Shameful Panties

Me, after an elementary school Halloween party

Me, after an elementary school Halloween party

That pre-adolescent time is so awkward and ignorant. As a female, before you understand what’s happening to your body or ever know it’s changing at all, your vagina secretes discharge. Healthy, hormonal discharge of a young girl anywhere between maybe 9 and 13 depending on how early your body changes.

I didn’t notice that.  I was somewhere around 9. It’s not as though your panties are actually wet. It’s just a little bit of moisture that gets into your panties. So, you throw your panties into the dirty laundry like usual. You just toss them in there, clueless that you’ve done anything wrong…clueless that your body has gotten you in trouble. Clueless until Saturday morning when you’re in your room reading and suddenly you hear your mother scream your name all the way from the basement. You still don’t know you’re in trouble…you’re not sure why she’s screaming so angrily. Still ignorant and innocent, you zip downstairs to see what she needs or what you’ve done this time, feeling fairly confident it can’t be too bad because you know you’ve not done anything wrong or broken any rules. So at this point, you’re mostly curious and maybe the hateful scream of your name was merely to reach the volume level to get your attention.

But as you stand half the size of your 5’2 raging mother, while she shoves your dirty panties in your face screaming, “I’M NOT STUPID! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” you realize you’ve certainly done something wrong or shameful or disgraceful or broken the rules somehow. You know you didn’t pee your pants or anything(you’re very proud of the fact that you’ve not done THAT in a LONG time!), so what could be possibly be wrong with your dirty panties? Then she shows you the tiny spot in your panties that have been sitting in the dirty clothes for a few days now, and that delicate smudge of moisture that your changing body discharged while you were swinging on the maypoles at recess has become the tiniest little dried off-white crusty smudge. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THE BOYS, YOU LITTLE SLUT?” And you don’t know what you’ve done or what a “slut” even is. You just know that boys are wayyyyy yukky…and you DO know you’re in serious trouble by your mom’s expression. You’re not sure why your panties did that yet (that knowledge won’t come for another 3 or 4 years)…you only know that those are your panties (you can’t possibly deny that – you’re the only 9 year old girl in the house) and your body did something disgustingly wrong in them. Your body betrayed you. It got you in trouble. And it’s so embarrassing and humiliating that your dirty panties are so disgustingly unacceptable and apparently tell stories you don’t even know, that all you can do is cry and plead “I’m sorry Mommy” and silently vow to have a LONG talk with God about this horrifying indiscretion later after you’ve tucked all your stuffed animals safely in your bed.

Only later that night, after you tuck all your stuffed animals carefully under your covers, God doesn’t tell you. He doesn’t answer your pleads to understand why your body did something so disgusting and shameful against your will. He doesn’t even tell you what “boys” had to do with it! Mr. Bananas doesn’t know either or he’s not talking if he does. So the best you know to do is beg God to stop your body from ever doing THAT again.

But God doesn’t stop it. So, further punishment will come. You aren’t going to be allowed to play neighborhood football outside or go sledding with them when it snows with the neighbors for a while…a REALLY long while. And all you can do then is pray that God sends your daddy and maybe your daddy will know why your body is doing that disgusting horrible “slutty” thing and understand that you’re not doing it on purpose.

After all, your daddy loves you. You know it.

Tiny deaths of devotion

He showed up Friday around 2 am.  First time since the letters the girls sent.  I somehow knew he would or at least, had this sneaking hunch.  That’s rather typical, but more interesting is that Lexi somehow “knew” he was coming too.  Said she’d felt that all day long and instead of staying at a friends’ house as we had planned, actually decided to come home with me.  She told me the next day that she’d had the feeling he was coming all day the day before.  I think he intuition is far stronger than mine could ever be because she believes in herself and I’ve taught her to trust that voice inside.  So interesting to contemplate the similarities between us and the differences within those similarities due to vas environmental experiences.

So, I really felt he was coming.  We hung out for awhile debating whether he could stay or not.  I told him Lexi could not see him here under any circumstances.  That’s when he went into talking about Lexi’s letter and how he didn’t want to ever “damage” them, but that he’d only been here “once”.  For the love of God…are you kidding me??    I said, well, you might only remember once because you’re always drunk, but the girls and I are always sober and we remember 30 times easily.  What do you mean “once”??  It must be such a convenient gift to have memories only of our choosing.  I sure wish I were so blessed!!

So, after mild debate, I drove him straight home.  No sex..only a few kisses in the kitchen before we left and a few in the car in his driveway.  I felt really proud of myself for this, but sad too.  I would have loved to sleep and wake up next to him….but I chose not to regardless how much I would have loved that in the moment.

And here is where it gets  irrevocably disgusting:  Had lunch with my boss Monday.  She asks if he came over Friday.  I said “Yes, gosh how did you know?!”  She says she saw him out at the bar.  Hitting on everything there that has at least 2 teeth, stumbling around lost, and barely functioning while throwing himself at any female whose path he crossed intentionally or otherwise.  My boss said she was disgusted and desperately wanted to go up to him to say,”Sober up and go to her.  Stop this ridiculous garbage.  You have a wonderful girl who adores you and waits for you.  What the hell’s the matter with you?  Get over this and go to her.” 

