The first time ever I saw my you-know-what

When I was 16 or 17, I read Everything You Ever Wanted To Ask About Sex, but were afraid to ask which encouraged me to explore my own anatomy. I felt a lot of resistance, but finally my curiosity got the better of me. It felt a little bit like going to see The Exorcist - I knew I was in for some terror that would scare the shit out of me, but I hoped I could take it.

I went over to my dresser and picked up the hand held mirror which my great aunt had bequeathed to me when my great uncle died - it had been in the family for generations and was a beautiful porcelain piece, painted daintily with purple violets, with a matching brush and comb. I wondered if it had ever been used for this purpose before. What would my Aunt Estelle think? 

It was 2 AM, and I hoped and prayed no one else would be awake to surprise me in action. I was terrified my mother or father would just know what I was doing and would come in on me and yell at me for how terrible I was being. But even then, at that young age, I was a courageous person, so I lay down on the floor where I had a good hard surface. My heart pounding, I pulled my underpants down.

All the way.

Off.

My face was flaring red. I held the mirror "down there". I didn't want to look. I wanted to look. I couldn't stand to look. I was afraid of what I would see. It would be so gross. It was wrong to look, wasn't it? What would my parents say if they caught me looking? What would they say???

I snuck a peek. One eye. Closed it again. I tried again. It felt so wrong to look. Oh, God. The book had said I was supposed to touch myself and open the "lips". Gross. Touch? I'd never touched myself down there. I had no idea what I was doing or what I would see.

Gingerly, I moved the mirror to my left hand, tried to adjust the angle, then used my right hand fingers to open the things they said were my lips. It felt so weird. So foreign. I was afraid of what I would see. I had no clue. It was fascinating, but gross. Tissue like none I'd ever seen before. Mauve blending towards red or towards my normal skin color. Folds.  Creases.  What on earth was beyond that? In that darkness? I lifted my head higher to try to see.

I heard a movement out in the hall. I dropped the mirror, pulled on my underpants and scrambled into bed as fast as I could, scraping my shin on the bedrail, stuffing the mirror under my pillow.

Nothing.

Silence.

Except for my heart pounding and my hypervenilating.

Stealthily I got out of bed again and put the mirror away and straightened up any signs of my criminal behavior then settled into my covers, processing hard and fast all I'd seen and felt and thought as I explored the nether-reaches of my most mysterious body.

On Getting Your Period

A couple of weeks ago, I asked if anyone had stories to tell about their bodies.  A dear friend of mine, Denise Bennett, a consumate storyteller wrote the following story about what it was like when she started her period.

 I had my first period when I was eleven years old. I did not know what it was and I was terrified that I had some horrible illness and was dying. Yes, I had seen the movie they showed all the girls in fifth grade, but the actresses in the movie (made in the early 60’s) all looked to be at least 18 years old with bouffant hair-do’s and large pointy breasts. They did not look at all like me. I was the smallest kid in my class and, at eleven, I looked like I was eight… I am sure that they used the word “blood” somewhere in the movie, but all I can remember is the girls smiling and laughing together in their June Cleaver-look–a-like dresses and a diagram of a uterus. The diagram, like the rest of the film, was in black and white, so of course there was no trace of red. I did not have a clue – the one thing I did know was that there was something embarrassing about the whole thing. The girls were separated from the boys when we saw the movie after school and there was a lot of smirking about it on their part. I remember that people talked about one girl who was heavy and very developed in the fifth grade; that she had already “gotten it”. I didn’t really understand what “it” was, but since it had happened to her and she was so unpopular (purely based on her appearance so far as I can remember) there was a aura of shame around “it”.

At one point my mother made reference to something “pinkish” happening “down there” -- maybe she didn’t want to scare me by saying there would be blood or maybe that was the way it started for her. Anyway, when my period came that summer between sixth and seventh grade, I was totally unprepared. In my panic, I hid my underwear in my Barbie doll suitcase with their evening gowns and little plastic high heeled pumps. Then I started stealing my father’s handkerchiefs to use as pads. I had noticed the always so carefully wrapped in toilet paper little bundles in the bathroom wastebasket, but I did not connect them with those bulky white things that looked like giant bandages in the pastel box underneath the sink or with "it". My mother finally figured out what was going on when she noticed that both my father’s hankies and my underwear were not showing up in the clothes hamper. I don’t remember exactly what she said to me when she spoke to me about it; she was not mad at me but she was genuinely puzzled as to why I did not tell her what was happening. What I do remember was feeling tremendously relieved that I was not dying and mortified to know that "it" had happened to me too.

Denise's story is distressingly close to my own.  I think my mother tried to tell me about all that stuff, but I was unable to listen.  She gave me a book about it.  I grabbed it, ran up the stairs, and stuffed it under the rug between the rocking chair and the bed without even thinking about looking in it.  The horror!  I was certain it was NOT something I wanted to know about.

