Re-Introduction: I am…

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I started this journey in 2019, and since then, I have had my heart and life shattered, I have quietly sorted out most of the pieces, put them back together, only to have my heart shattered again. Then, it felt as if the pieces had been stolen by The Pandemic.

This time, organizing the pieces will still be painful, but putting them back together will be simpler, because I know how to better organize and fit them into place, delicately and deliberately. I am in exactly the right place at every moment.

I am loved.

I am grateful.

I am wise.

I am fierce.

I am resilient.

I am empowered.

I am Enough.

I am a woman that owns my sexuality.

I am the daughter of domestic abuse.

I am a partner, and a soul mate, and a lover.

I am worthy of love and belonging.

I am a dreamer in a rigid world.

I am the woman your mother warned you about; the one that stands her ground, and the star peg in the round hole.

I am a lonely lotus.

The Woman in Black.

The Phoenix Risen.

And I am here to Fuck. Shit. Up.

How a Picture Ended My Relationship with my Father

NOTE:My views on my Father’s warped view of Islam is not meant to be a blanket statement for all people who practice Islam. I know and love many wonderful people who’s Muslim beliefs are very different from my Father’s.

Each person interprets and practices their religion a little differently.

Also, if you know my father (or either of my parents), and you are reading this, please keep your opinions to yourself, as I do not give a fuck, and you will be wasting your time.

Thank you!
*******
So to say that a single Picture Ended my relationship with my Father sounds dramatic, it was. It sounds made up, and on some level, I wish it was, but it’s not. And of course, might be asking what that picture was, and why was it so awful? What was so awful that ended your relationship with your father?

That.

Yep. That was it. That was the day my Father told me that I brought shame to his family name.

For the sake of his anonymity, I will not be using his name. I will simply refer to him as Father. Out of respect for him and his family, I will also not be delving into any deeply personal information on my fathers past, because boundaries.

And now, as they say, a Picture is worth a thousand words; well this one was no exception. This photo of me, taken by me, in my bathroom, was an act, and unbeknownst to me at the time, a message. I even said to myself, I wonder if Father would be pissed about this? I wonder if he’d even ever see this. Well, yeah, he did. As it turns out, his younger sister, who was supposed to be planning my Henna party (Turkish bridal shower) for my trip to Turkey, showed my Father the picture, and to nobody’s shock at this point, he was pissed.

First, he tried to act all coy, like nothing was wrong. Then, as soon as I called, the anger spitting began. “Your my daughter, you don’t post things like that.” He grilled me a bit more, to which I replied, “Father, I am 30 years old. I love you. Good bye.”
Then came the threats.


Then came the trying to make good. My brother told me that if I took down the picture, and said I was sorry, I could still go on vacation with them. A vacation which, I was now dreading. Father was trying to dictate what I wore on the trip, even though I’d already told him that if I was willing to go (he’s been begging me to go back since 2008), that he was not going to dictate what I wore.

So hold on there. We just unpacked a WHOLE LOT of information there. Let’s back it up.

So for those of you who don’t know me, I am half-Turkish, and half- American. I come from a Muslim/Mormon background respectively  (hold for dramatic effect), but neither one of my parents practiced while married to each other.

My father’s family, who practices Islam, comes from a deeply old school, and abusive family. My grandfather would force my father to watch him beat my Grandmother. He later vowed to my mom that he would never hit any one in front of his children. And when I brought it up once, I could see it in his eyes that he meant it.

My father loves me, but his old school Muslim background mixed with abuse and neglect, leaves him unable to empathize with me. My Grandfather taught my Father that women were property. I truly don’t believe that my Father has the emotional capacity to respect me, or any other woman. Honestly, half the time, it’s like he doesn’t even hear me. He only sees and hears what he wants to hear.

And sadly, this isn’t the first time it happened. Once, when I was younger, as a new bright eyed makeup artist, took the job as a makeup artist on the set of a small non-adult film in Houston, where the director was flying in Ron Jeremy (Google Search Adult Safe On; You have been warned), where he was set to act in a non-adult yard. He ended up finding that photo and throwing a hissy fit, demanding that I change my last name of Facebook.

I told him that if he was forcing me to change my last name on Facebook, that I would be legally changing it.

I now know that, for my Father, his last name is a form of ownership. So as a result, I now see a last name as ownership (Thanks, Obama). Which is PROFOUNDLY sad. Because I love my father, and I know that he loves me, but because he cannot see me as a person, I have to let him go.

He is ashamed that I have chosen to study and research sexuality. He is ashamed that I am the product of a failed marriage. He is ashamed that his first marriage was to a strong-willed American woman, who then taught her daughter to be strong-willed and independent. And he is ashamed that he has children don’t embrace his culture and beliefs like his friends’ and family’s children seem to.

He has established a long pattern of controlling behavior, and any time I give him an inch, he takes a mile.

That picture, to me, represents freedom: sexually, personally, mentally, and emotionally.

My father taught me that being a woman was shameful, that I was to be seen and not heard. About a week before this mess, I went to his house for dinner to smooth out last minute details, and he told me that I wasn’t allowed to wear XYZ and to go shopping.

As I started to get irritated, and tell him no, he handed me $200 and told me I was talking too much.

The first time he met my fiancé/husband(Which was only in April of this year) he told Patrick, in front of me, “When you’re done with your plates at dinner, make her pick them up,” gesturing to me.

So as much as it hurts me to say this, my relationship with my father is over, and strangely, I’ve also never felt so free. 

The Elusive Female Orgasm

So many of you have heard of this phenomenon, the female orgasm, but many of you may not have experienced one during sex and or, for some, at all. Statistically speaking, roughly 58% of women have had some type of issue with orgasms; a smaller percentage, something to the effect of 5-10% have never had an orgasm at all. Ever.