Apparently his good buddies he was with just walked around laughing at him throughout this.  That makes me so mad!  My friends actually care more about his dignity and self respect than his own “good buddies”.  How sad!  And that’s only because they know of the man he once was.  My boss is now thoroughly disgusted in spite of all the wonderful things about him I’ve told her over the years and literally feels sorry that I love him at all.  She would now be about the 100th person to say to me directly, “You deserve SO much better than him.  You could way better than someone like that.”

And after he was rejected by every nasty and maybe-not-so-nasty(?) bar fly, he came straight to me.  He must have walked.  My boss said his friends were still there and suddenly he was gone.  He must’ve walked those few miles straight to my house.  I think of how sad I was that I didn’t hold him or make love to him or wake up with him.  …How it bothered me all weekend that I’d had to pass on one of the few deeply happy moments I can still experience (however pathetic it might be).  And then I think of the only reason he was here was because he was rejected by everything else and that it sure wasn’t for a lack of trying.  And I want to vomit that he comes to me and I struggle with the choice to reject him and I hurt for days afterward for making the “right” choice and not the choice I so want…  My daughter was the only reason I found the strength to succeed in making that choice.

Do I dare say that I felt the tinies bit of devotion to him die?  I’ve hesitated to even document this experience/information regarding him at all because if it doesn’t die at least a little…then I’m truly the most hopeless female that has ever walked the earth.  Yet, my fear that it won’t be enough lingers in my gut, surrounded by excuses and memories of the incredible human being he once was…tempting me to distort it all and color it inside my pink fluffy bubble of lasting love and devotion.  It’s not as though this is the first “unsavory” story I’ve heard in the past three years of this nonsense.  In fact, it’s one of the more typical.  Sadly, there are many far more disgusting.  I just feel the need to protect my love for him and not give them the validity of writing them down anywhere.

I do have enough hope this moment to almost believe that yes, a teeny-tiny piece of adoration for him has died.  Which I’m praying lasts long eough to give me the strength to see him without the deceptively loving and forgiving glasses I always wear.  Maybe even the deepest devotion can actually die incrementally in time with enough disappointment, deceit, disgust, and manipulation?  Have I knicked the surface even?  Do I dare completely give myself that possibility- that hope?

I desperately would like to think that if he came back to me this very second, begging and sober (too many times he’s done this drunk!), that I would be able to say with confidence and conviction, “I love you with everything in me that is pure and true Dave, but I do not choose to be with you again.”

That is my prayer.  To be able to say it and mean it…and not feel like  my heart is dead inside my chest as soon as the words come out and I watch him walk away….  If that is God’s will of course.

Heaven help me.  Thank you.

Letter to God

I broke the rules.  I did.  I can’t blame him this time.  I’m guilty.  I broke the rules I laid in place.

My friend died and I wonder why no matter what happens:  death, illness,  nightmare, anything that shakes me up at all…..I can’t rest easy until I’ve been with him.  I get consumed with thoughts of how short life is and what really matters at the end of it all….and it becomes an uncontrollable need to just have him close to me, as though the only thing in the world that can provide any comfort that there really is meaning or sense to it all is time with him.  I would like to rid myself of this.  He is the enigma and the solution to my confusion.  Does that sense of comfort he brings come from my denial to accept that it isn’t what it was and that his claims that he doesn’t ever want it to be that?  I guess denial has to be comforting or we’d all rather look at reality…

I’ve never known a reality before that has so many holes and soo much confusion to it though.  Or do I create those in my mind?  I just don’t know anymore. 

He let me in at 6 am, which was shocking…and he held me so close as I sobbed my heart out…half of those tears from the loss of my friend and half from the pain and confusion of the man holding me as I cried.  And I told him all the things I don’t say anymore.  The same things he says to me when he comes over drunk.  That nothing makes sense until I’m next to him.  That when I contemplate life, I sometimes have to think that 4 hours of utter bliss followed by a sense of agony is better than spending those same four hours fighting with myself.  Other times when life still seems eternal, I think holding out for myself and what I really want is the best choice. 

I just started wondering if I knew I would be gone tomorrow, would “settling” for just those few hours of pure happiness feel as though I compromised myself?  Would it matter? I think I’d just be grateful to have the memories of those hours to take with me beyond….  I don’t think that on the last day of my life, I will regret anything but the times I wasted, fighting myself into staying away..hoping that what once was will be again if I can just stay away from that joy and insist on all or nothing.

To live each moment as if it were your last…come what may before and after or to plan and contemplate, maneuver and fight trying to mold life into exactly what I want….still having no reassurance that I’ll get that in the end anyway.

And what does God want?  I feel He would want me to uphold my personal morals in the face of desire and seeking pleasure.  Then, I think He doesn’t want us to suffer, does He?  I have lost my friend and my entire sense of what’s right or wrong anymore.

I wrote a letter to God asking him.  Now, I have to just find the faith that He will answer.