When I was 13, I was in study hall at school and noticed, with mortification, that I had a dark red stain spreading rapidly over my jumper.  I got up, put my pocketbook over it, and ran to the bathroom.  I was very confused when I saw that my underpants were clean, but my dress was not.  Then I noticed that a dark red marker in my pocketbook had lost its top and was "bleeding" all over my dress.  I didn't have a clue what to do about the stain, because anyone who saw it would assume it was my period, but at least I didn't have the double horror of also getting my period!

When I did finally begin my period at about age 14 I had horrible cramps, so bad that I didn't want to get out of bed.  I woke up with brown coffee grind crud in my underpants.  I think I knew what it was but was so grossed out, I didn't know what to do about it.  I was much too disgusted and mortified to tell anyone about it, so I took off my underpants and hid them behind the toilet.  Mom had bought me a pack of "napkins" and a sanitary belt, but the thought of a) trying to make it to the closet to get it without bleeding all over the floor was impossible and b) trying to figure out how to put it on was also impossible, so I opted for toilet paper.  Lots and lots and lots of it.  Every hour or so, as I lay in bed moaning, in pain, trying not to let anyone know what was up, I had to get up to change the toilet paper pad which was already bleeding through.  Thank goodness it was a weekend, so my family just figured I was caught up in a good book and didn't want to stop reading - typical behavior on my part.

Finally, a couple of days later, our dachshund Snoopy blew my cover.  I heard my younger sister calling to my mother, "Mom, Snoopy has something and it's really gross!  Come here!  Quick!"  I tried to get very, very small so I wouldn't be seen, but Mom traced it back to me pretty quickly since I was the only possible choice since she'd had a hysterectomy, and my sister was only 11. 

She asked me, dismayed, why I hadn't told her.  What was wrong?  All I could do was mumble, "I dunno" and hide my face in my shoulder, hoping she would go away.  Fast.

Thankfully she did, leaving me to my shame and embarrassment, but now at least I could open up the new pack of pads she'd bought for me and use them instead of the wads of toilet paper I'd ineffectively been using.  Clearly, it was very difficult for me to make the transition to being a woman.

I tried to make periods more normal in our household.  I think my kids knew I had periods and that I used pads and tampons, all that stuff.  I talked about them some, though since it was only the three of them and me, there weren't all that many opportunities to talk about it naturally.

I talked to my daughter and told her about her period.  She'd already learned about it in school, I think.  I should ask her what she remembers - I'm guessing my mom doesn't remember telling me even though it was so memorable to me, and I don't remember talking to my daughter about it all that much, though I would guess she does.

I know I found it a bit awkward to talk about with my daughter.  I wanted it to be very natural and normal and fine.  I wanted her to feel comfortable talking to me about it and asking me whatever she wanted to know.  I'm not sure I quite pulled it off though.  I could talk to my women friends about all that stuff, all the gory details of childbirth, all the ins and outs of basically everything, but that didn't quite transfer to my daughter - she was younger and had some natural resistance to bodily functions, and I had some shyness because of my own experience when I was younger.  I know my mom did her best and did a darn good job, given my utter resistance, but it was tough!  I'll be curious to see what my daughter says when I ask her what her experience was like.

My fantasy was to give her a big Blessing Way (the link is for a blessing way for pregnancy, but blessing ways can be for any transition, not just birth), a ceremony where we had her friends and my friends, as a way to welcome her into Womanhood.  I wanted it to be a celebration.  But I think we were both a little bit too shy to do that, so we settled on my taking her out for a special dinner and a more private celebration.  I hope she felt better informed and less embarrassed than I did, but I think for most women in our culture, it's a very personal, often embarrassing event.

By the way, here's a link to a nice youtube video about what to expect when you're getting your period.

What's your story?

A portrait - from embarrassing to not too bad

I went up to DC yesterday to work with Rob Vander Zee.  He's a very good teacher.  He has a school two days a week in which he gives demos and individual instruction.  I feel like I learn a lot from him each time I work with him.

Yesterday I took a piece I'd started on a while back and had given up on because it was so awful.  I had decided to work on an old canvas so I painted over the old painting with a mixture of palette mud and pumice, thinking I might draw with pastels rather than paint.  Then I changed my mind and decided to paint, but my goodness!  The canvas was horrific.  It was like trying to drag a brush through dry sand.  I couldn't get it to work on teh canvas. It was terrible.  Despite that, I was pretty determined so I perservered, but I just couldn't get the painting to work.  It is a gorgous portrait of Valley, the model I've been collaborating with for the upcoming show Artists and Writers at Randolph Macon (opening Feb 20), and I love the image, so I was excited to do the painting.  I started using the method Rob had taught me, loosely, lightly, using Galkyd for glaze.  That stuff REALLY didn't like the surface I'd created!  Also, in choosing to work lightly and loosely, I went at the face with an approximation of how it should look, not being persnickety and exacting, figuring I would go back into it and refine it later.  That is NOT a good way to do a face!

