be happily and merrily in love for ever after. But I never quite felt I was giving him all of me that I could. Or maybe that I wasn’t accepting all of him. Either way, something was awry.
I fantasize about women quite frequently, and nearly always have during sex with men. God, that’s one I’ve never typed before at all. It’s interesting to me because outside of my head, there is only rarely a woman that I feel attracted to. I probably should do a thorough Google search and learn more about bisexuality. I’m sure I don’t need to be reinventing the wheel here.
Anyway, when She came into my world, oh, dear god, I had to look under that rug, that lovely rug that I vacuumed on top, but swept dust underneath.
Please excuse me for calling Her “She”. Since I have accumulated an audience member or two, I thought I should come up with a pseudonym for Her. But I couldn’t think of one that does Her justice. Her own real name is so beautiful, so fitting, I couldn’t come up with another.
I will write more about where She came from, vaguely, at least, now that I know this is more public than I recognized initially. I wanted to first give a background, mainly to scare off those of you who are anti-bisexual or judgers of cheaters. I don’t like to use that word for myself, but, alas, it is what I did. That is another piece of this processing pie: Coming out, staying in, and moving forward.
Thanks for your eyes on this. It will keep me honest and earthy.
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One thought on “History of Us, the Two Sides of Me: Above and under the Rug

  1. Pingback: Vive la France! …Except, I Don’t Live There… | beijas

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