As I wander through this life I find much grief - not in the things that have happened to me, or in any specific incident occurring in reality... But in all the unfulfilled possibilities. The might have beens, could have beens, should have beens. Life is such a huge spider web, with each possibility that offers itself, each fork in the road, leading to other outcomes.
It isn't necessarily that I believe those other outcomes would lead to something better... Nor that I necessarily regret what life has given me. It is simply the frustration of NOT KNOWING. I feel like each possibility not presented, each opportunity not exercised is a real loss - and sometimes, those unknown losses make me cry.
For example, who would I be now had I not been switched at birth? What sort of woman would that same child with the same genetics have been had she been raised in a safe and loving home? Would I be inclined to save the world? Would I still be political, or compassionate, or have an overendowed empathetic sense? Would I be more successful, as the world measures success?
I can almost see the threads where that road leads. I would not have married Nick. I would not have gone into theatre. I would have my pH But I would not have Spike, nor would I be living in Italy.
So, since I am happy with the outcome, how can I wish that it had been different? I swear to you, it is not the outcome. It really is the not knowing that drives me mad.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Thursday, February 17, 2005
My First Life - Chapter 6
The mind is a wondrous thing. By compressing memories of horror and pain into an instant, it makes the worst parts of your life seem as if they happened in a dream, in one long dark night - even if the living of your life seemed to take forever at the time. Most of what I can recall now is knotted in a ball so tight that I cannot pull out individual threads... it is as if time at this point is happening the way Einstein posits... simultaneously.
The facts, as I can recall, are these. A decision is made to sell the house we were living in, and to buy another in town. They bought a lovely 2 story home near the lakefront, and furnished it with french provincial furniture. I changed schools, scandal once again followingme.
As to the sheriff and thier interest in child sexual abuse, it was made clear to me that no one believed me, no one ever would believe me, and if I did not recant my story I would be placed in a Juvinile detention facility. Of course, it wasn't the sheriffs office that said this - they had my stepfathers criminal record - it was my family. I had no choice, so I recanted. I did not want to go to jail - and telling the truth meant just that... further punishment.
Then, my stepfather leaves my mother - for my brothers 18 year old girlfreind. Mom begins drinking - a lot. One day, my mother attempts suicide... I come in from a day of riding my bicycle, and there is a note from my brother on the table, saying he would be back, and leaving me cigarettes. Now, being that my brother is never nice to me, I know something horrible has happened. I run into the bathroom, and there is blood, everywhere. I run out the door, and I run to the hospital. Mom has been admitted to the psychiatric ward for observation. There she obtains breast implant surgery, covered by insurance. Her psychaitirst claims it is medically necessary in order to bolster her self esteem.
I move in with my birth father, my stepmother and my two little brothers. I am clearly told that I am not welcome there. I become hugely depressed, and my father refuses to allow me access to my psychologist.
John breaks up with me.
I move back home with my mother - I am terrified that she will kill herself. I love her, and I want to protect her. My stepmother is in a rage, and tells my little brothers that I have left because I do not love them. My birth father was impotent, a scientific miracle in being the first bipedal hominid without a spine.
I return to my mothers home. Much of my time is spent cleaning vomit off the carpets after she would be sick, or in rising at 5 am to go find her car outside of whatever bar it was left at so she could get to work the next day.
There are another 2 or 3 or 4 suicide attempts, truly I have lost count. There are many nights spent with my mother, drunken, and blaming me for her pain - and times where I offered to go buy her a gun so the next time she wants to die she can just get it over with.
Somewhere in this mix, there are moments of happiness. There is a boy named Fred, who at 20 was the epitome of mature to me at that age. He spent part of my 16th summer listening to my dreams, introducing me to smart people, letting me see that there would be a life after. I was enamored of him, and he broke my heart... but he gave me a vision of a future that could be brighter, he believed in me, and encouraged me to follow my dreams.
There was my best friend, Jim, who let me come to live with him so I could try and finish high school, and who would take me on road trips when the going got too hard for me to shoulder alone.
Then there was Brett, 18 going on 45, with a trans-am and a real family who truely wanted to kill my mother for what she was doing to me.
Finally, there was Glen and his parents, who took me in when I finally had no where else to go.
These boys, each in thier own way, loved and nurtured me, and without them I may have perished. I reached for boys to be my friends, because girls simply weren't to be trusted. Except for Betty, and for my high school drama teacher, I had no women I could count on. Boys were simple - and to this day, I consider myself to be as much boy as girl.
My grades at this point shot from A's to F's and back again, depending on how heavily mom was drinking. I was competing at the state level in speech, was choir president, and was active in competitive theatre. I tried as desperately as possible to appear to be a normal bright eyed college bound student. I tried to be engaged, but I really didn't belong anywhere. I taught sunday school, and was active in my church. I took ballet classes. There was the life I was living, and the life I wanted to be living, and they were mutually exclusive, but I tried hard for the life I wanted rather than the life I had.
An example - and those of you with Alcoholic parents will probably laugh at similar memories of your own. Its only funny, of course in retrospect. I was competing in a theatre competion. We were performing a play called "Not enough Rope" by Elaine May. Ironically enough, it is a 35 minute one act wherein the lead character tries desperately to kill herself, but doesn't have enough rope. She tries to persuade her next door neighbor to help her. (My drama teacher - after discovering all the fun in my home - offered to change the piece, but I demurred).
One day, after rehearsal my co-actor drove me home. He was a nice boy, very clean cut and in love with Doris Day. Being a rather old fashioned boy, he insists on walking me to the door. I had forgotten my housekey, and had to ring to be let in. My mother - in all her glory - nude as the day she was born, with a bottle in her hand answered. She was very gracious, and asked him in for a drink. He declined. Oh my.
The situation at my home was spinning out of control. I came down with a case of chronic bronchitis, and was becomming desperately depressed. My home was becomming dangerous, with bouts of drinking, frequently followed by driving.
Finally, the Christmas Eve when I was 16 years old, the situation had gotten well out of hand. My mother, drunk, insisted on confronting her husband and the little girl he was living with. She was so drunk that I had to take her car keys away. Finally, after physically fighting with her, I offered to drive her where she wanted to go.
We drive to the tenament where my stepfather and his sweetheart live, and I follow my mother up the stairs. Screaming and banging ensue. I lean against the stair rail, impassive in the insanity. Finally, after five or so minutes, the little girl, Laurie was her name, opens the door, and she has a gun.
The two ladies commence to screaming at each other. My mother calls her a whore, and Laurie slaps my mother. Now, no one slaps my mother... and I fly at her. I tackle her to the ground... and she shoots me. My only response to this is.... "You Shot Me, You Bitch." I have never been in a fight before, and certainly never in one where I win. But I go wild, and am eventually pulled off of her by a neighbor.
I am taken to the hospital to have the bullet removed from my leg. The police are fighting with my mother in the hallway, my father, I believe has been called, and there is chaos in the corridor. I am alone in the treatment room, waiting to be seen by the doctor.
To my great dismay, and general relief, the nurse on duty is the director of the Sunday School. In tears, I ask her to make sure my small charges do good in the Church Christmas pageant, as I do not think I will be able to make it.
Peace on Earth, Goodwill towards Men.
The facts, as I can recall, are these. A decision is made to sell the house we were living in, and to buy another in town. They bought a lovely 2 story home near the lakefront, and furnished it with french provincial furniture. I changed schools, scandal once again followingme.
As to the sheriff and thier interest in child sexual abuse, it was made clear to me that no one believed me, no one ever would believe me, and if I did not recant my story I would be placed in a Juvinile detention facility. Of course, it wasn't the sheriffs office that said this - they had my stepfathers criminal record - it was my family. I had no choice, so I recanted. I did not want to go to jail - and telling the truth meant just that... further punishment.
Then, my stepfather leaves my mother - for my brothers 18 year old girlfreind. Mom begins drinking - a lot. One day, my mother attempts suicide... I come in from a day of riding my bicycle, and there is a note from my brother on the table, saying he would be back, and leaving me cigarettes. Now, being that my brother is never nice to me, I know something horrible has happened. I run into the bathroom, and there is blood, everywhere. I run out the door, and I run to the hospital. Mom has been admitted to the psychiatric ward for observation. There she obtains breast implant surgery, covered by insurance. Her psychaitirst claims it is medically necessary in order to bolster her self esteem.
I move in with my birth father, my stepmother and my two little brothers. I am clearly told that I am not welcome there. I become hugely depressed, and my father refuses to allow me access to my psychologist.
John breaks up with me.
I move back home with my mother - I am terrified that she will kill herself. I love her, and I want to protect her. My stepmother is in a rage, and tells my little brothers that I have left because I do not love them. My birth father was impotent, a scientific miracle in being the first bipedal hominid without a spine.
I return to my mothers home. Much of my time is spent cleaning vomit off the carpets after she would be sick, or in rising at 5 am to go find her car outside of whatever bar it was left at so she could get to work the next day.
There are another 2 or 3 or 4 suicide attempts, truly I have lost count. There are many nights spent with my mother, drunken, and blaming me for her pain - and times where I offered to go buy her a gun so the next time she wants to die she can just get it over with.
Somewhere in this mix, there are moments of happiness. There is a boy named Fred, who at 20 was the epitome of mature to me at that age. He spent part of my 16th summer listening to my dreams, introducing me to smart people, letting me see that there would be a life after. I was enamored of him, and he broke my heart... but he gave me a vision of a future that could be brighter, he believed in me, and encouraged me to follow my dreams.
There was my best friend, Jim, who let me come to live with him so I could try and finish high school, and who would take me on road trips when the going got too hard for me to shoulder alone.
Then there was Brett, 18 going on 45, with a trans-am and a real family who truely wanted to kill my mother for what she was doing to me.
Finally, there was Glen and his parents, who took me in when I finally had no where else to go.
These boys, each in thier own way, loved and nurtured me, and without them I may have perished. I reached for boys to be my friends, because girls simply weren't to be trusted. Except for Betty, and for my high school drama teacher, I had no women I could count on. Boys were simple - and to this day, I consider myself to be as much boy as girl.