The first part was fine - the bathing suit turned out nicely.  Her hair looks good.  I grided in her face so I would have guidelines to work with.

And now at the risk of embarrassing myself completely, I'll post the first rendition of her face.  It was horrible!  Poor thing, she looks like one of those dessicated faces made out of dried apples.  Sorry, Valley!

Quite discouraged, I painted over her face and put the canvas aside for a couple of months.  My son and husband kept coming out to the studio though and commenting on the piece and saying they really liked her hair and her bathing suit and that I should work on it some more.  NO.  Too discouraged.

Until Monday night when I was trying to figure out what to take to DC the next day.  My printer is totally wrecked so I can't print out any photos right now, so I had to work on something I already had a photo for.  I decided to be bold and brave and to try working on this picture again. 

When I got up there I gridded the face again so I could do it with a lot of accuracy.  Then I began painting.  It was helpful to have Rob there to point out when I was headed off in the wrong direction.  I did all the features with great detail until he suggested I soften all the lines, and blur the ones between her teeth.  That was very helpful.

I managed to make some very good progress on her face and came home feeling like perhaps it wasn't a completely lost cause.

This afternoon I worked on a few things on her face then re-painted her arm and bathing suit so the colors were in harmony with her face which was no longer lavender.  Now it's feeling close to finished, and I'm not so embarrassed to show the darn thing in public!  I think I need to work on her eyes a bit more but otherwise it may be close to done.  I know it doesn't look 100% like Valley, but I think most people who know her would know that's what I had in mind.  I hope so at least!  Portraits are not easy to paint.  It's significantly easier just to paint a body with no hands or feet or face!!

Self portrait, even more exposed

Today was my first real day with studio time since Dylan's operation July 9th.  I felt raw coming in here, so full of emotions about his surgery, his recovery, and the rest of life.  I wish life were simple and kind.  It isn't always.

I wasted a lot of time until I calmed down enough to draw, then I approached my self-portrait again because it's what's been on my mind this week if art has knocked gently on my door at all.  I think about this piece a lot because it makes me uncomfortable to be drawing it.  And also because I realize I really like it.  The more I work on it, the more beautiful I find it.  As I draw my face, I realize I like the contours of it.  I trust my eyes.  I understand my smile.  The fall of my breasts is comfortable and, oh, so familiar.  Even the crease in my belly has become more benign. At the museum the other day, Chris pointed out a lovely statue of a female nude and showed me that she had the same crease I do.  I could see how slender and beautiful she was, so I began to allow for the possibility that I, too, am beautiful.  My body, too.  I like the openness of my posture.  The vulnerability.  Yes.  This is me.

That's the title:  Yes, this is me.

No more upside down coyness.  No apologies.  No shame.  No embarrassment.  This is part of who I am.  My body.  My flesh.  My sacred flesh.

A completely new undertaking

I now understand completely how my models feel when they stand in front of me nude, waiting for me to photograph them, wondering if I'm judging them (I'm not), wondering how they'll look, how they'll feel, etc.

No, I didn't pose for anyone.  I'm not sure that would have been as hard for me as what I did was.

So now you're probably wondering what this very difficult thing was that I took on.

It's something I've never been able to do.  Whenever I tried, I failed.  Miserably.  I felt ridiculous, inadequate, stupid, out of shape, absurd.

Normally when I take on doing something new, it's usually something I feel I'll be able to do reasonably well.  But not this.  I am clear that my chances of being good at it (for now, at least) are zero.  And I might make a fool out of myself.  And I might not be able to become good at it.  I can probably improve, but I don't think I'll ever become anywhere close to good at it.

So I felt exceedingly vulnerable each time I thought about doing this the past couple of weeks since I planned to begin.  Butterflies in my stomach and all.

I told a lot of people I was planning to do it.  Many didn't quite understand why it was such a big deal, but they were very nice about wishing me well with it.  Even if they smiled bemusedly at my anxiety.

This morning I woke up at 5:50 (hours before my usual wake up time), crawled into my sweat pants and a T-shirt and an athletic bra and a jacket and a fleece and short socks and tennis shoes, brushed my teeth, then made my way to the car (after cleaning off the kitchen table and feeding the cats and thinking about gessoing a canvas - all by way of procrastinating) to meet my friend Lynn at Starbucks.  No, this wasn't about deciding to start drinking coffee for the first time ever.  (Though that might bring up a lot of feelings also, I don't think they'd be quite the same feelings.)  She wasn't there yet so I sat in the car and listened to NPR until I saw her drive up in her perky red car.  I got out of the car with some trepidation and knocked on her window, startling the heck out of her - sorry!  She smiled broadly at me and jumped out of the car, ready and raring to go.

