Not that there wasn't plenty of back lash from living this way, because there was--- in particular walking home on Sunday mornings, still wearing my nightclub finery; my tube top, my glittered heels, my mascara-ed eyes, now all smudged. Walking on the still small town streets, could any place be as quiet? And in those moments, as lonely? Trying to erase the memory of my sticky legs, the hunt for my panties, the curling dark hairs of his leg, his arm, his sleeping face. It was a struggle to reconcile my desire for freedom to do as I please, and the prevailing opinion of girls like myself. I knew the word: whore.
I wrote about this experience in a collection of monologues called Epiphanies. The girl walks home on the silent small town streets (much like I did), and cuts through a local park. Mid-way through the woods, she has a vision; she sees a woman, dressed in long robes floating above a creek. The ghost/woman/goddess grants her a moment of peace, of reprieve. In that moment, and for only that moment--- she doesn't struggle with her own duality: good girl/whore. And it was a struggle. Even when you know you are right, if everyone else is telling you--- you are wrong, it's a hard road to walk.
Of course I never saw a floating woman who granted me anything, but I believe I have spent my life trying to find a place, real or metaphorical, where I could find some peace, or at the very least reconcile that duality. I wonder why this is still such a struggle.
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