My grades at this point shot from A's to F's and back again, depending on how heavily mom was drinking. I was competing at the state level in speech, was choir president, and was active in competitive theatre. I tried as desperately as possible to appear to be a normal bright eyed college bound student. I tried to be engaged, but I really didn't belong anywhere. I taught sunday school, and was active in my church. I took ballet classes. There was the life I was living, and the life I wanted to be living, and they were mutually exclusive, but I tried hard for the life I wanted rather than the life I had.
An example - and those of you with Alcoholic parents will probably laugh at similar memories of your own. Its only funny, of course in retrospect. I was competing in a theatre competion. We were performing a play called "Not enough Rope" by Elaine May. Ironically enough, it is a 35 minute one act wherein the lead character tries desperately to kill herself, but doesn't have enough rope. She tries to persuade her next door neighbor to help her. (My drama teacher - after discovering all the fun in my home - offered to change the piece, but I demurred).
One day, after rehearsal my co-actor drove me home. He was a nice boy, very clean cut and in love with Doris Day. Being a rather old fashioned boy, he insists on walking me to the door. I had forgotten my housekey, and had to ring to be let in. My mother - in all her glory - nude as the day she was born, with a bottle in her hand answered. She was very gracious, and asked him in for a drink. He declined. Oh my.
The situation at my home was spinning out of control. I came down with a case of chronic bronchitis, and was becomming desperately depressed. My home was becomming dangerous, with bouts of drinking, frequently followed by driving.
Finally, the Christmas Eve when I was 16 years old, the situation had gotten well out of hand. My mother, drunk, insisted on confronting her husband and the little girl he was living with. She was so drunk that I had to take her car keys away. Finally, after physically fighting with her, I offered to drive her where she wanted to go.
We drive to the tenament where my stepfather and his sweetheart live, and I follow my mother up the stairs. Screaming and banging ensue. I lean against the stair rail, impassive in the insanity. Finally, after five or so minutes, the little girl, Laurie was her name, opens the door, and she has a gun.
The two ladies commence to screaming at each other. My mother calls her a whore, and Laurie slaps my mother. Now, no one slaps my mother... and I fly at her. I tackle her to the ground... and she shoots me. My only response to this is.... "You Shot Me, You Bitch." I have never been in a fight before, and certainly never in one where I win. But I go wild, and am eventually pulled off of her by a neighbor.
I am taken to the hospital to have the bullet removed from my leg. The police are fighting with my mother in the hallway, my father, I believe has been called, and there is chaos in the corridor. I am alone in the treatment room, waiting to be seen by the doctor.
To my great dismay, and general relief, the nurse on duty is the director of the Sunday School. In tears, I ask her to make sure my small charges do good in the Church Christmas pageant, as I do not think I will be able to make it.
Peace on Earth, Goodwill towards Men.
Monday, February 14, 2005
More notes from a present life
Today I woke up in tears. Today would be my 19th wedding anniversary. Valentines day. Advice to brides: Do not mix your wedding day with any other holiday, because you just never know! God Forbid you get married on Christmas!
My wedding day was clear and warm, with blue sky's and puffy clouds and the beautiful early spring weather that only exists in San Francisco. We lived in a gorgeous little jewelbox of a victorian townhouse, painted in deep royal jewel tones, and there we were married, in front of a glistening stained glass window, and a marble gas fireplace.
My gown was a renassaince gown, made of burgandy velvet lined with rose taffeta, with a kinsale cloak of dusty lavendar. My veil was of dusty violet lace, covered by a fine chainmail mesh. My hair was red that day, and my nails were long and manicured.
The service was from the King Edward the sixth prayer book. I promised to love, honor, and obey. I meant it, oh gosh, I meant it. I take vows before God seriously - and to this day I do not know if divorce is really possible for me.
On the other hand.... Nick had his fingers crossed. He had lied to me. He made his pledges while calculating how to get out of it in shortest order. So, I am not sure that I was ever married. I don't know what to call this man. I really don't. Was I married? I don't know.
This was the happiest day of my life. I think too it may have been the saddest, because I think maybe even then I knew I wasn't really loved. I feel so ashamed, thinking back, of how cheaply I held myself. I should have married someone who was so happy to have me, so overjoyed to have someone who truly only wanted to be his... and at this time and age, it was all I wanted. To be owned, to belong to someone, to obey someone, to look up to someone.
I thought he wanted this too. I suppose I deluded myself, and lived in a fantasy world still of true love, of knights in shining armour, of damsels in distress and of mystery and magic.
I miss that girl. I want to believe in those things again.
In the deepest part of my heart, I would like to find another man whom I could love as much as I loved Nick, and who would love me back as passionatly. Someone to whom I would feel compelled to belong to... but I don't think it is bound to be. I don't think I could do that again. It is a childish desire, I suppose.
I have a life filled with love now. I have a gorgeous son, enough to eat, wealth enough, live in a glorious city.... I have not one, but two men utterly devoted to me -whom I in turn love, and a third who sits on my mind. I have true and devoted friends, and a very good life. I live in a wonderland, considering where I have been. My sex life is magnificent, my work is fun, if not always entirely rewarding -
So, this compulsion to be owned? To "belong", for "true love"? What is it? Biology? Hormones? Conditioning? Too much Disney, not enough Dostkevsky? Or are we driven to find spiritual harmony in pairs? Or maybe I am just greedy. Or stupid. Or the same little girl I was on my wedding day.
So life goes on... I am a grown up. I put away childish things, I keep to my vows and commitments, and I do the best I can.
But can I still please believe in fairies?
My wedding day was clear and warm, with blue sky's and puffy clouds and the beautiful early spring weather that only exists in San Francisco. We lived in a gorgeous little jewelbox of a victorian townhouse, painted in deep royal jewel tones, and there we were married, in front of a glistening stained glass window, and a marble gas fireplace.
My gown was a renassaince gown, made of burgandy velvet lined with rose taffeta, with a kinsale cloak of dusty lavendar. My veil was of dusty violet lace, covered by a fine chainmail mesh. My hair was red that day, and my nails were long and manicured.
The service was from the King Edward the sixth prayer book. I promised to love, honor, and obey. I meant it, oh gosh, I meant it. I take vows before God seriously - and to this day I do not know if divorce is really possible for me.
On the other hand.... Nick had his fingers crossed. He had lied to me. He made his pledges while calculating how to get out of it in shortest order. So, I am not sure that I was ever married. I don't know what to call this man. I really don't. Was I married? I don't know.
This was the happiest day of my life. I think too it may have been the saddest, because I think maybe even then I knew I wasn't really loved. I feel so ashamed, thinking back, of how cheaply I held myself. I should have married someone who was so happy to have me, so overjoyed to have someone who truly only wanted to be his... and at this time and age, it was all I wanted. To be owned, to belong to someone, to obey someone, to look up to someone.
I thought he wanted this too. I suppose I deluded myself, and lived in a fantasy world still of true love, of knights in shining armour, of damsels in distress and of mystery and magic.
I miss that girl. I want to believe in those things again.
In the deepest part of my heart, I would like to find another man whom I could love as much as I loved Nick, and who would love me back as passionatly. Someone to whom I would feel compelled to belong to... but I don't think it is bound to be. I don't think I could do that again. It is a childish desire, I suppose.
I have a life filled with love now. I have a gorgeous son, enough to eat, wealth enough, live in a glorious city.... I have not one, but two men utterly devoted to me -whom I in turn love, and a third who sits on my mind. I have true and devoted friends, and a very good life. I live in a wonderland, considering where I have been. My sex life is magnificent, my work is fun, if not always entirely rewarding -
So, this compulsion to be owned? To "belong", for "true love"? What is it? Biology? Hormones? Conditioning? Too much Disney, not enough Dostkevsky? Or are we driven to find spiritual harmony in pairs? Or maybe I am just greedy. Or stupid. Or the same little girl I was on my wedding day.
So life goes on... I am a grown up. I put away childish things, I keep to my vows and commitments, and I do the best I can.
But can I still please believe in fairies?
Sunday, February 13, 2005
My First Life - Chapter 5
Now we enter the period I like to call "How Mom Tried to Kill Me". Listen, if I don't find some of this drama somewhat funny in the sort of way late night teen drama's are kind of funny I would have to sink into an alcoholic depression and live in a garret, painting my misery until I succumb to a sad and early death.
Since none of that is in my game plan, I have to laugh at the horror of what follows. Because, really, it was truly horrible. My memory here begins to crumble a bit, my life being defined only by one grotesque incident after another. My life becomes like Marquis D Sades Justine.... just when you think it can't get any worse, it does. I promise you, the next few chapters will defy credulity. You will be sure I am lying, because these things don't happen. They just don't.
The general consensus among parents and family was this: I was somehow insane, I was bent on the destruction of my family, and to that end I made up wild and fantasical stories in order to 1.) exact revenge or 2.) hurt my mother or 3.) break up the marriage or 4.) because I enjoyed the drama. It was determined, at this point, to introduce me to a child psychologist.
Her name was Betty. Betty, thank you. You were the first person to come along and save my life, and my gratitude to you will be forever. If I could find you - or if, bless your heart, you read this... I love you forever.
Betty took one look at me. One look at my stepfather. And knew the score. She couldn't do much, but she did as much as she could, including putting me in the hospital a few times, figuring a psych ward was safer than my own home. She continued to see me even though my parents, finding no support for their theory of compulsive lying, cut off the insurance. Bless you Betty.
My memory of these days is like that of any other war survivor... images and glimpses of incidents that all pile one on top of the other, in no particular order....
The first time my mom tried to kill me, she attacked me for trying to end her marriage. I did what was appropriate for any screwed up teen of my generation to do - I ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and swallowed every pill in the medicine cabinet. Now, mom was a bit of a pill popper, and there were lots to choose from. I chose them all. Total, there were probably a couple of hundred different pills - uppers, downers, cold medication, pain killers - we were well stocked.
By the time the bathroom door was broken down, I was fairly well out of it. At first, my mother was concerned, until she heard me calling for John. At this point, she became enraged... and said something to the effect of "Fine, you little bitch, you want your precious John, he can come save your life." I went to sleep on the couch, calling his name.