She asked what I was wearing and told me to take off my fleece - I wouldn't need it. I  could decide about my hat.  I decided to keep it on since I knitted it and it makes me feel good.  OK.  No more procrastinating.  She told me we'd take off over the Huguenot Bridge then go around the curve to Riverside Drive and make our way to Pony Pasture.  I told her I am a complete novice and am not sure how far I can make it.  She reassured me that would be fine.  We'd go 15 minutes out, 15 back.

And so we began.

Jogging.

For the first time in my life.  Intentionally trying to move my body at a more rapid pace than walking for a longer distance than it takes to get from the car to the grocery store in the rain.

I made it about 300, maybe 400 yards before I had to slow down and walk.  I became winded almost immediately.  I have never had much endurance and, having not exercised much at all this last year, I have less than usual.  Lynn was wonderful.  She slowed down and walked until I told her I was ready to go again - about 3-400 yards.  She told me I was doing great.

The bonus was that at 6:35 AM in Richmond at this time of year, the sun is just starting to come up over the river and it's beautiful.  The sky had slender orange and pink streaks in it which were beginning to reflect in the rapidly rushing water of the overfull James River.

We continued across the bridge at a stop and go pace.  My inner critic was actively telling me that Lynn must be rolling her eyes at me and wondering what she had gotten herself in to.  I was berating myself for not being in better shape, for not having more endurance, for getting out of breath.  And I was reminding myself to be gentle and to give myself a break.  I was there.  I was trying.  I was there.

And so we made it down the hill and along Riverside Drive a ways, about 1.2 miles from where we started.  That was 15 minutes.  That's good for my first day.  Then we turned around.  And jogged then walked then jogged then walked some more.  Lynn told me I made it further than she thought I might in one stretch.  My legs decided they were tired too at the start of the bridge going back.  I set a goal to make it to the next sign post jogging.  She told me I was looking good.  To slow down, to set a pace I was comfortable with, not to try to go fast.  I walked a bit.  Then decided to make it across the actual river.  But stopped to look because now the sun was really rising and was gorgeous.  To the left the full moon was setting over the trees, and to the right, the sky was streaked with orange and purple and blue and golden light, reflecting magnificently on the water.  The trees were sparkling and quivering with new life of fresh Spring leaves.  I jogged to the next sign post.  Then walked.  My face by this time was crimson from exertion (I am fair-skinned and get flushed very quickly when I exert myself - what an embarrassment that was in my youth!).  Then jogged off the bridge.  Then walked. Thought about the people in the 100's of cars driving by seeing me, figuring at least one good thing came from jogging in front of so many people - if I expired from exhaustion, someone would see it and stop to take me to the hospital.

What was amazing was that all along the way, Lynn would tell me I was doing great.  She actually offered me encouragement!  At one point I told her she reminded me of myself when I tutor and have a student who can't figure out what 3x3 is.  I swallow, gulp, wonder how I can explain it, realize just how far the student has to go, then move on into the explanation of why 3 x 3 is 9.  I may feel a passing judgment - thoughts are just thoughts - I let those pass - then I work to encourage my student and to accept exactly where they are and to help them see what their strengths are.  Lynn did that with me.

Thinking about it now brings a lump to my throat.  Chris commented, when I told him about it, that I like encouragement and having a coach.  That's so true.  And I don't really have that in my life otherwise.  Her kindness touched me so deeply I felt my heart split open.  I was feeling so vulnerable and broken in that spot, thinking about running, trying to jog.  She was so kind and encouraging.

When we got to the end of our run, she gave me a running log and suggested I fill it out so I can keep track of how much I'm running. We're planning to job twice/week.  Our first goal is for me to be able to run all the way across the bridge without stopping.  That would be almost a mile.  That would truly be an accomplishment for me.  Then she has suggested I run a 5K in July.  OK.  She runs marathons and does half-Iron Men competitions.  She is very very kind.

So this is a big deal for me.  Others who are athletic and who grew up comfortable in their bodies might not understand that.  Oh well.  Hopefully I can be gentle with myself and can encourage myself and can accept Lynn's kindness.  It's so bizarre, but it's difficult, actually, to accept loving kindness sometimes.  I'm so tough on myself at times that it's painful to just be accepted where I am for exactly how I am.  But I intend to learn how!  It definitely feels better than the alternative.

This blog won't become my jogging log, but I felt it worth talking about here, because I have a feeling that I'm not the only person in the world to have some of these feelings, and perhaps people will feel less alone to realize that.

Happy Jogging!  And please be kind to yourself.