Virgin Whore

I am a bastard.

Daughter of a Princess-Slut

A daddy’s girl who fell from grace.

Tale as old as time.

My mother was a “girl who was sent away”

My very existence was dangerous. A threat to the powerful life her father had built.

“We can’t have anyone know that there is sex in the house, or that we are more than plastic”

The irony is, she went on to marry my father, and they created a family. I have three full biological sisters that I will never know.

I grew up with strangers, safely tucked several states away.

Puritan-Patriarchal bullshit has ruined the lives of generations of women.

This past week one of my friends shared a link to a Masterclass on the Virgin-Whore split.

Something pinged in my body, so I made space to watch it.

As I began to sit with this, I’ve realized,

my entire existence is the embodiment of this split.

In an effort to reclaim some piece of myself. To somehow karmically unwind the story of my birth, I got pregnant and had my first son at 14 years old.

I recall moving through that time with a clarity of purpose I had never experienced before. Destiny pulling me forward like a two ton magnet.

I remember firmly agreeing with the universe on no uncertain terms, that I would hold all of the projections of the whore.

To fully absorb them, like homemade bread does with Sunday Soup.

I agreed to be the town’s cautionary tale.

In completely uncharted territory, there was no map for where I was going. But somehow I knew the way.

One day I wore an “I’m expecting” pin to class. The way the teacher looked at me transformed that pin into The Scarlet Letter. So I became Hester Prynne, too.

I think I really believed that I did it all for my mother, for myself, and for every other girl. Fuck it. I was chaos. Hear me roar.

I thought I could hold it all. I thought I could take all the venom they put inside me with their eyes.

I was wrong. Somewhere in there, I experienced collapse. A giant contraction around my truth. I left my body, Abandoned myself. The same way my mother did, at the exact time. Birth.

Why? Because the Whore cannot exist where the Mother does.

As soon as you are a mother, a whole new mantle of projection is placed on your shoulders

I quickly realized the boldness of my actions might hurt my child. Not one person passed my doorway without reminding me of my failings. Failings as a girl, as a daughter, and now as a mother.

I knew from experience that being the descendant of a Whore is heavy. And I didn’t want my story to be my son’s story.

Shame flooded my system. Every moment of every day I knew what I was. For the first time I saw myself the way others did. And it burned.

My plan was to bind myself up tight, so that none of my chaos seeped out.

For years, I made every next choice, a “right” choice. The kind you can tie up with pretty bows. I was methodical, and deliberate. Trying to find something I convinced myself I lost. Trying to knit myself back into the “Matrix”.

I went about the business of catching a man. Because only a man could make me pure and virginal again. I needed a man to paint my soul white.

When I did find one, he was a “good” one. Of course he was. That’s exactly what I called in. The picture of patriarchal manhood.

A side effect of finally finding a man was that this man began making my world “safe”. Which really meant making my world incredibly small.

Did you catch that I relinquished control over my safety? I wholesale signed over my body to an entity outside of myself? That’s the unspoken part of the enterprise, in the bargain of becoming “good again”. You agree to be agreeable. Tame. Meek. Unassuming. NOT a PROBLEM. A negation. Not an addition. I quickly learned that the words “safety” and “protection” were tools of imprisonment.

In the most cliched way, it took a tragedy, to break me down, and wake me up. That was a decade ago.

My journey of deconstructing all of the harm I did to myself continues to this day.

It’s a never ending unwinding. A top to bottom recalibration of my nervous system. A deconstruction of stories that entombed me. An opening of my mummified body, In the most glorious and juicy way.

Now I have that same clarity of purpose. That same magnetic force is pulling me forward that did all those years ago. Calling me to Re-WILD MY-SELF. Not stopping until I distill MYSELF from everything that is not ME. Fuck it. I AM chaos, hear ME roar.

I’m blessed to live a life led by synchronicity. Divine serendipity. I’ve been lifted up by other women who are walking a similar path. The right teachers have come in at precisely the right moment. And I have a fierce commitment to Mother my Motherless self.

Of all the things from my religious upbringing one has been carried over. It’s the idea of being touched by guardian angels. Only I don’t for a moment think that my guides only live in other dimensions. They are living, breathing, emanations of Mother’s Grace right here on earth. And Mother’s Grace is the ineffable current I am blessed to call home.