At some point a little later, my older brother had dropped by, and I woke to him slapping my face, and arguing with my mother that I really should be taken to the hospital. My mother was against it. "She wants to die, let her die". She was pretty angry with me.
I assume my brother used the argument of jail time to persuade her... though I really have no idea, but I was taken to the hospital, where the nurses worked to keep me awake. I overheard my mother assuring the doctor - "No, we really don't keep much in our medicine cabinet. I assume she may have swallowed a few aspirin, maybe some cold medicine. No doctor, probably no more than 15 or 20 pills. She's just being dramatic." Thanks Mom.
I was given some hideous nasty fluid to drink, probably epicac syrup. I am very grateful they didn't pump my stomach. I wretched for quite some time, and after a few hours, was released to my mothers care.
She said that she hoped I had learned my lesson.
This was the first time mom tried to kill me, but it wasn't to be the last. As I said, she had some anger management issues.
Since none of that is in my game plan, I have to laugh at the horror of what follows. Because, really, it was truly horrible. My memory here begins to crumble a bit, my life being defined only by one grotesque incident after another. My life becomes like Marquis D Sades Justine.... just when you think it can't get any worse, it does. I promise you, the next few chapters will defy credulity. You will be sure I am lying, because these things don't happen. They just don't.
The general consensus among parents and family was this: I was somehow insane, I was bent on the destruction of my family, and to that end I made up wild and fantasical stories in order to 1.) exact revenge or 2.) hurt my mother or 3.) break up the marriage or 4.) because I enjoyed the drama. It was determined, at this point, to introduce me to a child psychologist.
Her name was Betty. Betty, thank you. You were the first person to come along and save my life, and my gratitude to you will be forever. If I could find you - or if, bless your heart, you read this... I love you forever.
Betty took one look at me. One look at my stepfather. And knew the score. She couldn't do much, but she did as much as she could, including putting me in the hospital a few times, figuring a psych ward was safer than my own home. She continued to see me even though my parents, finding no support for their theory of compulsive lying, cut off the insurance. Bless you Betty.
My memory of these days is like that of any other war survivor... images and glimpses of incidents that all pile one on top of the other, in no particular order....
The first time my mom tried to kill me, she attacked me for trying to end her marriage. I did what was appropriate for any screwed up teen of my generation to do - I ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and swallowed every pill in the medicine cabinet. Now, mom was a bit of a pill popper, and there were lots to choose from. I chose them all. Total, there were probably a couple of hundred different pills - uppers, downers, cold medication, pain killers - we were well stocked.
By the time the bathroom door was broken down, I was fairly well out of it. At first, my mother was concerned, until she heard me calling for John. At this point, she became enraged... and said something to the effect of "Fine, you little bitch, you want your precious John, he can come save your life." I went to sleep on the couch, calling his name.
At some point a little later, my older brother had dropped by, and I woke to him slapping my face, and arguing with my mother that I really should be taken to the hospital. My mother was against it. "She wants to die, let her die". She was pretty angry with me.
I assume my brother used the argument of jail time to persuade her... though I really have no idea, but I was taken to the hospital, where the nurses worked to keep me awake. I overheard my mother assuring the doctor - "No, we really don't keep much in our medicine cabinet. I assume she may have swallowed a few aspirin, maybe some cold medicine. No doctor, probably no more than 15 or 20 pills. She's just being dramatic." Thanks Mom.
I was given some hideous nasty fluid to drink, probably epicac syrup. I am very grateful they didn't pump my stomach. I wretched for quite some time, and after a few hours, was released to my mothers care.
She said that she hoped I had learned my lesson.
This was the first time mom tried to kill me, but it wasn't to be the last. As I said, she had some anger management issues.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Notes from a present life
Today my son began to ask questions. It was inevitable. He's 5 years old, and precocious.
"Mama, why can't we live with Babbo, or why can't Babbo live with us"
And so we begin.
"I loved your Babbo very much, but one day your Babbo didn't love me anymore, so we went away...."
"Ask him to forgive you Mama"
"Baby, I didn't do anything that needs forgiveness. I didn't do anything wrong. He just stopped loving me"
"Ask him to forgive you Mama"
"You can only ask forgiveness if you've done something wrong, sweetheart."
"But does my Babbo love me?"
"Of course he does. He loves you and misses you, but we both know that you are better off here in Italy with Mama. But when you are big enough, you can fly to the United States and spend whole summers with him"
"But what happened Mama?"
"Spike, he just stopped loving me. He changed his mind, but we just don't love each other like husband and wife. "
"How was it before Mama?"
"Every day, your Babbo would come in, and he would say 'I love you', and I would say 'I love you more', and we would touch and kiss and hug, and we seemed happy. But after he didn't love me, I cried and cried, and you would ask 'Mama, are you happy?' - So Spike, we had to leave."
"Why did we come so far?"
"Because Spike, you chose Italy. You and I and your Uncle Steve went to Train Town, and afterwards, you picked a restaurant. It was owned by italians, and they loved you and brought you toys and special food.... and so we came to Italy!"
"I miss my Babbo"
"I know baby - and your Babbo misses you. And no matter how far away you are, we will always be a family, and your Mama and Babbo will always love you more that anything in the world."
"But will you love each other?"
I don't think so, baby.
Oh my best beloved. This is not what I wanted for you. Someday you may read this, and I need you to know that this wasn't the plan. I wanted you to have what I never had.... a family with a Mother and Father who truly loved each other, a happy home filled with joy.
I waited so long for you Spike, month after month, year after year, I prayed for you to come to me. Every month, when I found I was not pregnant, I cried. Even before you were born, you were the one thing I wanted and needed more than anything else. For nearly 14 years I waited for you. Finally, after I had given up hope of ever holding you in my arms, you came. I wanted to give you a perfect life and a perfect family.
It's not to be, my love.... but I give you the best that I have. I am not a perfect Mama, I know... I lose my temper sometimes, and I don't always listen. But I have tried to surround you with people who love you, and I make sure to try and keep you and your best loved Babbo as close as 6,000 miles allow (and believe it or not, you are closer to your Babbo than many children who live with their fathers!). I make sure, as best I can, that your Babbo is your hero - because boys need heroes!
I hope that someday you will forgive me for failing to give you the perfect family. I couldn't do anything but what I've done. Our family is broken. But still good. Yes, still good.
"Mama, why can't we live with Babbo, or why can't Babbo live with us"
And so we begin.
"I loved your Babbo very much, but one day your Babbo didn't love me anymore, so we went away...."
"Ask him to forgive you Mama"
"Baby, I didn't do anything that needs forgiveness. I didn't do anything wrong. He just stopped loving me"
"Ask him to forgive you Mama"
"You can only ask forgiveness if you've done something wrong, sweetheart."
"But does my Babbo love me?"
"Of course he does. He loves you and misses you, but we both know that you are better off here in Italy with Mama. But when you are big enough, you can fly to the United States and spend whole summers with him"
"But what happened Mama?"
"Spike, he just stopped loving me. He changed his mind, but we just don't love each other like husband and wife. "
"How was it before Mama?"
"Every day, your Babbo would come in, and he would say 'I love you', and I would say 'I love you more', and we would touch and kiss and hug, and we seemed happy. But after he didn't love me, I cried and cried, and you would ask 'Mama, are you happy?' - So Spike, we had to leave."
"Why did we come so far?"
"Because Spike, you chose Italy. You and I and your Uncle Steve went to Train Town, and afterwards, you picked a restaurant. It was owned by italians, and they loved you and brought you toys and special food.... and so we came to Italy!"
"I miss my Babbo"
"I know baby - and your Babbo misses you. And no matter how far away you are, we will always be a family, and your Mama and Babbo will always love you more that anything in the world."
"But will you love each other?"
I don't think so, baby.
Oh my best beloved. This is not what I wanted for you. Someday you may read this, and I need you to know that this wasn't the plan. I wanted you to have what I never had.... a family with a Mother and Father who truly loved each other, a happy home filled with joy.
I waited so long for you Spike, month after month, year after year, I prayed for you to come to me. Every month, when I found I was not pregnant, I cried. Even before you were born, you were the one thing I wanted and needed more than anything else. For nearly 14 years I waited for you. Finally, after I had given up hope of ever holding you in my arms, you came. I wanted to give you a perfect life and a perfect family.
It's not to be, my love.... but I give you the best that I have. I am not a perfect Mama, I know... I lose my temper sometimes, and I don't always listen. But I have tried to surround you with people who love you, and I make sure to try and keep you and your best loved Babbo as close as 6,000 miles allow (and believe it or not, you are closer to your Babbo than many children who live with their fathers!). I make sure, as best I can, that your Babbo is your hero - because boys need heroes!
I hope that someday you will forgive me for failing to give you the perfect family. I couldn't do anything but what I've done. Our family is broken. But still good. Yes, still good.
Friday, February 11, 2005
My First Life - Chapter 4
My mother has prevented me from telling the rest. Over 20 years dead, and she still stops my voice. I was born and raised on secrets and lies, and I find that even thinking of mama makes my words catch in my throat. I'm sorry Mama.
I was laying in the back of a big rig semi, somewhere outside of New Orleans. My father was driving, listening to cowboy music, CB radio static in the background. A razor is held to my wrists and I am contemplating ending my life. Silent tears stream down my face, tears of pain and confusion and guilt and anger and despair. I'm trapped, and there is nothing I can do. I truly don't want to live anymore. I want it all to stop... but my death would kill my mother and that is all.
I'm so frightened, and I just want to get away. At a truck stop near New Orleans, I meet two young men. In a last ditch effort, I tell them what has happened, or as near to the truth as I can get. I ask them to take me with them, and get me away from him. They go to his truck to confront him... I do not know what happened, but my stepfather had a gun. When he came inside to get me, he was smiling at me - laughing at me really. He told me to get in the truck. My hero's were no where to be seen.
