My Body: Natasha
I don’t like writing. I prefer allowing my aging perception to redefine past interpretations with new wisdom and optimism, so that I can hopefully re-experience memories as I would have wanted them to be. But without words, we also have arguably nothing, so I wholly advocate for the sharing of lives to increase the collective wisdom of being. I hope mine does.
I was an emotionally-androgynous girl raised to believe I was just as good as the boys, capable of accomplishing anything I wanted. It sounded so encouraging at the time. Until I spent my adulthood learning what I most lacked was being valued for simply being me and not by misogynistic measurements. I had zero career nor personal aspirations except to be more attractive, less jealous, more patient, less competitive, more sensual. TV said so.
I was rejected and betrayed anyway. Lesson learned. My identity melted away like ice in scorching rays of enlightenment. What was under the puddle, however, was not nothing, like I thought it would be. I made the choice between life and death by choosing purpose. It was a purpose made of rock - a truth no one had suggested existed. It was fearless vulnerability, devotion to ideological heroism I’d never seen but wanted others to know.
Now, when others ask, I say “I’m just me”.