As a fair warning, some of the stuff I write is considered erotica so if you're reading at work or are one of my family members, you may just want to skip this page or skip over those pieces.
All writings are copyrighted by me so please be respectful.
I am the child confused by the world.
The one who learned to disappear.
I am the daughter who never quite knew her place within the family.
The perfect child who just wanted to make everyone happy.
I am the Mother who grew up with her son.
The one who always found a way.
I am the writer struggling to find her voice.
The one who kept it hidden inside journal after journal.
I am the photographer who feels like a tourist.
The one who struggles to find her confidence in the composition.
I am the butch on the street.
The one that makes you question, “Is that a man or a woman?”
I am the dyke on the bike.
The one moving fluidly between both genders.
I am everyone’s brother and no one’s lover.
A solitary being with a simple desire to love and be loved.
I am unlocking the doors.
Dismantling the walls.
I am learning to love myself.
Living out loud.
There’s an image in my mind of a woman dressed in a soft, silk nighty with a flowing dark red robe that reaches only as far as her mid thighs. She answers my knock and takes me by the hand. Without a word she pulls me into her arms while closing the door behind me. Her arms wrap around me, mine around her waist, both holding tightly. Her hand cups my head as she nuzzles into my neck and breathes me in. We stand in this warm embrace for a few moments. Gently, she pulls away, looks into my eyes then leans in to kiss my forehead. Without words she knows what I am feeling.
Silently she leads me down the hallway to her bathroom where a warm bath awaits. She helps me undress then reaches for a washcloth while I climb into the wonderfully warm water. Slowly my body begins to relax and release the tension that has been building for the past 40 years on this planet. All of the stress, the worry, the frustration, the anger, the pain, the unbearable pain, begins to melt away.
I am tired. So tired. She knows this. In the silence she bathes me. I close my eyes and hear only the sound of the bathwater. The gentleness of her touch sends me deeper into the sense of relaxation. Tightened and tense muscles soften and grow heavy.
She finishes bathing me then leaves the room for a few minutes. Sitting in the complete silence amongst the candles and the dimness of the room, I simply breathe. A tear rolls down my cheek as even more frustration dissipates. She left because she knows I cannot cry around others and I needed more then anything to release those tears. The release exhausts me.
She returns to the room just as I’m preparing to step out of the tub. The warm towel she wraps around me smells of lavender. As I lean against the wall she gently dries me off, wraps the towel around me tightly then uses another to dry my hair. I look into her deep blue eyes and pull her close to me. Her smile is so beautiful. Her skin is so incredibly soft. She leans into me and kisses me gently.
Laying the towel across the edge of the tub, she takes hold of my hand and leads me to her bedroom. The downtown lights shine through the large windows creating a light glow in the room. Exhausted, I fall onto the bed after dropping the towel onto the floor. A moment later I feel her straddle my back. With a bit of warm oil she begins to massage my back and shoulders.
Feeling the remaining knots in my muscles begin to dissipate I begin to drift off to sleep. She lies beside me, slips her arms around me and pulls my head to her chest. Her warmth and love completely surround me as I drift off to sleep.
© Wendi Kali 2010
One afternoon in December of 1969 my biological mother gave birth to me. She was young, un-wed and it was 1969. Because of these facts and a few others, it had already been decided that I was to be given up for adoption. So when I was born, my mother was only able to hold me just long enough to count all of my fingers and toes. I was then swept away to the nursery to be cleaned up, poked and prodded then left swaddled in one of those plastic bassinets on wheels.
This would be my ‘home’ for my first 5 days in this world, only to be picked up or touched when I needed to be fed or changed. I was the only baby in the nursery for those 5 days. My Mother spent all of her time at the nursery window trying to keep me company.
I came out of the warmth, love and safety of my Mother’s womb only to spend the first 5 days of my life alone in a sterile, cold, and unloving nursery. No hugs, no cuddles, no connection.
After doing a bit of reading on this subject, I am willing to bet that those 5 days alone in that nursery did more emotional and psychological damage to my then tiny brain than any of the other abuses I experienced in my life.
I feel like I’ve spent the last 40 years doing everything I could to get people to love me, to touch me, to hold me, to stay with me. Yet, I struggle to actually form an attachment because there is this knowing in me that tells me they’re not going to stay. I’m not good enough.
Later in my life, my adoptive Mother told me that I never cried as a baby. The doctor told her once that she needed to let me cry so my tear ducts would form properly. She told him that I was a quiet baby that never cried. There didn’t seem to be any explanation for it.
I had become the perfect, pleasing child. The one who wanted to make everyone happy. The one who wanted to make everything ok. Because, if I did, they would stay. Right? They would love me. Right?
Forty years later things are becoming much more clear to me. This was the beginning of my journey through this life. The first 5 days.
(c) Wendi Kali July 29, 2010