Have you ever reached a point in your life where you can plainly see that you have achieved and received everything you ever said you want…only to realise in that moment that most of it is a heap of steaming sh*t?
If no, I am beyond thrilled for you, but please move along. This confessional isn’t for you. For those feeling their insides scream “me too,” I dedicate this story to you.
Let me start by painting a picture of my life.
I am your typical white Australian woman, later 30s, three children, and partnered for 19 years. We have the house, two cars, multiple renovations under our belt, extended family all local for support. We aren’t rich but have enough wealth to cover our bills and have a holiday most years.
I am living the dream…but whose dream is it exactly?
Yes, I said I wanted it. I even vowed to want it through good and bad times.
Yes, I made specific choices to ensure those things manifested in my world, cause that what epic creatrices do.
But still, none of it felt truly like it belonged to me. So, whose was it?
It was the dream I was told I wanted. The dream of “certainty.” And goddamn I have sacrificed a lot of myself in the pursuit of certainty.
I sacrificed so much pleasure on the quest for what was sure thing, a smart thing.
I sacrificed casual, spontaneous, light-me-up-from-the-insides sex with a man I truly desired for a man who offered commitment and longevity…and I married him.
I was taught that true love looked like security, commitment, and certainty, and when it came along, I prioritised it over everything—even myself.
Certainty gave me the “dream life”; it also gave me the catalyst to finding myself lost in incredibly deep sadness.
Come August 2022, however, something shifted. Maybe the planets were finally in alignment for me, who knows, but whatever it was the light began to enter back into my world with a single conversation from a past lover and a re-awakening trip down memory lane.
A trip back to my own desire, my own pleasure, to being witnessed, to being wanted. Goddamn it felt good to be woken up again, so I clung to it.
Here comes the confessional:
I became addicted to the feeling of aliveness within me that I actively pursued regular messenger contact with the past lover. I shared endless photos of myself in intimate settings and happily obliged when he asked for more.
I began to see myself with new eyes with each photo taken. Witnessing myself come alive. Falling in love with the sensual woman birthing before me and freaking loving the attention.
Did this go unnoticed by my husband? Initially, yes, but after a few months he started to question a few things and went on the snoop for why.
He found “the other man.”
He decided “she’s cheating.”
He victimised “she’s doing this to me.”
But he never caught onto the fact that it was only ever about me. That the man receiving my nudes was simply a mirror for me to be about to see myself more clearly again.
While my husband provided a sense of certainty and security, I was now aware that in that certainty I had lost myself.
So, what does a sensually re-awakened woman do when her secrets have been discovered?
She leans all the way in.
If she is returning from being lost, she has nothing to lose.
She opens to her desires vulnerably.
She fights for the hard but necessary conversations.
She has the wisdom to see that the mascaraed is crumbling and she can either be at its mercy or be at its helm.
Without attachment to any outcome, I drew the line in the sand. I was done “faking it” for the illusion of the greater good.
I chased more pleasure.
More hard sh*t.
At my request, we consensually and respectfully opened our marriage, and I began to unfold into knowing myself more by engaging with other men.
I opened myself.
Being with other men felt natural.
After 19 years with one man, I thought my pleasure belonged to him. I was legitimately worried I may never orgasm with another man.
But this journey showed me that I own my pleasure and I can climax with whoever I desire to reach that high with.
I’m playful again.
I’m addicted to my unravelling.
It’s f*cking messy and it’s f*cking hard, but there is no unseeing what we allow ourselves to witness within ourselves.
Dear Life, I’m here. Ravish me.