The ride back to Wisconsin was agonizing. He kept telling me that he had made me a woman. He didn't know that a short weak before, knowing what was coming, I had taken care of that myself - I was not giving that bastard my virginity. I am still so proud of myself for that - to this day, I praise the little girl who did that... who purposefully sought out a soft and gentle lover and seduced him. Good on her.
I think he believed me when I said I would kill myself. He was kinder for a while. He left me alone. The visits to my room stopped for a while and from the outside, I looked like a normal girl. A very unhappy normal girl, but truthfully - somehow no one noticed this.
I tried so desperately to get help. My IQ tested high, but I was failing all my classes. I visited the counseling office almost daily - but it was simply pointless.
In the meantime, over the summer, I had had my first real boyfriend. Because I needed to lose my virginity, I threw him over for the man I chose to take care of this monumental business, and I broke his heart. His sister took revenge for him, spreading rumours that I was the worlds biggest slut - little boys, needing something to brag about on their lunch hour or in the locker room, claimed me for that honor. With a couple of rapes and one real lover, I was the scarlet girl. I was attacked and beaten regularly - and I think, to be honest, I agreed in part to their assesment of me. The only boys who would look at me were the ones who thought I would put out... my role in the world was set.
There were saving graces... I became involved in theatre and speech... for brief moments I could escape and be someone else. Being so constantly under control, repressing my emotions and thoughts all the time, gave me a resovoir of pent up passions when I hit the stage. I was good... I worked hard. I competed in forensics, and I won awards. Approprately enough, my selection for that year was from "A Streetcar Named Desire" -
And I met a boy. His name was John, and how I loved him. I love him to this day. His mother was a pastor, he lived on a farm far away - so he knew nothing of the scandal surrounding me. He was chubby and funny and smart, and he loved me too. As long as he loved me, the misery that was my life didn't matter. My shame didn't matter. My mothers hatred of me didn't matter. My John loved me, and his love would save me.
I moved to a new school, and though my reputation followed me, it was a fresh start. I became a cheerleader, hoping this would improve my social standing. I began to meet people who went to college, and began seeing that there would be a life after - if I could make it through high school, and get out of Kenosha, there would be a better life waiting for me.
My love for John was as passionate as only a 16 year old girls love can be. I taught him how to make love to me, rough and hard and the way I needed it. He would hold me after, declaring his love, and I felt safe. I would write him love letters, long explict sexual romantic love letters.
Which were, unbeknowst to me, being removed from the mailbox, and kept by my stepfather.
The next autum, he began to blackmail me. I attacked him, scratching his face. He laughed at me, telling me if I was going to be a whore for some 16 year old boy, I could damn well be a whore for him. He told me that if my mother saw these letters, I would never see John again.
The nightime visits recommenced. I fought him off. I locked the door. Each night he was home, I would lay awake, waiting for him to rattle the doorknob. Once he went away, I could sleep.
I turned to my brothers, one after the other for help. I was not explicit... I said he was trying to touch me. They each, in turn, called me a liar.
After several months, I was desperate. While babysitting one night, I called a suicide prevention line. I talked to Alan. I told the story - leaving out, or so I thought all details. Kenosha is a small town. There was only one private Lutheran school. The very next Monday, the sheriffs department came to speak with me.
Still, I denied the rape. I said only that he was touching me. I begged them, please, to not talk to him with my mother there... to please just talk to him alone. I called them on the phone when I knew he would be there without my mother...
I returned home after cheerleading practice. My mother and stepfather were sitting at the kitchen table. My love letters to John were spread out in front of him, and his eyes looked wet from crying. Together they confronted me. Why did I want to end their marriage, what kind of monster was I to say such things? My stepfather broke down into tears, looked at my mother helplessly, and said "How could she do this to me?" My mother stood up, called me a whore, and backhanded me so hard that I fell to the floor. She stormed out of the room in tears.
When I stood up, my stepfather laughed at me, a triumphant smile on his face.
I was laying in the back of a big rig semi, somewhere outside of New Orleans. My father was driving, listening to cowboy music, CB radio static in the background. A razor is held to my wrists and I am contemplating ending my life. Silent tears stream down my face, tears of pain and confusion and guilt and anger and despair. I'm trapped, and there is nothing I can do. I truly don't want to live anymore. I want it all to stop... but my death would kill my mother and that is all.
I'm so frightened, and I just want to get away. At a truck stop near New Orleans, I meet two young men. In a last ditch effort, I tell them what has happened, or as near to the truth as I can get. I ask them to take me with them, and get me away from him. They go to his truck to confront him... I do not know what happened, but my stepfather had a gun. When he came inside to get me, he was smiling at me - laughing at me really. He told me to get in the truck. My hero's were no where to be seen.
The ride back to Wisconsin was agonizing. He kept telling me that he had made me a woman. He didn't know that a short weak before, knowing what was coming, I had taken care of that myself - I was not giving that bastard my virginity. I am still so proud of myself for that - to this day, I praise the little girl who did that... who purposefully sought out a soft and gentle lover and seduced him. Good on her.
I think he believed me when I said I would kill myself. He was kinder for a while. He left me alone. The visits to my room stopped for a while and from the outside, I looked like a normal girl. A very unhappy normal girl, but truthfully - somehow no one noticed this.
I tried so desperately to get help. My IQ tested high, but I was failing all my classes. I visited the counseling office almost daily - but it was simply pointless.
In the meantime, over the summer, I had had my first real boyfriend. Because I needed to lose my virginity, I threw him over for the man I chose to take care of this monumental business, and I broke his heart. His sister took revenge for him, spreading rumours that I was the worlds biggest slut - little boys, needing something to brag about on their lunch hour or in the locker room, claimed me for that honor. With a couple of rapes and one real lover, I was the scarlet girl. I was attacked and beaten regularly - and I think, to be honest, I agreed in part to their assesment of me. The only boys who would look at me were the ones who thought I would put out... my role in the world was set.
There were saving graces... I became involved in theatre and speech... for brief moments I could escape and be someone else. Being so constantly under control, repressing my emotions and thoughts all the time, gave me a resovoir of pent up passions when I hit the stage. I was good... I worked hard. I competed in forensics, and I won awards. Approprately enough, my selection for that year was from "A Streetcar Named Desire" -
And I met a boy. His name was John, and how I loved him. I love him to this day. His mother was a pastor, he lived on a farm far away - so he knew nothing of the scandal surrounding me. He was chubby and funny and smart, and he loved me too. As long as he loved me, the misery that was my life didn't matter. My shame didn't matter. My mothers hatred of me didn't matter. My John loved me, and his love would save me.
I moved to a new school, and though my reputation followed me, it was a fresh start. I became a cheerleader, hoping this would improve my social standing. I began to meet people who went to college, and began seeing that there would be a life after - if I could make it through high school, and get out of Kenosha, there would be a better life waiting for me.
My love for John was as passionate as only a 16 year old girls love can be. I taught him how to make love to me, rough and hard and the way I needed it. He would hold me after, declaring his love, and I felt safe. I would write him love letters, long explict sexual romantic love letters.
Which were, unbeknowst to me, being removed from the mailbox, and kept by my stepfather.
The next autum, he began to blackmail me. I attacked him, scratching his face. He laughed at me, telling me if I was going to be a whore for some 16 year old boy, I could damn well be a whore for him. He told me that if my mother saw these letters, I would never see John again.
The nightime visits recommenced. I fought him off. I locked the door. Each night he was home, I would lay awake, waiting for him to rattle the doorknob. Once he went away, I could sleep.
I turned to my brothers, one after the other for help. I was not explicit... I said he was trying to touch me. They each, in turn, called me a liar.
After several months, I was desperate. While babysitting one night, I called a suicide prevention line. I talked to Alan. I told the story - leaving out, or so I thought all details. Kenosha is a small town. There was only one private Lutheran school. The very next Monday, the sheriffs department came to speak with me.
Still, I denied the rape. I said only that he was touching me. I begged them, please, to not talk to him with my mother there... to please just talk to him alone. I called them on the phone when I knew he would be there without my mother...
I returned home after cheerleading practice. My mother and stepfather were sitting at the kitchen table. My love letters to John were spread out in front of him, and his eyes looked wet from crying. Together they confronted me. Why did I want to end their marriage, what kind of monster was I to say such things? My stepfather broke down into tears, looked at my mother helplessly, and said "How could she do this to me?" My mother stood up, called me a whore, and backhanded me so hard that I fell to the floor. She stormed out of the room in tears.
When I stood up, my stepfather laughed at me, a triumphant smile on his face.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
My First Life - Chapter 3 - (Things my mamma taught me...)
My mother was a hot-house flower. Delicate, tempramental, lovely and fragile. I lived my life in fear of her and in fear for her. I was always afraid that something would break her, and she would die.
Though she didn't grow up in the south, she would have made the perfect southern Belle. Tennessee Williams could have written her. There was something about my mother that made people fight to protect her. Not just men, but everyone. People were driven wanted to safeguard this frail blossom, regardless of her behavior, regardless of her actions, regardless of the pain.
Protect mom was my earliest directive. It was a conspiracy.
My mother was born somewhere in Northern Michigan. She worshipped her father and hated her mother. She named two of her children after her father, as a matter of fact. She was pregnant at 16 and forced, by her mother, to abort the fetus she had named Kevin.
At 18 she married a merchant marine - she married him to get out of the house, she'd always said. There followed in quick succession a little girl named Charline, and a bit more than a year later a son named Ed.
I know nothing of her life in these years... only that her husband wasn't there much. Then her little girl got sick with a brain tumor. Mom never talked much about Char, except to tell me that I was meant to replace her. I would pour through the boxes in our basement, through the keepsakes all parents keep - and I watched in little girl horror as this sister's brain died, bit by bit.... as her spelling and drawing disintegrated from that of a bright 6 year old to that of a little toddler.
While her baby girl was sick, and her husband away, my mother met a man. He was dark, italian, married - a photgrapher who had taken her picture. Three Months later she was on a flight to alaska to meet up with her husband who was stationed there, and Nine months later she gave birth to my brother Charlie (allegedly a bit prematurly). Where my eldest siblings were blonde haired and blue eyed, Charlie was dark. Where they were academic, Charlie was funny. Strangely, Mom always loved Charlie best.
