The Hardest Decision
Viktoria Michaelis
July 20, 2010
A short while ago I made one of the hardest decisions of my life, and discovered that it wasn´t as difficult as I had imagined. I changed my life by finally accepting myself for what I am, by refusing to accept the lie I had been living until now and by facing up to a reality some people still attempt to suppress or discard. I accepted that I am a Woman who loves other Women.
For anyone who has not been confronted by their sexuality, this may not seem like such a difficult decision to make. Most of us have been raised in a conformist, small-town, heterosexual environment and rarely come into contact with any other lifestyles. We accept our position, that which is often allotted to us by parents, school friends, acquaintances, and society in general without a second thought; without a whimper, without thinking that there could be more to life than that we have already experienced. We hear strange stories about people who are different in the media, through gossip and in our everyday lives, often without stopping to wonder what it might mean to them; their friends; their colleagues; their nearest and dearest. I am one of those strange, different people.
The thought that I needed to explore my own sexuality, my own desires, didn´t simply appear overnight. I´ve known for a long time that my personal interests turn less toward the muscled men displaying their prowess on the football field or donning sun shades and parading their manhood in a sports car and more toward women in figure-hugging jeans or, at this time of year especially, light, short-skirted dresses. My night-time fantasy world has been inhabited by visions of sexually beautiful women since the very first time I experimented with my own body and let my eager fingers explore and play with that little pearl of delight. I thought it was a passing phase, one which would be replaced by images of men once I had more experience; I paid it little real attention, merely enjoyed the sensations I was capable of creating, regardless of how they came about or who was involved.
Then, one morning, I took a good look at myself in the mirror as I was washing and paused for a few moments. Who was this young woman looking back out at me in all innocence? Did I really know her at all, or was I playing a game with myself, a game of hide and seek?
I could see no difference. I was, and am, still the same young woman who went to bed last night; who hung around with friends yesterday; who went shopping in the mall at the weekend.
I took it a stage further. I have a full-length mirror in my room fixed to the front of my wardrobe. As a child I scribbled across this mirror with wax crayons, or sat on the end of the bed watching myself as I pretended to be a famous star performing for her fans. Now, as a young woman, I stood in front of my mirror and took a good look at myself from the front, from the side, twisted around to see my back. I ran my hands across my body; felt my breasts; stroked the flat of my stomach; explored the hidden recesses between my legs. I found a small hand mirror and examined myself closely, front and back. I think this was probably the first time I had taken a look at my sex, certainly the first time I had looked at my bottom.
I discovered nothing unusual. I could see nothing whatsoever which might tell others that my thoughts stray toward forbidden territories: no label on my forehead, no strange growths, nothing out of the ordinary.
If there was nothing physically different to be found, then the source of my worries must lie elsewhere. From my surroundings?
We´ve lived in this apartment, my dad and I, since I was five. We moved here shortly after the death of my mother, when my dad decided that a new start in a new environment would do us both good. Little has changed during that time, even the curtains are those we brought with us nearly thirteen years ago. Much of the apartment is taken up with books: classical titles from Dickens, Hemingway through to Cicero, Pliny, Virgil, and Horace. To the best of my knowledge none of these books have ever been banned or condemned for reasons of immorality. They, the books and our apartment, are not the source.
Our apartment block is much the same as any other apartment block in any other town or city across the States. There is a shared garden area, quiet residential streets run to either side, the shops are not too far away. A mall has been built of one side of our community, the school is on the other. Everything is as it should be; everything has its place in the world and is normal. The source is elsewhere.
What is left? Only the person in the mirror. I am the source, and the source is within me.
I think that the hardest decision I have ever made in my life is to accept myself for what I am and not try to fight against it. I accepted that my fantasy world, that which I visited some nights alone in my bed, was the world I wished it to be and no other, that the images my mind conjured up were only those I wished to see, wished to experience. The goosebumps from another woman touching me, the pleasure in a small kiss, the nearness of another woman were all part and parcel of what I am and, if to no one else, I can at least be honest to myself and Come Out as a woman, as a Lesbian.
For anyone who has not been confronted by their sexuality, this may not seem like such a difficult decision to make. Most of us have been raised in a conformist, small-town, heterosexual environment and rarely come into contact with any other lifestyles. We accept our position, that which is often allotted to us by parents, school friends, acquaintances, and society in general without a second thought; without a whimper, without thinking that there could be more to life than that we have already experienced. We hear strange stories about people who are different in the media, through gossip and in our everyday lives, often without stopping to wonder what it might mean to them; their friends; their colleagues; their nearest and dearest. I am one of those strange, different people.
The thought that I needed to explore my own sexuality, my own desires, didn´t simply appear overnight. I´ve known for a long time that my personal interests turn less toward the muscled men displaying their prowess on the football field or donning sun shades and parading their manhood in a sports car and more toward women in figure-hugging jeans or, at this time of year especially, light, short-skirted dresses. My night-time fantasy world has been inhabited by visions of sexually beautiful women since the very first time I experimented with my own body and let my eager fingers explore and play with that little pearl of delight. I thought it was a passing phase, one which would be replaced by images of men once I had more experience; I paid it little real attention, merely enjoyed the sensations I was capable of creating, regardless of how they came about or who was involved.
Then, one morning, I took a good look at myself in the mirror as I was washing and paused for a few moments. Who was this young woman looking back out at me in all innocence? Did I really know her at all, or was I playing a game with myself, a game of hide and seek?
I could see no difference. I was, and am, still the same young woman who went to bed last night; who hung around with friends yesterday; who went shopping in the mall at the weekend.
I took it a stage further. I have a full-length mirror in my room fixed to the front of my wardrobe. As a child I scribbled across this mirror with wax crayons, or sat on the end of the bed watching myself as I pretended to be a famous star performing for her fans. Now, as a young woman, I stood in front of my mirror and took a good look at myself from the front, from the side, twisted around to see my back. I ran my hands across my body; felt my breasts; stroked the flat of my stomach; explored the hidden recesses between my legs. I found a small hand mirror and examined myself closely, front and back. I think this was probably the first time I had taken a look at my sex, certainly the first time I had looked at my bottom.
I discovered nothing unusual. I could see nothing whatsoever which might tell others that my thoughts stray toward forbidden territories: no label on my forehead, no strange growths, nothing out of the ordinary.
If there was nothing physically different to be found, then the source of my worries must lie elsewhere. From my surroundings?
We´ve lived in this apartment, my dad and I, since I was five. We moved here shortly after the death of my mother, when my dad decided that a new start in a new environment would do us both good. Little has changed during that time, even the curtains are those we brought with us nearly thirteen years ago. Much of the apartment is taken up with books: classical titles from Dickens, Hemingway through to Cicero, Pliny, Virgil, and Horace. To the best of my knowledge none of these books have ever been banned or condemned for reasons of immorality. They, the books and our apartment, are not the source.
Our apartment block is much the same as any other apartment block in any other town or city across the States. There is a shared garden area, quiet residential streets run to either side, the shops are not too far away. A mall has been built of one side of our community, the school is on the other. Everything is as it should be; everything has its place in the world and is normal. The source is elsewhere.
What is left? Only the person in the mirror. I am the source, and the source is within me.
I think that the hardest decision I have ever made in my life is to accept myself for what I am and not try to fight against it. I accepted that my fantasy world, that which I visited some nights alone in my bed, was the world I wished it to be and no other, that the images my mind conjured up were only those I wished to see, wished to experience. The goosebumps from another woman touching me, the pleasure in a small kiss, the nearness of another woman were all part and parcel of what I am and, if to no one else, I can at least be honest to myself and Come Out as a woman, as a Lesbian.
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