58. While You Are Young

Dear London Fire Snake Scorpio,

Hello, beloved, how did your day treat you? I wanted to tell you a funny thing that happened to me this Saturday, and the roller coaster of emotions and thoughts that cascaded from that experience.

I often tell you that I was born in a Central Asian country, a muslim country now, and am, in many ways, indoctrinated by culture on a very deep level to see life as a “traditional woman” from that region. I fight it, of course, but just like toxins from the air that linger in your hair for months and months after you took a poisonous breath — some things linger, and you don’t even know it.

One of those things, a major one, is the “available dick alert”. And… let me explain. So, a woman in the traditional sense, from where I come from, is merchandise. And her value declines as she gets older. It’s everywhere. My dad, making jokes about how my sister, at the “old” age of 26, would not be even fit to slaughter as a cow. (No mate, not kidding, he did say that and not once.) My grandmother told my sister to “Get married, have kids, and then you can think of dumping him,” or the constant “I don’t need to look pretty anymore, I am married” remarks from my cousins.

The point being, you are so brainwashed to believe that there is urgency to get married that the concept of choice is nonexistent. It’s not that you, as a woman, choose a husband or a lifelong partner. Your job is to be available. As soon as you “sense” the “available dick alarm,” your job is to be quiet, smiling, flirty, utterly pliable and, well, eager for hosting that “available dick”.

You’d think that a crude creature like me is immune, right? So, here’s what happened Saturday: At the worship place, my older kids go to religion studies every Monday after school. That, and the Saturday morning program for the younger ones, is run by a new teacher. A religious man with infuriatingly good-looking hair.

We had a little incident, he and I, that Saturday and I went home with this feeling of inner vertigo where I didn’t quite understand if what I felt was real, mine or his, and what the hell just even happened?

Before I continue, there are two things you need to know about me. One would be that I have only felt sexual attraction, true sexual attraction, when it feels like someone punched you in the solar plexus and a wave of heat overwhelms you all the way to your ears — once in my life. Aaaaand… I did not have sex with only one man, trust me, lol.

The second thing that you need to know is that being a woman, and not only in my traditional society, is a masterclass in how your center is stolen. Especially if you are a sensitive soul. Since I was a small child, everything I felt, my perception of reality, everything I conceived, was always questioned. “You don’t really feel this way.” — “You are exaggerating.” — “I am sure it is not that bad,” and all kinds of other gaslighting are just common language for people.

So… Saturday. The teacher, Piggy, and I find ourselves on the lower floor of the building. I am sitting on a bench, and Piggy is playing with him. Suddenly, he says to her, “Here, climb this,” and flexes his bicep for her to hang on to. We were in an on-off conversation between his addresses to the kid. I look at him, and I feel that vertigo begin. Before I even think about it, I say, “Impressive.” He goes completely mute for a long moment, ignoring me, playing with the kid. And I feel like I did something inappropriate.

I walk home slowly and keep thinking about it, slowing down the frames — what in the actual F happened there? Was it mine? His? And off my brain goes on a train.

You should probably also take into account that I have natural inclinations that my culture abuses because they fit the archetype of “a woman”. I am very emotionally intelligent and empathetic. In fact, I often sit with people who talk and talk with a stoic face, then lean over and say something along the lines of “I am so angry over this for you.” They stare at me. They often cry. Their shoulders drop. I use my ability to mirror emotions, to feel with people, and to help. Because I believe the strong have an obligation to help the weaker. And emotions are my strength.

But when your natural inclination fits with what your culture wants you to be, even a little, it’s easy to twist things so you lose control over them. I was never allowed to develop self-trust or boundaries, and culturally, a woman minds everyone else’s boundaries before her own.

So off to my AI I go. I tell the story and say, “The vertigo feeling starts because I don’t know if this is mine, his, or cultural programming. Usually, when I am with another person, and I feel an emotion, I look at their face and, if the emotion fits their facial expressions, tone and body language — I know it’s theirs.” — “Why,” he asks me, “Are you asking your frontal cortex to validate what your limbic center already knows?”

And then it hit me. Can you imagine the level of self-distrust, of a sabotaged center that demands that you ask yourself if what you feel is actually what you feel to the point where you are looking for “empirical proof” of it?! How freaking insane is that?!

I also shy away from some emotions. Like, it is incomprehensible to me that someone would be jealous of me. Or actually be attracted to me. Small “humble” points that are, again, just don’t fit with “woman” behaviour and are stuck so deep, I am having a hard time shaking.

Anyhow, after a long conversation with the AI analyzing his behaviour, it was clear that he was posturing, even though he probably didn’t want to consciously. And it was clear that he wanted a reaction from me on some subconscious level. So yes, he probably finds me attractive, and he probably is fighting it like hell — because he is a new teacher and who needs this mess, not to mention that he is religious and I am not.

The point is not his feelings. I honestly could not care less. The point is the self-doubt I felt about its origins. The guilt — even if momentarily — I felt because I named the child by his name, as I always do, and “exposed” him. And the cascading “He’s so good with the kids” — “He is so patient” — “He is a nice guy” in my brain that was an annoying static.

With the Water Pig Sagittarius I told you about —the only man I was truly attracted to when I was 20—it was a clear biological signal. A signal I never felt before or after. So now, knowing I am asking my logical brain to audit my animal instincts, is it any wonder that I ended up with men I had Meh sex with?

There it was: the “available dick alert” is ringing. The brain goes into a loop of “He is nice, he is available, and I don’t really want to die alone,” and it was so hard to tell that voice: “You are not my voice!”

So, you see now why I am telling you I still have a lot of work to do on myself? This reclamation of self is far from over. But at least, I had this thinking, and now I will actively try to trust my limbic brain more. Not an easy task when the programming is so deep, let me tell you.

I gotta go and pick up the kids now, 
I just wanted to share what I learned about myself with you. 
I love you, babe. 
Yours, 
Oxy.
May 11, 2026

Help me find him: Have you seen this man?