Charline died. As the mother of a young child, I cannot imagine the horror of losing your baby - I cannot imagine watching your bright and beautiful child lose a bit of herself each day until finally she is lost altogether. I cannot imagine doing it alone, as it seems my mother did.
She and her first husband divorced shortly after, and he disappeared into the sunset.
Sometime a bit later, she met my father. I believe they met at an Alcholics anonymous meeting. Why she married him I do not know. He was charming, i am sure... but he was not strong, not tall, not handsome. He was weak, as a matter of fact - and she punished him for it. He loved her, I think. He worked two jobs to buy her the things she wanted, and I don't believe she treated him very well. I was born in 1962, two or three years after Charlines death, and four years after the birth of my brother Charlie.
They were divorced by the time I was two. I hold no memories of this time, only stories told by bitter and angry people.
The facts, as I understand them are that my mother met my stepfather, and he came to live in thier home. And then there was a divorce.
Then came the awful apartments, the suicide attempts, the drinking and the violence and all the horror that followed.
I loved my mother, with the passion that any small child has for her mother. She was beautiful, glamourous, and as delicate as a fine glass vase. I wanted always to make her proud of me, to make her happy, to be the daughter she wanted me to be.
The problem was that the more I strived for this ideal, the more jealous and angry she became. As I grew to womanhood, I became as any other woman - the enemy. It was with contempt in her voice she would utter such grave insults as "No one has to worry about you - you can do anything you want." The words are the words of an encouraging mother, but the tone was always one of hatred.
To please my mother, I tried to become an actress. She never saw a single play. I became a cheerleader, she refused to help sew my uniform. I became president of the choir, she never came to hear me sing. I became a state champion in debate and speech, she missed the awards ceremony. I was in a beauty pagent, she chose that night for a suicide attempt. I was too young to understand that despite her words, my achievment was not what she wanted.
I come from a family of women who hate other women. My mother was the only neice among a large collection of aunties... these women were all drunks, all bitter, and all rather mean mouthed. I cannot remember any of them ever saying a kind word about another woman once she was out of earshot. They would call each other on the phone and gossip about each other, frequently making up stories out of whole cloth, telling lies and spreading rumours and ensuring that someone was always on the outs with someone else. It was their life.
Somewhere around the age of 10 or so, my mother started making these calls about me. I would overhear her on the telephone, telling tales - exagerrations, and occasionally out and out lies about what a monster I was. I was too little to defend myself, and experience had taught me that contradiction was a dangerous game to play with my mother. "But Mom, you said....." would be met by a backhand that could knock your teeth loose. My mother had ways of convincing everybody of everything... only her methods varied. The effect was always the same. Mom always got her way.
The outcome of this smear campaign, of course, was that it cut me off from any help. When the time came, no one would beleive anything I had to say.
So, was this on purpose? Did she hate me so much? Was this woman so very evil that she would not only allow her only daughter to be abused, but would conspire in it for so many years? Did she know her jealousy of me was sexual, was based on the knowlege that her own husband was seducing me, cajoling me, torturing me and abusing me over the course of so many years?
I don't know. I think not. My mothers right hand really didn't know what her left hand was doing. She knew, without knowing. Her disbelief seemed authentic and unshakeable.
But the truth is she pushed me into his arms. She pushed me into that semi. She pushed me into his bed, and well before she finally sacrificed her daughter in order to please her husband, she had cut off all avenues of escape.
Even after all these years and miles, I do not really fear men. My stepfather was a psychopath, a pedophile - a monster. For the most part, thankfully, men have been my freinds, my compatriots, my companions. But women - they scare me.
Though she didn't grow up in the south, she would have made the perfect southern Belle. Tennessee Williams could have written her. There was something about my mother that made people fight to protect her. Not just men, but everyone. People were driven wanted to safeguard this frail blossom, regardless of her behavior, regardless of her actions, regardless of the pain.
Protect mom was my earliest directive. It was a conspiracy.
My mother was born somewhere in Northern Michigan. She worshipped her father and hated her mother. She named two of her children after her father, as a matter of fact. She was pregnant at 16 and forced, by her mother, to abort the fetus she had named Kevin.
At 18 she married a merchant marine - she married him to get out of the house, she'd always said. There followed in quick succession a little girl named Charline, and a bit more than a year later a son named Ed.
I know nothing of her life in these years... only that her husband wasn't there much. Then her little girl got sick with a brain tumor. Mom never talked much about Char, except to tell me that I was meant to replace her. I would pour through the boxes in our basement, through the keepsakes all parents keep - and I watched in little girl horror as this sister's brain died, bit by bit.... as her spelling and drawing disintegrated from that of a bright 6 year old to that of a little toddler.
While her baby girl was sick, and her husband away, my mother met a man. He was dark, italian, married - a photgrapher who had taken her picture. Three Months later she was on a flight to alaska to meet up with her husband who was stationed there, and Nine months later she gave birth to my brother Charlie (allegedly a bit prematurly). Where my eldest siblings were blonde haired and blue eyed, Charlie was dark. Where they were academic, Charlie was funny. Strangely, Mom always loved Charlie best.
Charline died. As the mother of a young child, I cannot imagine the horror of losing your baby - I cannot imagine watching your bright and beautiful child lose a bit of herself each day until finally she is lost altogether. I cannot imagine doing it alone, as it seems my mother did.
She and her first husband divorced shortly after, and he disappeared into the sunset.
Sometime a bit later, she met my father. I believe they met at an Alcholics anonymous meeting. Why she married him I do not know. He was charming, i am sure... but he was not strong, not tall, not handsome. He was weak, as a matter of fact - and she punished him for it. He loved her, I think. He worked two jobs to buy her the things she wanted, and I don't believe she treated him very well. I was born in 1962, two or three years after Charlines death, and four years after the birth of my brother Charlie.
They were divorced by the time I was two. I hold no memories of this time, only stories told by bitter and angry people.
The facts, as I understand them are that my mother met my stepfather, and he came to live in thier home. And then there was a divorce.
Then came the awful apartments, the suicide attempts, the drinking and the violence and all the horror that followed.
I loved my mother, with the passion that any small child has for her mother. She was beautiful, glamourous, and as delicate as a fine glass vase. I wanted always to make her proud of me, to make her happy, to be the daughter she wanted me to be.
The problem was that the more I strived for this ideal, the more jealous and angry she became. As I grew to womanhood, I became as any other woman - the enemy. It was with contempt in her voice she would utter such grave insults as "No one has to worry about you - you can do anything you want." The words are the words of an encouraging mother, but the tone was always one of hatred.
To please my mother, I tried to become an actress. She never saw a single play. I became a cheerleader, she refused to help sew my uniform. I became president of the choir, she never came to hear me sing. I became a state champion in debate and speech, she missed the awards ceremony. I was in a beauty pagent, she chose that night for a suicide attempt. I was too young to understand that despite her words, my achievment was not what she wanted.
I come from a family of women who hate other women. My mother was the only neice among a large collection of aunties... these women were all drunks, all bitter, and all rather mean mouthed. I cannot remember any of them ever saying a kind word about another woman once she was out of earshot. They would call each other on the phone and gossip about each other, frequently making up stories out of whole cloth, telling lies and spreading rumours and ensuring that someone was always on the outs with someone else. It was their life.
Somewhere around the age of 10 or so, my mother started making these calls about me. I would overhear her on the telephone, telling tales - exagerrations, and occasionally out and out lies about what a monster I was. I was too little to defend myself, and experience had taught me that contradiction was a dangerous game to play with my mother. "But Mom, you said....." would be met by a backhand that could knock your teeth loose. My mother had ways of convincing everybody of everything... only her methods varied. The effect was always the same. Mom always got her way.
The outcome of this smear campaign, of course, was that it cut me off from any help. When the time came, no one would beleive anything I had to say.
So, was this on purpose? Did she hate me so much? Was this woman so very evil that she would not only allow her only daughter to be abused, but would conspire in it for so many years? Did she know her jealousy of me was sexual, was based on the knowlege that her own husband was seducing me, cajoling me, torturing me and abusing me over the course of so many years?
I don't know. I think not. My mothers right hand really didn't know what her left hand was doing. She knew, without knowing. Her disbelief seemed authentic and unshakeable.
But the truth is she pushed me into his arms. She pushed me into that semi. She pushed me into his bed, and well before she finally sacrificed her daughter in order to please her husband, she had cut off all avenues of escape.
Even after all these years and miles, I do not really fear men. My stepfather was a psychopath, a pedophile - a monster. For the most part, thankfully, men have been my freinds, my compatriots, my companions. But women - they scare me.
My First Life - Chapter 2
Let me warn you: This story gets worse before it gets better. And lest you be all weepy eyed and feeling sorry for me, thinking "ah - a broken dove" - please stop it. I do not want your pity, I am not broken. That which doesn't kill you doesn't necessarily make you stronger but it doesn't condemn you to a life of misery either.
Before I continue, though, I will answer the question: how did you come out alive? Well, I had God and his angels on my side, thats how.
You athiests may skip to the next chapter. You may be excused.
When I was seven years old, wandering the streets alone, I came upon a church. There were children playing in the playground outside. I wandered in and up the stairs, into the sanctuary where there was - to my childs eye - a rather impressive godling on a gross, suspended in midair. The light from the stained glass was such that you could see Christs shadows cast three dimenisonally across the nave - I was entranced. In my mind, God began to speak to me.
God told me, rather clearly - that he could not protect me from my fate, from my life... but he would be there, each moment, he would suffer with me. I was not alone, and if I could trust him I would get through my childhood. My suffering would not last forever, and all things have thier blessings if we allow it.
Please understand I had no religious education, no religious training. This was a true conversion experience. Now, whether it came out of a desperate and lonely childs fervent imagination, or God actually spoke to me is immatereal. I went home and insisted on being baptized, and from that point I had one person in my life who cared. I have felt the hand of God on me all of my life. If God is simply my imagination, so be it... but for this I am grateful, for it made what follows bearable.