Rinse and repeat

  1. So, that’s a good start!!  I went through with it and he was every bit as terrific as on our first date…

The red car was suddenly there Thursday morning and stayed for some time.  I can’t help but wonder and wish so much I didn’t even know.  I have no interest in knowing these things because I’m way too interested…so much more than I want to be.  Interesting that the car’s presence itself was not all that difficult, just the length of time it stayed…  Brought back memories and I don’t want to think that (a similar scenario?) is happening!  How many Wednesdays there have been spent in random sexual encounters anyway?  I’m sure too many to count, but then I remember I was originally a Wednesday too…so I have to accept that anything can happen.  No matter how unlikely it might seem to me.  It’s really not at all that unlikely.  That is wishful thinking and I do not want it. 

Why should any base substance inside of me care one way or another?  That is so unfair, I could just whine like a baby over it till the day I die!   And who on earth would I waste so much time and energy doing that?  I will not.  I perceived the situation, thought of a million scenarios (good and bad) and then let my feelings wash over me like a heavy cleansing rain, hoping they would subside as soon as they were acknowledged and allowed to flow…  That didn’t so much work, but I’m proud of my effort!

I lose all elements of creativity and inspiration when I suppress these things.  And it only hurts terribly when I let them flow.  Where is the middle ground for someone like me in this position?

I am really trying and although I question why I’m still in the position to have to try this hard, I want to be grateful that I completed a second date with JK and tell myself that IS the baby step in the right direction of change that I’ve been praying for.  …tell myself over and over and over…until it might become real….

A safe place to breathe

Like an alarm clock has been planted in my brain, I wake at 3 am.  3 AM….the witching hour?  Such irony!

I wake because I love him.  I wake because I don’t love him.  I wake because I’m angry at his cruelty or furious at my stupidity..  Or I wake in fear at the slow death I am living…  I do not know much of anything any more.  Most likely, I never did.

Jared says maybe he is just a distraction from “him”.  No!  I have feelings, I just can’t get them in order.  It all feels very sick and unhealthy and I do not wish to draw others into it as I try to clear it out.  I tear myself between running to Jared and running from him.  I slept past 3 am for a few weeks and that was exciting, so imagine my frustration to see 3 AM this morning!

I have so much to offer and yet I really have nothing.  I know how to work hard and can’t muster the energy or focus to do so.  I know how to love and not how to parent.  I know how to defend myself and don’t.  I can’t be a daughter of the very thing I need to escape while attempting my escape.

I am lost in translation at communicating.  Somewhere along the way I’ve lost my rights to humanity and I piss myself off with my weak attempts to reclaim them.  Perhaps we are not all granted these at birth?  Perhaps some of us are only intended as vehicles for others’ self expression of their rights?  What if I am that girl?  What if all I’ll ever know again is 3 AM?  And confusion?  And fighting to defend myself at all the wrong times in all the wrong ways for all the right reasons?  What if that is all I’ll ever be as I desperately push to define myself beyond that?

I have the clay in my hands.  I feel the power of formation.  I am uncomfortable with power.  I never wanted it because I can’t trust myself to be worthwhile.  I squeeze and squish….  I languish for hours forming my soul and at 3 AM,  I carelessly and intentionally destruct all I struggled to create only hours earlier.  Smashing the clay back to a blob of formless muck!

I live a slow death and do not wish to draw anyone into that.  Yet, I am lonely while lost in translation.  And I ache for trust.  And I have enough love to feed half of the world.  I bleed from the neck as I ever so slowly chop off my own head.  I wish for life!  I wish for death!  I don’t know the difference between that ending and this beginning.  I only know how to feel.  I was born to feel…  I feel you.  I feel him.  I feel her.  I feel them.  I feel it all.  I feel everything until I can’t feel anything anymore.  Feeling is life and feeling will be my death.  I don’t want that any more, but if I turn it off, am I not already dead?

Are you not dead once you can no longer feel?  Or is that just a different way of living?  Is there a safe place to breathe at 3 AM?

Yesterday

Yesterday he was sentenced.  In spite of my apprehensions and fears, I went to watch.  Before he went in front of the judge, I prayed that he would receive the sentence that God would feel best for him to get back to a good state of mind.  (But I couldn’t help adding, but God, please don’t let him go to jail. 

Well, he did get sentenced to one weekend in jail.  In the circumstances, this was a fairly lenient punishment, but at first I was bummed that he got jail at all.  Then, I felt calm and realized that I believe God answered my prayer.  It was certinly not the harshest punishment, but it was not completely forgiving.  So, that must be exactly what God feels would be the gentlest way of making it worthwhile.  I am grateful. 

It must be frightening for him to be on the other side of his own fence!  I’m worried a bit and it’s not what I wanted to happen, but I do trust that he’s strong and will be just fine.  It must be exactly what he needs…

I did not speak to him.  And I’m glad I didn’t have to.  I’ve changed my phone number recently too, so he no longer has any way to contact me.  I’m very sad that he can’t call if he needs me at all during this tough time, but drastic cuircumstances require drastic measures of protection…  I can no longer leave myself open to his twisted forms of abuse. 

I still love him though and I’m praying hard that that settles down more as time goes by without his influence.  I do feel much more peace of heart and mind knowing I’m safe from any contact…  but it sure is tough knowing what he’s going through…