Having the sex talk at 34

I made an impromptu trip to my parent’s home last week. It was under pressing circumstances but as trite as it might sound it was a blessing in disguise. Especially with the ever-evolving dynamics between my parents and I.

It was the interaction that I saw Hollywood dramas in which a protagonist was thrown into a harsh reality but received words of wisdom from their parents that forever changes their view of them. I finally saw my parents as just regular people who spend their lives just trying to do the best they can.

It’s interesting because growing up I never imagined there would be a moment I would be sitting with my father in his shed while he spoke to his faraway friend on his CB radio. All this while smoking cigarettes and sharing tequila. Or that I would be having earnest conversations with my mother about the difficulties of womanhood, marriage, and my broken faith.

The conversations didn’t end there. I felt safe enough to share with them about my sexuality, my experience with sexual assault and how I smoke pot on the daily. I was sure they would have to be in the grave in order for me to live openly as a bi woman with socialist leanings who has elected to have a childless marriage. I do recognize how fortunate I am to have this type of understanding with my immigrant parents because so many other first-generation American LGBTQ individuals do not possess the same fate. But to be honest, I waited many years to be this forthcoming because it doesn’t mean this would’ve gone the same way in my teenage years.

My mother approached me as I was packing up for my return drive home. She said she wanted to ask me something. I said, “sure, what is it?” She asked me if when I first had sex with my husband if I had bled. I told her my husband was not the first sexual partner I had. My mother said that she figured he wasn’t the first because she used to find my belts and bras in the back seat of her car when I would visit from college. I laughed because it has been nearly 15 years since this occurrence and she still believed I had sex with my college boyfriend in her plymouth breeze. So romantic. It was one of those perfect storm situations.

I had come home for the winter holidays and I went to a Christmas party with my old high school classmates and I had picked up my boyfriend. South Texas is typically still warm and muggy most months which causes a lot of condensation mixed with dirt on windshields. I asked if he could bring out something to wipe it down with and it ended up being an undershirt. I decided that my belt clashed with my outfit once we arrived at the party so I chucked that into the backseat.

The next morning my mother burst into the guest room( yes I no longer had my childhood room) asking how could I have been having sex in her car. She also asked why I had a syringe in the bathroom for. I laid there in astonishment. Not only did she assume I was having sex but accused me of doing intravenous drugs. I laughed because she still had her own understanding of the events years later. I simply explained how I hated wearing bras so I would pull them off on the drive home and all the other items were simply a fluke. Also, I’ve done many things in my life but I had yet to shoot up.

Back to the bleeding. I was a few months shy of 30 when I met my husband so virginity was an unrealistic expectation to anyone at that point. She asked me why I wore a white wedding dress. I told her that was the only color available when I ordered it from Amazon. And that I felt some of those traditions were highly dangerous towards women. That simply the color of a wedding dress made it clear to everyone what was my sexual status. That I would be designated a “santa o’ puta.” I refused to fall in line.

I did tell her that I was highly uninformed when I did begin to have sex and my source of information was the internet and whatever pamphlet came my way on campus. I asked her why didn’t she have a formal sex talk with me. That my brothers were provided with condoms but my sister and I were told to remain abstinent. She said that was just what she was taught growing up. I said but you forget that your sons were having sex with someone else’s daughter or sister.

My mother told me how she wished she could’ve talked to me this way when I was younger but she didn’t know how. That even her own mother didn’t discuss with her what would happen during puberty and sex was even more of a taboo topic. I never really was resentful about this because my teenage self would’ve died of sheer humiliation back then. We both weren’t ready.

I am sure there are many other 30 something-year-old women having these talks for the first time. Please don’t be resentful. Yes, it might be late but it’s never too little to be brave. Ni putas, ni santas mis hermanas. 

I’m not sure what is wrong…

I was born and raised in a small border town in south Texas. I am a child of immigrant parents from Mexico that taught that hard work is the answer to most if not all hardships.

I never quite understood why I was such a melancholic child. I often resented my parents for having to greet family members with a hug and kiss. It never felt natural. I was called “mal educada” a “grosera” when I refused.

Envy was a constant emotion I grappled with when I saw my classmates happily enjoying their childhood and existing with ease. That was never a feeling I experienced for much of my life. In high school, I shared with a classmate that I always wondered how other people seemed to be so carefree. I asked if he ever experienced deep sadness on a constant basis and he said not really. Funny how I used to think that contentment was a strange thing.

Depression was never a topic of conversation growing up. I was very withdrawn and rarely spoke to my family. I even recall a moment when my father lashed out in frustration about how quiet I was and how I didn’t care to ever share with him. It was a very odd situation because I never believed my father cared to interact with me. I concluded that depression was an American problem.

Once, I accepted the possibility that I might be suffering from depression I decided it might be a good idea to share with others what I had been feeling. Some of the responses I received made me regret sharing in the first place. I had an acquaintance that was diagnosed with clinical depression. I explained some of my symptoms and I was told that everyone gets sad but depression is a whole other level. I disengaged immediately because it seemed like I had something to prove. By this point I had been told to just stop being sad, get over it, you’re making too big of a deal about what you’re feeling. I was involved in an evangelical Christian church for many years and I was convinced that I had a spirit in me that must be cast out and broken off of me. Soon after I experienced another depressive episode and I was told I had opened the door once again to said spirit. (More on this at another time).

A few people commented to me that I couldn’t be terribly depressed because I have managed to graduate from university and have always been able to hold down a job. What most people didn’t know is that failing school or being fired was not an option. I would be letting down my parents and not upholding the principle of a strong work ethic. It seemed that in the end, I was at fault for not being in control of my emotions and that I simply needed to decide to be better. I told myself that I was fine and I could change my life.

One night I was awake at 4am sobbing to Susan Boyle’s rendition of “I dreamed a dream” from Les Miserable. Even though I find this event a bit comical it was a defining moment for me that something was wrong. By this time I had met with my third therapist who worked closely with my doctor and it was suggested that I should give Lexapro a try.  I told my parents what my doctor had said and they were not quite supportive in the beginning. My partner didn’t really seem supportive either. It was then I decided that I needed to stop listening to the people who didn’t actually understand my emotional state of mind.

After 3 or so weeks of being on my new medication, I had a realization. I had not been retreating to my car or my shower for my daily crying sessions. I was not arguing with my husband as often as I had. I sat there in astonishment wondering if this was what it was like to feel normal. I know most people say that there is no such thing as “normal” but when you’ve lived in deep despair since you were a small child you have to wonder how other people function.  I’m not saying that I experienced elation. I just felt less overwhelmed and reactive.

So to all the other Latinx out there. I understand what it’s like to be part of a culture that invalidates mental illness but I want to let you know that I see you. Trust yourself.

 

Edith