In the beginning was the word... and at this point the word was not Gods, but my step fathers. I am certain that the sexual abuse that I suffered had been going on for some time, but it did not exist for me until he used the words. All memories begin here. I had no door to my room, and there were frequent night time visits. I would wake to fingers in my pussy - and just as quickly again I would pretend to sleep.
I began to gain weight... to try and sheild myself from his touch. It didn't really work, as I was able to do no more than put on adolescent baby fat. I withdrew to my own world. I began to masturbate ferociously, using objects and items such as my twirling baton. I fantasized about men peeing in my mouth (I did not know about sperm yet, actually). I started to dream about being tied up and raped.
I began to go with the boys to thier secret clubhouse at lunchtime, so desperate was I for something resembling consensuality. I was, unfortunately, so naive that I did not know that boys talked about girls like me, until it was too late.
You may ask "But where was your mother?" This is a very good question. As I began to become quiet and withdraw, avoiding my step father at all costs, my mother was pushing me into his arms - "your daddy misses his little girl". For Chistmas that year, my stepfather made me a bed... complete with canopy and speakers. There is a photo of me, somewhere... my just developing adolescent body, curled up asleep in this princess pad, thumb in my mouth. I had to pretend to be grateful.
"She must have known", you protest. Yes, I suppose so. One day, I was 12 or so, my stepfather had me in his lap, in a rocking chair. He was showing me pictures in a penthouse magazine of all the beautiful women, and rubbing my stomach - telling me that I should watch what I eat and should let him massage me so I could have a flat stomach like all those beautiful girls. My mother walked into the room, tore me out of his lap my the hair, and began to beat me and call me a slut and a whore. So much for showing my "Daddy" that I "loved" him.
We moved again, shortly after... moving back to Kenosha, to a little town called Paddock Lake. I was 13 going on 14 the summer we moved. The chronoglogy again becomes a bit fuzzy.... I cannot tell you if the rape occured when I was 14 or 15 - or which summer it happened in. I remember the order, sort of - and I remember that the attacks and night time visits steadily increased. I remember being afraid. I remember running away from home because I knew that he would fuck me sooner or later.
And like the story of the man who runs away to avoid death, death met me on the road with a man who raped me while I was trying to get away from my rapist. An older teenager agreed to help me escape, and took me to his workplace in Illinois. The owner of this place sent my freind out on a job. Having the worlds strongest pelvic muscles I clamped myself shut, and he could not enter me. I tried to call the police ... he ripped the reciever from my hands and threatened to smash my brains out if I didnt suck his cock. I sucked his cock.
I called a runaway hotline, and I was returned home. No one asked why I had run away, and I never said.
I had my first boyfriend, my first orgasm. The visits increased. He knew how to pick the lock on my door. I knew it was coming, I found a boyfreind of 19, and I forced him to take my virginity... just in time.
A week later, my mother, again - "Your Daddy misses his little girl. You two are taking a trip together in his semi". It was fated. I could do nothing.
He had me sit in his bunk while he drove. He gave me porn to read... the vibrations of the truck, the inevitability of the encounter, the pornography, the years of fear and love.... I did it. I said it. "Daddy Fuck me". So he did.
The shame I carry for these three words, are as yet unhealed. I betrayed myself. I betrayed my mother.
I know why I did it. I was tired of being afraid. I was tired of fighting it. I was horny (which was what he intended). I was 14 years old, and I could no longer avoid the inevitable
But I wish I could have fought longer, harder, I wish I had been successful at running away. I wish it had been violent.
Afterwards I lay there... with a razor blade in my hands pressed to my wrists. I cried. There was one reason, and one reason only that I did not kill myself that night... because if I had, my mother would know what I had done and it would kill her.
Before I continue, though, I will answer the question: how did you come out alive? Well, I had God and his angels on my side, thats how.
You athiests may skip to the next chapter. You may be excused.
When I was seven years old, wandering the streets alone, I came upon a church. There were children playing in the playground outside. I wandered in and up the stairs, into the sanctuary where there was - to my childs eye - a rather impressive godling on a gross, suspended in midair. The light from the stained glass was such that you could see Christs shadows cast three dimenisonally across the nave - I was entranced. In my mind, God began to speak to me.
God told me, rather clearly - that he could not protect me from my fate, from my life... but he would be there, each moment, he would suffer with me. I was not alone, and if I could trust him I would get through my childhood. My suffering would not last forever, and all things have thier blessings if we allow it.
Please understand I had no religious education, no religious training. This was a true conversion experience. Now, whether it came out of a desperate and lonely childs fervent imagination, or God actually spoke to me is immatereal. I went home and insisted on being baptized, and from that point I had one person in my life who cared. I have felt the hand of God on me all of my life. If God is simply my imagination, so be it... but for this I am grateful, for it made what follows bearable.
In the beginning was the word... and at this point the word was not Gods, but my step fathers. I am certain that the sexual abuse that I suffered had been going on for some time, but it did not exist for me until he used the words. All memories begin here. I had no door to my room, and there were frequent night time visits. I would wake to fingers in my pussy - and just as quickly again I would pretend to sleep.
I began to gain weight... to try and sheild myself from his touch. It didn't really work, as I was able to do no more than put on adolescent baby fat. I withdrew to my own world. I began to masturbate ferociously, using objects and items such as my twirling baton. I fantasized about men peeing in my mouth (I did not know about sperm yet, actually). I started to dream about being tied up and raped.
I began to go with the boys to thier secret clubhouse at lunchtime, so desperate was I for something resembling consensuality. I was, unfortunately, so naive that I did not know that boys talked about girls like me, until it was too late.
You may ask "But where was your mother?" This is a very good question. As I began to become quiet and withdraw, avoiding my step father at all costs, my mother was pushing me into his arms - "your daddy misses his little girl". For Chistmas that year, my stepfather made me a bed... complete with canopy and speakers. There is a photo of me, somewhere... my just developing adolescent body, curled up asleep in this princess pad, thumb in my mouth. I had to pretend to be grateful.
"She must have known", you protest. Yes, I suppose so. One day, I was 12 or so, my stepfather had me in his lap, in a rocking chair. He was showing me pictures in a penthouse magazine of all the beautiful women, and rubbing my stomach - telling me that I should watch what I eat and should let him massage me so I could have a flat stomach like all those beautiful girls. My mother walked into the room, tore me out of his lap my the hair, and began to beat me and call me a slut and a whore. So much for showing my "Daddy" that I "loved" him.
We moved again, shortly after... moving back to Kenosha, to a little town called Paddock Lake. I was 13 going on 14 the summer we moved. The chronoglogy again becomes a bit fuzzy.... I cannot tell you if the rape occured when I was 14 or 15 - or which summer it happened in. I remember the order, sort of - and I remember that the attacks and night time visits steadily increased. I remember being afraid. I remember running away from home because I knew that he would fuck me sooner or later.
And like the story of the man who runs away to avoid death, death met me on the road with a man who raped me while I was trying to get away from my rapist. An older teenager agreed to help me escape, and took me to his workplace in Illinois. The owner of this place sent my freind out on a job. Having the worlds strongest pelvic muscles I clamped myself shut, and he could not enter me. I tried to call the police ... he ripped the reciever from my hands and threatened to smash my brains out if I didnt suck his cock. I sucked his cock.
I called a runaway hotline, and I was returned home. No one asked why I had run away, and I never said.
I had my first boyfriend, my first orgasm. The visits increased. He knew how to pick the lock on my door. I knew it was coming, I found a boyfreind of 19, and I forced him to take my virginity... just in time.
A week later, my mother, again - "Your Daddy misses his little girl. You two are taking a trip together in his semi". It was fated. I could do nothing.
He had me sit in his bunk while he drove. He gave me porn to read... the vibrations of the truck, the inevitability of the encounter, the pornography, the years of fear and love.... I did it. I said it. "Daddy Fuck me". So he did.
The shame I carry for these three words, are as yet unhealed. I betrayed myself. I betrayed my mother.
I know why I did it. I was tired of being afraid. I was tired of fighting it. I was horny (which was what he intended). I was 14 years old, and I could no longer avoid the inevitable
But I wish I could have fought longer, harder, I wish I had been successful at running away. I wish it had been violent.
Afterwards I lay there... with a razor blade in my hands pressed to my wrists. I cried. There was one reason, and one reason only that I did not kill myself that night... because if I had, my mother would know what I had done and it would kill her.
Friday, January 28, 2005
My First Life - Chapter 1
Chapter 1
I promised you I would spare you the details of my earliest life. I wanted to spare you the ugliness and filth. More than that, I really don't want your sympathy - after all, I survived - I even thrived due in part to this trial by fire.
All of that is true - but the real reason is that I am a coward. To rummage through the attic that was my childhood means climbing into a vat of muck and acid that will cause me pain. Each memory that I hold up and examine sears me - there is no good in this life. There are no redeeming memories, no important life lessons, nothing enlightening or ennobling to the human spirit. Truly - it is just an unrelenting tale of foulness - something to be endured and gotten through, and then best forgotten.
However, it is who we were who makes us who we become. Also, because of who I am, if it frightens me, I must do it. Not out of any thrill I get, but because this fear and the facing of it may have something to teach me.
To begin:
Once upon a time a child was born. Even in the womb she was tiny - a mite, a fairy - she emerged so small that she was dressed for 6 months in doll clothes. She was not born to be herself, but to replace an angel daughter who had died. A large burden to place upon a small and unformed human.
Or perhaps this child was switched at birth... Stolen from the hospital to replace this dead angelic sister. This was what she later chose to believe. These people could not be her real family - certainly, somewhere there were people who truly wanted her - if only she could find them.
You see? I cannot even write this story in the first person. Let me try again:
I was born in a place called Kenosha Wisconsin - a rust belt town in the Midwest. I was born very tiny and underweight - and was, indeed dressed in doll clothes until I was 6 months old. It could very well be that my mother drank alcohol throughout her pregnancy (who knew in those days?) and she certainly did not stop smoking.