Does that shock you? It shocked me when I first heard the statistic many many years ago, mostly because I’d always heard that women were supposed to have multiple orgasms, and I’d never had sex before, so I didn’t realize how big of an impact it would be on a woman’s life.

Fast forward to being sexually active, I was pretty distressed that I had never had an orgasm during sex. I could have one during foreplay, but never during sex, and then I would have to lie to the guy I was with when he would inevitably ask, “Do you…?” I’d immediately answer “yes”, sheepishly, mind you, because, you know, that’s what I was supposed to do, right? And orgasms were just supposed to happen, right?

Eventually, I just started focusing on their needs, because I was too embarrassed to admit that I was broken, so if I just focused on them, they wouldn’t pay attention to me trying to thinking myself into an orgasm.

Then, I met him. He, and we shall call him Chad, bragged that he could usually make women have multiple orgasms. We were together for just short of 2 years, and in that time, made me feel so incredibly broken (in more ways than one, but that’s for a different day). He just couldn’t understand why he couldn’t make me have orgasms, and that I must be the problem, not him, because he could do it to other women. And god forbid I try to buy a vibrator; it sent him over the edge, and NOT in the good way.

After Chad, I began exploring things I had always wanted to try, but Chad had no interest in. I also began hanging out with people in the BDSM community. At first, I was terrified and judgemental, I will admit. I had always been taught that BDSM was bad, and that “those people” were perverts, and so, being the dumb twenties something that I was, decided to check it out anyway. I started asking questions, reading, and trying to just understand how all this stuff works.

As it turns out, most of the people in the BDSM community are really cool people who just see life a little differently than most people. The BDSM community taught me that there is nothing wrong with me, that a lot of women don’t have orgasms regularly or at all, and you just have to do what makes you feel right. They’re super into consent too (also for another day), so they also taught me that the way Chad made me feel was wrong, and that his own insecurities were the problem and not me.

I think that it the moment my vagina was like, “Oh shit, really?”, Because almost immediately afterwards, when I would have sex, I would have orgasms. I remember the first one I had without having to sacrifice my left kidney and a third of my soul for; I remember being shocked, and confused and excited, but also very confused, because like, I don’t have orgasms, okay? And then it dawned on me in my naked stupor that, indeed, I had orgasmed and it was fucking phenomenal.

So kids, let’s have a re-cap of what we’ve learned so far: If you haven’t had an orgasm in a long time, you’re not broken! If you didn’t have one yesterday because you were thinking about all of the things you have to do before you die, also not broken. If you have never had one ever, there could very well be a medical condition (I know we didn’t discuss it yet, but just bare with me), but you’re still not broken. Most importantly, though, if someone is shaming you because you can’t have one, they’re a fucking ass hole, and you can tell them I said it too. Come at me bitch.

Now with all of that being said, according to the DSM-5, the diagnostics manual for mental health people, issues with orgasms is called Female Orgasmic Disorder. Yes it is a real thing, it’s like on Google, okay?

Now just to note, I am not a licensed therapist, so I cannot give you advice or diagnose you, nor is this a guide on how to diagnose yourself, it is simply a place for you to start your search. Don’t sue me because I don’t have any money any way.

According to the DSM-V, in order to be officially be diagnosed with FOD, you must meet the certain criteria:
– Happens 75%-100% of time
-Marked delay in orgasm
-Marked reduced intensity of orgasm
-Reduced # of orgasms
-Last at least 6 months
– Must cause distress
-Not better explained by relationship problems, medical problems, etc.

Do any of these sound like you? If so, do something about it now. Like right now. I can wait, but come back, okay?

First of all, anxiety is one of the main perpetrators of sexual dysfunction for all genders. If you’re too busy thinking about willing yourself to have an orgasm during sex or foreplay (guilty as charged), you start to feel hopeless about your vagina’s hatred of your pleasure. Stop thinking so much damnit! Start focusing on the task at hand and just enjoy the sex. Oh, and I’m pretty sure that if he has his penis in your vagina, he’s probably not worried about your boobs being lopsided during sex (note to self).

Also, if you are reading this and you are the victim/survivor of sexual assault, you are not alone and none of this is your fault. It is extremely common for people of all genders to have sexual dysfunction after an incident like that. Take your time and learn to listen to your needs and desires.

Next, are you on birth control or hormone replacements? Or have you noticed weird shit going on with your hormones? If so, you might have just won yourself a trip to the OBGYN, which is the worst prize trip ever, but it could change your sex game up. Hormones can be ass holes and will mess with your sex drive and ability to have an orgasm. They will also make you feel like you’re crazy for not having them. So let’s make hormonal issues not a thing, kay?

Also, are you telling you partner(s)? One of the best things you can do for yourself is have an open conversation with your partner(s). They might not know that you’re struggling, or they know that you’re struggling, but could think that they’re the problem. It’s easy to manifest explanations to problems in our brains because that’s what it’s good at, and sometimes, it too can be an ass hole. You may be able to work through it with them together. A very good friend of mine, we shall call her Veronica, hadn’t had an orgasm at all in something like 6 years. She and I talked about it, then she talked about it with her husband, and now she can actually experience an orgasm and her marriage has become stronger as a result.

You can also go to a sex therapist. While couples counselors are awesome, sex therapists have special training in sexual issues. They often tend to have a lot of couples come to them, but they also see individuals. Most (I hope) will come from a non-judgemental place and can guide you through the process of your struggles.

I hope reading this brought some enlightenment into your life and I hope that together we can break the shame and stigma of talking about female sexuality. Let’s make talking about orgasms at the dinner table okay, because I can guarantee that if there were more orgasms in the world, people would have less time to be stupid. Win win.

#maketheworldabetterplaceoneorgasmatatime #noticemebrenebrown #comeatme