I spent 35 years in a womb of my own making.
I sheltered myself within the thick confines of the labels society pasted on me, gaining heft with each passing year. The heaviness was a sick comfort.
Instead of becoming closer to birth, I became more deeply mired,
burrowed into the darkness;
welcoming the bitter on my tongue,
the heaviness of my limbs,
the hunger of my soul.
Until I could not deny the stirring of labor within me.
I was ill prepared for the pain.
The stripping, burning laborious pain of birthing myself.
Waves of torturous, soul-freeing, teeth clenching, muscle burning, exquisitely bittersweet pain.
Alone in the solitary woods of rebirth, shunned. Smited by those who had pasted me with the labels I was so vicariously tearing off of my sweat drenched flesh with each wave of maddened contraction and expulsion.
No one was there to wipe the sweat off my brow. I was alone in my pain, in my grief, in my delight, in my longing.
Alone, I birthed my true self.
Mothered her.Gave her shelter to grow underneath. Until she was a strong and worthy companion.
Ceremoniously, we burned our former shell, dancing around the fire as the constraints I had before allowed to exist within me curled in the heat as if hell itself was below.
And, we danced.