I really was born as a replacement child for a dead sister. My mother was to tell me, on numerous occasions, that she married my father because he was so weak and spineless that it was obvious that he could only father a girl. With this opinion of girls, it is strange that my mother wanted another - but my sister was her first child, and it was the death of this child, I am sure, that caused her to be insane.
The problem was that I was never really good at being a girl. I liked to be dirty, I eschewed frilly dresses, I hated girls. I was a disappointment all the way around.
My earliest memories (actually most of my childhood memories) ae fuzzy. I remember fragments... Pieces - I lack a good chronology. My earliest memories are of ambulances and suicide attempts, of alcoholic rages and being taken from my mother time and again. I remember a conversation where my parents decided to divorce - and I remember living in a horrible apartment where the ambulances came for my mother. I remember a rage where my mother broke all my toys over my crib because I refused to nap. I remember home perms, and being dressed like a doll. I remember not talking for the longest time - as if I somehow knew that being any more than a baby doll would end whatever love my mother held for me.
Then came the evil stepfather. No, I am not making this up - he really was a central casting sociopath. But I loved him. My father had abandoned me - he would show up now and then for a few hours here and there, out of duty, but not out of love.
Early life with the stepfather consisted of warmed breakfast pastry covered in butter, and a lap to sit in. It consisted of a beating with a coathanger when I was three for not cleaning my room. There were police and arrests, and again - a removal from the home due to child neglect. There were times when my mom and stepfather would vanish for days at a time... And my brothers would steal food for us to eat. Worse, there were times where we were loaded into the backseat of the car for drunken barhopping trips - the three of us being raised in roadside taverns and sleeping in the backseat of the car.
Eventually, the drinking stopped, and my parents aspired to the middle class. I was 5 or so - and we moved into a real house. I had my own room. My mother made the room all pink for me, a girls paradise... And I wish that I could have been the girl she wanted. There were alcoholic relapses, of course, but there was an occasional sense of what passed for normalcy - my mother went to college, there were family picnics, fireworks, pets. There was still violence on occasion, beatings and the like... But we began at least to look like everyone else.
It was around this time that they got married. It was around this time that my stepfather decided I was a spoiled brat and needed more punishment and discipline, and he became cruel to me... And the warmed breakfast pastries stopped. It was around this time that I started sexually aggressing against other children. I knew, by this time, what a cock was, and I knew that it was put in your mouth and that fingers went into your down there. I have no idea where I learned this thing. I only acted out on other little girls, and I was always the man. I never wanted to be the girl.
Around second grade we moved... To the country. A new school, a new life, no more drinking. Sometimes, I had the perfect mother... Cookies and crafts and stories. But then there would be these rages.... Mostly directed against me. She would come into my very girlie bedroom, and see that it was a mess. The fists would fly. I would be picked up by the hair and thrown into the walls. I was not allowed to protect myself, or to do anything but cower as I and my bedroom were torn to pieces. You never knew when these rages would begin - but a look would come over her, and it didn't really matter if you'd been good or not.
It was also around this time where I was hospitalized, repeatedly, for urinary tract problems. Something was wrong with my urethra - it closed up. Twice it had to be reopened... Scar tissue kept forming there for no apparent reason.
When I was 9, I lost my oldest brother. He went into the marines, never to return. He was my hero, my protector, and how I loved him. He was always in my mind a man... My earliest memories of him were of love - his name was my first word. To this day the loss of him is the hardest loss I had ever suffered... To this day I cherish in my heart my earliest love for him and after all these years I still mourn for him. My other brother, 4 years my senior, was simply another torturer to me... But Eddie was my idol.
After he left, I have the distinct impression of my father (for though he was my stepfather, I had never known another) becoming nice to me again. When my mother was out (how I lived in fear those nights) he would be affectionate and loving - he would treat me like his little wife, giving me backrubs, holding me in his arms, letting me sit on his lap. I was 10. I still wet the bed every night. I did not stop wetting the bed until I was a teenager, and no amount of beatings stopped me.
We appeared to all outside views a normal family. But the violence never really stopped, even though the drinking had. My parents used to fight all night, screaming horrible fights that left me alone and terrified. I remember a night when my mother dragged me out of bed so she could buy a gun to shoot him with - School was a nightmare. Children smell it when something is wrong... It unsettles them, and they will punish you for it. I was so unhappy, so lonely, so used to living in fear. I was still agressing in secret against other children...The very few friends I was allowed to have (no one was allowed to visit my home). I am so sorry to all my victims.... I pray that they were not harmed.
We moved again. This time to northern Minnesota. No one told my birth father - he later claimed I had abandoned him and had I wanted him I could have called. I dreamed a new start would give me a new chance at friends, but still the children smelled that there was something wrong with me. And, to be honest, I had no social skills. I was insufferable in my toughness and disregard at this point. I simply pretended not to care. I had a speech impediment. I was, at 11, the size of a second grader. I still wet the bed. My only friends were animals. I did not know how to bathe, how to dress... How to pass as normal.
This is when I became aware of the nighttime visits. Freed from neighbors, extended family, observation, my father became bolder... My oldest brother was gone, and I was his. He felt free to comment on my body now, to tell me that he had been in my room and that I was beginning to become a woman. I think that these nighttime visits had gone on all my life... But I only became aware of it when he began to tell me about it...
The child's mind is a wondrous thing.
I promised you I would spare you the details of my earliest life. I wanted to spare you the ugliness and filth. More than that, I really don't want your sympathy - after all, I survived - I even thrived due in part to this trial by fire.
All of that is true - but the real reason is that I am a coward. To rummage through the attic that was my childhood means climbing into a vat of muck and acid that will cause me pain. Each memory that I hold up and examine sears me - there is no good in this life. There are no redeeming memories, no important life lessons, nothing enlightening or ennobling to the human spirit. Truly - it is just an unrelenting tale of foulness - something to be endured and gotten through, and then best forgotten.
However, it is who we were who makes us who we become. Also, because of who I am, if it frightens me, I must do it. Not out of any thrill I get, but because this fear and the facing of it may have something to teach me.
To begin:
Once upon a time a child was born. Even in the womb she was tiny - a mite, a fairy - she emerged so small that she was dressed for 6 months in doll clothes. She was not born to be herself, but to replace an angel daughter who had died. A large burden to place upon a small and unformed human.
Or perhaps this child was switched at birth... Stolen from the hospital to replace this dead angelic sister. This was what she later chose to believe. These people could not be her real family - certainly, somewhere there were people who truly wanted her - if only she could find them.
You see? I cannot even write this story in the first person. Let me try again:
I was born in a place called Kenosha Wisconsin - a rust belt town in the Midwest. I was born very tiny and underweight - and was, indeed dressed in doll clothes until I was 6 months old. It could very well be that my mother drank alcohol throughout her pregnancy (who knew in those days?) and she certainly did not stop smoking.
I really was born as a replacement child for a dead sister. My mother was to tell me, on numerous occasions, that she married my father because he was so weak and spineless that it was obvious that he could only father a girl. With this opinion of girls, it is strange that my mother wanted another - but my sister was her first child, and it was the death of this child, I am sure, that caused her to be insane.
The problem was that I was never really good at being a girl. I liked to be dirty, I eschewed frilly dresses, I hated girls. I was a disappointment all the way around.
My earliest memories (actually most of my childhood memories) ae fuzzy. I remember fragments... Pieces - I lack a good chronology. My earliest memories are of ambulances and suicide attempts, of alcoholic rages and being taken from my mother time and again. I remember a conversation where my parents decided to divorce - and I remember living in a horrible apartment where the ambulances came for my mother. I remember a rage where my mother broke all my toys over my crib because I refused to nap. I remember home perms, and being dressed like a doll. I remember not talking for the longest time - as if I somehow knew that being any more than a baby doll would end whatever love my mother held for me.
Then came the evil stepfather. No, I am not making this up - he really was a central casting sociopath. But I loved him. My father had abandoned me - he would show up now and then for a few hours here and there, out of duty, but not out of love.
Early life with the stepfather consisted of warmed breakfast pastry covered in butter, and a lap to sit in. It consisted of a beating with a coathanger when I was three for not cleaning my room. There were police and arrests, and again - a removal from the home due to child neglect. There were times when my mom and stepfather would vanish for days at a time... And my brothers would steal food for us to eat. Worse, there were times where we were loaded into the backseat of the car for drunken barhopping trips - the three of us being raised in roadside taverns and sleeping in the backseat of the car.
Eventually, the drinking stopped, and my parents aspired to the middle class. I was 5 or so - and we moved into a real house. I had my own room. My mother made the room all pink for me, a girls paradise... And I wish that I could have been the girl she wanted. There were alcoholic relapses, of course, but there was an occasional sense of what passed for normalcy - my mother went to college, there were family picnics, fireworks, pets. There was still violence on occasion, beatings and the like... But we began at least to look like everyone else.
It was around this time that they got married. It was around this time that my stepfather decided I was a spoiled brat and needed more punishment and discipline, and he became cruel to me... And the warmed breakfast pastries stopped. It was around this time that I started sexually aggressing against other children. I knew, by this time, what a cock was, and I knew that it was put in your mouth and that fingers went into your down there. I have no idea where I learned this thing. I only acted out on other little girls, and I was always the man. I never wanted to be the girl.
Around second grade we moved... To the country. A new school, a new life, no more drinking. Sometimes, I had the perfect mother... Cookies and crafts and stories. But then there would be these rages.... Mostly directed against me. She would come into my very girlie bedroom, and see that it was a mess. The fists would fly. I would be picked up by the hair and thrown into the walls. I was not allowed to protect myself, or to do anything but cower as I and my bedroom were torn to pieces. You never knew when these rages would begin - but a look would come over her, and it didn't really matter if you'd been good or not.
It was also around this time where I was hospitalized, repeatedly, for urinary tract problems. Something was wrong with my urethra - it closed up. Twice it had to be reopened... Scar tissue kept forming there for no apparent reason.
When I was 9, I lost my oldest brother. He went into the marines, never to return. He was my hero, my protector, and how I loved him. He was always in my mind a man... My earliest memories of him were of love - his name was my first word. To this day the loss of him is the hardest loss I had ever suffered... To this day I cherish in my heart my earliest love for him and after all these years I still mourn for him. My other brother, 4 years my senior, was simply another torturer to me... But Eddie was my idol.
