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I believe in the power of story telling, and I believe that especially for we non-heterosexual women, it's vital for our health and wellbeing. My story of being bisexual starts a very long time ago, since I am now, at considerable shock to myself, fifty-two years of age. Inside I'm still a kid, so this "body falling apart" thing is something I fight tooth and nail! Some women say they "always knew", while others declare themselves to be "late bloomers". I'm neither. The only thing I "always knew" is that deep, deep down I just wasn't like other girls. I looked like other girls, but I just didn't think like them. Didn't like the same things, didn't have the same interests, didn't know what to talk to them about. But mentally I wasn't like a boy either, although I was far more comfortable in the company of boys than girls. Confused, and with a child's brain really unable to analyse or understand what I was experiencing, I simply withdrew. A lot of kids do that. Something jars, something's amiss, and survival instincts kick in and they withdraw, or act out. That's only the beginning of the damage when society tried to pretend we don't exist. In primary school I had a boyfriend, I think because of the simple fact that I spent more time with boys and had that greater sense of familiarity with them. In the all-girls' high school I attended I was acutely aware of my discomfort towards both the girls I shared my days with, and the boys whom we were sardined with at points of bus connection. Everyone else seemed to be chatting and flirting .... and I just wanted the ground to swallow me up. High school was a kind of torture. I knew there was such a thing as a gay man, but I had almost no awareness of lesbianism. I would catch myself looking at girls and turn away in micro-seconds, censoring my own thoughts to the extent that consciously I totally believed myself to be straight. Often the other girls noticed and I seemed to live in a state of perpetual embarrassment, unable to understand why my eyes seemed to have a life of their own and why I felt so tongue-tied and uncomfortable. After school, I had boyfriends that I genuinely loved and found immensely attractive. Other than that I kept to myself, going to nightclubs on my own, and even going to drive-in theatres on my own. I just found it impossible to mix comfortably with girls. Despite trying to keep up with the latest fashions of the time, I never felt "feminine" and always felt that I wasn't "a real woman". I yearned to feel comfortable in my own skin, and to get some sense of ease about myself as a female. Even dressing was a problem - I loved fashion, even the extremes of frill and masculine clean lines, but felt like a fake whatever I wore. I kept myself busy studying and learning, something I still do to this day. That's how I learned to quiet the disquiet. It wasn't until my early twenties, once I was married, that my feelings for women became so overpoweringly strong that I actually did something about it. The experience was disappointing to say the least. I wasn't the least bit interested in the relationship, just in the sex. My attitude, I'm ashamed to say, was pretty predatory and with the wisdom of hindsight I can look back and say that I got what I deserved. Finally I realised that what I really wanted was a meaningful relationship with a woman, but with my usual impulsiveness tried to "microwave" a relationship with someone who was just about the most unsuitable partner one could imagine. It ended with the dreaded "threesome" experience with my husband and it was then that I realised that for me, my attraction to men and my attraction for women are like oil and water. They don't meld. Despite the fact that I am the kind of bisexual (and there are so very many different kinds) who need both a woman and a man in her life, I'm just not into more than one in my intimate moments. I ended my first marriage in the late 80's, having realised that I'd married a man out of immature rebellion toward my parents rather than out of love. I spent 4 years pretty much on my own, struggling to bring up 2 children with next to no financial support, and with my mind totally engaged with putting food on the table for them. Worried about custody issues, I was so terrified to be anything other than "squeaky clean" that I virtually just lived for my children. Any thought of women was once again suppressed in micro-seconds and I wrote off my past as "a phase I went through when I was young". I was 100% convinced that I was now heterosexual. Finally I got so lonely that I started looking for a partner, male of course! It never once occurred to me that I had options! Luckily for me I met a man that seemed to me the most gorgeous human being on the planet. Highly intelligent and incredibly handsome, I nagged him for 6 years until he finally proposed. Life together in those days wasn't easy, with 4 children between us and all the usual step-family issues, challenges, and hassles. The children seemed to grow up quickly and about 3 years ago the last one, my daughter, left home. As I stood in our driveway with her, waiting for her to be collected by her flat mate, somewhere deep inside me, all hell broke loose. It felt like a swirling mass of confusion rising up and totally overwhelming me. I had no idea what "it" was, but I felt distressed, disoriented, and in pain, and it wasn't because my daughter was all grown up and leaving home. The truth hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks .... I needed a woman in my life, and now that I no longer "needed" to be a mother in the same way, there was nothing left to keep those feelings down. For 2 years I struggled with these vesuvial feelings, shoving them down and keeping them as a painful secret. I very much needed women in my life, and in particular I needed a special woman. But I was (am) monogamous. What do you do when you desperately need both, but also love and appreciate the intimacy that comes from being bonded to just one? It was the most god-awful catch-22 I could imagine. I joined lesbian groups just to have female contact. And was rejected, every time. People say that heterosexuals are bigoted and cruel. They have nothing on the lesbian community. Finally I saw a psychologist, along with my husband, and at least for the first time was able to verbalise the pain and distress to someone who could listen and be compassionate. I began to believe that perhaps I wasn't a freak or a hopeless case, and that rather than being trapped in a catch-22, there might actually be a solution. The solution was to build authentic friendships with women like me, and perhaps one day to be lucky enough to form a very special, but platonic, relationship with one of these women. Finally, deep inside me, I had a glimmer of hope that I wasn't the only one in such a situation, and that there must be others! I spent perhaps a year searching all over the net, trying different groups, and came up blank. There were some nice communities of bisexual women, but the level of discussion mirrored the level of education and life experience and once again I just didn't fit in. Sexual preference alone is no basis for friendship. Then there were the "bisexual" chat lists, both mixed (and I definitely did not want that male energy around when I wanted to engage with women!) and female only. These were without exception focussed on sexual experience and most of the writers seemed to have the same attitude of sexual hobbyism that I had as a younger person and now so much regret. That was the last thing I was looking for. The closest thing I found to what I wanted and needed was a group for lesbian doctors, focussing on career support and peer mentoring. But they wouldn't accept bisexuals, and I am not a doctor, but a clinical researcher. So I decided to go about trying to build a community just like the one I envisaged. I started by trying to build a community just for bisexual women, mostly because I thought that was the only way the community could be a truly safe one. That hasn't worked yet because bisexual women are isolated and invisible, and have mostly given up on reaching out. It will happen, but it'll take time. Just as necessary as a homogeneous network, is the need for a community which acts as a bridge for lesbians and bisexual women. I fervently believe that we have more in common than we have in difference, and that together we can build the most amazing place to get to know one another and forge inspirational friendship. And that's DykePage. It's happening as I imagined it might, and I couldn't be happier. I'm watching this wonderful community form before my very eyes, and treasuring my friends who are working to build it with me. That's my story, and I'd very much like to hear yours.
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