After he left, I have the distinct impression of my father (for though he was my stepfather, I had never known another) becoming nice to me again. When my mother was out (how I lived in fear those nights) he would be affectionate and loving - he would treat me like his little wife, giving me backrubs, holding me in his arms, letting me sit on his lap. I was 10. I still wet the bed every night. I did not stop wetting the bed until I was a teenager, and no amount of beatings stopped me.
We appeared to all outside views a normal family. But the violence never really stopped, even though the drinking had. My parents used to fight all night, screaming horrible fights that left me alone and terrified. I remember a night when my mother dragged me out of bed so she could buy a gun to shoot him with - School was a nightmare. Children smell it when something is wrong... It unsettles them, and they will punish you for it. I was so unhappy, so lonely, so used to living in fear. I was still agressing in secret against other children...The very few friends I was allowed to have (no one was allowed to visit my home). I am so sorry to all my victims.... I pray that they were not harmed.
We moved again. This time to northern Minnesota. No one told my birth father - he later claimed I had abandoned him and had I wanted him I could have called. I dreamed a new start would give me a new chance at friends, but still the children smelled that there was something wrong with me. And, to be honest, I had no social skills. I was insufferable in my toughness and disregard at this point. I simply pretended not to care. I had a speech impediment. I was, at 11, the size of a second grader. I still wet the bed. My only friends were animals. I did not know how to bathe, how to dress... How to pass as normal.
This is when I became aware of the nighttime visits. Freed from neighbors, extended family, observation, my father became bolder... My oldest brother was gone, and I was his. He felt free to comment on my body now, to tell me that he had been in my room and that I was beginning to become a woman. I think that these nighttime visits had gone on all my life... But I only became aware of it when he began to tell me about it...
The child's mind is a wondrous thing.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
My third life - The Beginning
My life began with his midlife crisis. To be brief, he woke up on his 50th birthday, and realized that he didn't love me, had never loved me. He had married me for my money and because I was a good screw. I didn't really have that much money, but marrying me for my indefatigable sexual appetite probably made some amount of sense.
So he spent the money, and stopped fucking me - and then waited 20 years and 1 toddler to make his grand announcement. He claims now that guilt held his tongue.... I imagine there is some truth to that. He also says he was wrong - he had loved me all along, he just didn't know it. I imagine, as well, that there is some truth to that. The biggest truth, however is that his life was better with me than without me... As it turns out, my life without him is better than I ever imagined it would be when he ended the life I was living.
Like any good cat, I have the ability to live many lives.
My first life began in the suckhole of the Midwest. It was not a good life.... As a matter of fact it was one of those lives, that when I recount it, causes people to murmur sympathetically - to find tears in their eyes for the child I was. It was full of alcohol and pedophilia and beatings and guns and suicides - the sort of thing that is written about in penny dreadfuls, or in artistically successful though commercially rejected novels.
I won't bore or horrify you with the details - not unless they matter. I believe that my childhood was not so uncommon for an American.... Fascism requires obedience, a people who commit torture on the world stage are not an aberration - they are a culture. America's culture of violence comes from somewhere - we are taught violence the same way we are taught patriotism, religion, and bigotry - at the end of the stick of fear.
I escaped that life on a greyhound bus at the age of 17 or so.... And headed, as all runaways head, for the coast. I wandered about, I tried on new masks, I tried to raise myself - feral as I was - as a good middle class girl. I did not want to be one of the grubby street kids, living under freeways and panhandling for change. It did not suit my intellect.
I wandered the coast from Spokane to Monterey - hanging out on college campuses, finding people who could care for me, working when I could. Fucking a lot.... (this is where the earliest part of life 1 matters. When a girlchild is taught that her worth lies in her cunt, we believe it.)
I was just a girl who couldn't say no.
Furthermore, I wanted to reject all the common American paradigms about good girls - if I had been a good girl, my stepfather wouldn't have been fucking me. But, since I WAS a good girl, the paradigm was obviously false, and I set out to prove it. Add to this, of course, the fact that fucking is great, pleasure is good for you, and I - to this day - like sex better than just about any other thing.... Well, I was and remain a bit of a hussy.
My first life blended into my second life nearly seamlessly. There was no dramatic ending with another dramatic beginning. I didn't even really notice the life I had left and the one I began. I only know that I died along the way with benefit of hindsight.
I met a man - I fell in love on our first date. He was the very first man who never said "you want me to do what?" when I expressed all the kinky and perverted things I dreamed of. Nope, as a matter of fact, he pushed me to do kinky dirty things I had never even considered. It was love. I was his slave, and it's all I ever wanted to be.
In addition to the great sex, he was much older than I, strong, and blonde - and a bad boy - and, I knew him. It was clear to me that he was my lifemate, my soulmate. God told me to do it - really, I am serious about this. Somehow I managed not to notice that he was a con man, a liar, and really didn't love me. I thought I could change all that. For a while, I guess I did. But the truth seems to be that bad boys grow up to be bad men. They just can't help it.
Some 20 years later, I found myself still in love with him - believing that I was living in the happily ever after. My life was Cinderella's dream come true. One love, one lifetime - I believed in this like a Catholic believes in the resurrection.
I had everything I thought I had wished for.... A home, an income, a new baby --- the fact that I was horribly unhappy, addicted to antidepressants and suffering from paralyzing anxiety attacks I chalked up to my miserable childhood. I never once considered that perhaps I was leading a miserable adulthood.
Then he made his announcement. "I don't love you. I never loved you. I married you for your money and because you were good in bed. You knew it all along - and if another man would have you, you would have left by now. "
Suddenly, the years of subtle psychological abuse became clear.... The suggestions that I was fat, ugly, unlovable, a bitch, a harpy.... unfuckable and disgusting - the things I thought he was kidding about, resonated in my ears.... And I found myself with nothing.
I died that day. I watched my own death. I stood in the shower, and I collapsed, water pouring over my body as I sobbed that life out of me while he looked on, horrified at what he had done - what he could not and would not undo.
I will someday thank him for this.
So he spent the money, and stopped fucking me - and then waited 20 years and 1 toddler to make his grand announcement. He claims now that guilt held his tongue.... I imagine there is some truth to that. He also says he was wrong - he had loved me all along, he just didn't know it. I imagine, as well, that there is some truth to that. The biggest truth, however is that his life was better with me than without me... As it turns out, my life without him is better than I ever imagined it would be when he ended the life I was living.
Like any good cat, I have the ability to live many lives.
My first life began in the suckhole of the Midwest. It was not a good life.... As a matter of fact it was one of those lives, that when I recount it, causes people to murmur sympathetically - to find tears in their eyes for the child I was. It was full of alcohol and pedophilia and beatings and guns and suicides - the sort of thing that is written about in penny dreadfuls, or in artistically successful though commercially rejected novels.
I won't bore or horrify you with the details - not unless they matter. I believe that my childhood was not so uncommon for an American.... Fascism requires obedience, a people who commit torture on the world stage are not an aberration - they are a culture. America's culture of violence comes from somewhere - we are taught violence the same way we are taught patriotism, religion, and bigotry - at the end of the stick of fear.
I escaped that life on a greyhound bus at the age of 17 or so.... And headed, as all runaways head, for the coast. I wandered about, I tried on new masks, I tried to raise myself - feral as I was - as a good middle class girl. I did not want to be one of the grubby street kids, living under freeways and panhandling for change. It did not suit my intellect.
I wandered the coast from Spokane to Monterey - hanging out on college campuses, finding people who could care for me, working when I could. Fucking a lot.... (this is where the earliest part of life 1 matters. When a girlchild is taught that her worth lies in her cunt, we believe it.)
I was just a girl who couldn't say no.
Furthermore, I wanted to reject all the common American paradigms about good girls - if I had been a good girl, my stepfather wouldn't have been fucking me. But, since I WAS a good girl, the paradigm was obviously false, and I set out to prove it. Add to this, of course, the fact that fucking is great, pleasure is good for you, and I - to this day - like sex better than just about any other thing.... Well, I was and remain a bit of a hussy.
My first life blended into my second life nearly seamlessly. There was no dramatic ending with another dramatic beginning. I didn't even really notice the life I had left and the one I began. I only know that I died along the way with benefit of hindsight.
I met a man - I fell in love on our first date. He was the very first man who never said "you want me to do what?" when I expressed all the kinky and perverted things I dreamed of. Nope, as a matter of fact, he pushed me to do kinky dirty things I had never even considered. It was love. I was his slave, and it's all I ever wanted to be.
In addition to the great sex, he was much older than I, strong, and blonde - and a bad boy - and, I knew him. It was clear to me that he was my lifemate, my soulmate. God told me to do it - really, I am serious about this. Somehow I managed not to notice that he was a con man, a liar, and really didn't love me. I thought I could change all that. For a while, I guess I did. But the truth seems to be that bad boys grow up to be bad men. They just can't help it.
Some 20 years later, I found myself still in love with him - believing that I was living in the happily ever after. My life was Cinderella's dream come true. One love, one lifetime - I believed in this like a Catholic believes in the resurrection.
I had everything I thought I had wished for.... A home, an income, a new baby --- the fact that I was horribly unhappy, addicted to antidepressants and suffering from paralyzing anxiety attacks I chalked up to my miserable childhood. I never once considered that perhaps I was leading a miserable adulthood.
Then he made his announcement. "I don't love you. I never loved you. I married you for your money and because you were good in bed. You knew it all along - and if another man would have you, you would have left by now. "
Suddenly, the years of subtle psychological abuse became clear.... The suggestions that I was fat, ugly, unlovable, a bitch, a harpy.... unfuckable and disgusting - the things I thought he was kidding about, resonated in my ears.... And I found myself with nothing.
I died that day. I watched my own death. I stood in the shower, and I collapsed, water pouring over my body as I sobbed that life out of me while he looked on, horrified at what he had done - what he could not and would not undo.
I will someday thank him for this.