Memories

The strangest thing I have learned since moving back to Colorado,  is the extent to which I left so many trails of bad memories. ..

The What Ifs

And some days the what Ifs strike.
What if my husband was willing to have a conversation with me... just because?
What if he could look at me with warmth and make me feel like I add something to his life ?
What if I spend the whole rest of my life this lonely?
What if I don't?

#triggered

Yesterday the Huffington Post featured a front page full of readers stories based on the hashtag #beenrapedneverreported.  This morning I woke to a stream of overwhelming memories that just needed to be written.  Regardless of what my past holds, these things do not define me. Sure they were a part of shaping me, but everyone has their junk.  Most importantly, I have resisted writing details of my story because it seemed self-serving, wallowing, and pointless. Now I realize it really should be told. Not for any benefit to me, but because maybe others will learn that they are not alone.

~~~~~~~~~~

I tried to tell them that nothing had happened.  But my journal said otherwise.  It was a hardbound book with a puffy purple cover. Something for silly little girls to write about crushes and best friends and breakups.  Mine told of long phone conversations with someone I had never met.  He was nice to me.  We talked for hours after school while I waited for my mom to come home from her college classes, my brothers did who knows what, and my dad worked.  I described my room to him, pink and sweet. A trundle bed and a closet where I hid the cigarrettes I stole from the grocery store each week. My black cat Domino following me wherever I went and kneading her paws across my chest,  purring as I stretched my tall eleven year old frame out on the bed.  He asked if I had heard of hide the quarter.  I had not.  We played our own version of it almost every day.  I hid the quarter somewhere on my body and he described how he wanted my hands to explore the landscape until he guided them to the right spot.  "Good." He said, "Now somewhere even harder to find." I giggled.  It was so forbidden, but it was exciting and fun.

We talked about my parents liquor cabinet and he encouraged me to try a rum and coke. It tasted terrible. But I drank it down anyway.  We talked about meeting up, and when we finally did, I saw that he was nothing like I had imagined.  He was shorter and full of acne.  He was not my age or anywhere near, that was for sure.  He saw me briefly, sizing him up, and then I hid.  But I didn't write about that in my diary. I translated my disappointment into an elaborate story involving alcohol and speed and sex.  It was my diary after all. No one would ever see it.  Until they did.

By the time the court date came around I had become a different girl.  I wore dark flannels, Guns and Roses Tshirts and torn jeans. I didn't take care of myself anymore. I was angry.  Guilt was eating me alive.  I threw up when they told me he had the names and phone numbers of over 120 girls in his room at his mother's house.  All between the ages of 11 and 14.  I was instructed to testify wearing something that would make me look more innocent.  A light colored collared shirt and a skirt maybe?

His eyes burned truth into me from his seat behind the defendant's table, but mine threw their own dose of truth back at him.  I threw up again when the verdict came back "Not Guilty."

Suddenly I knew there was no going back. I was tainted and torn. A liar who still had a secret that didn't seem to compare to the stories I had told. My best friend was dating a 15 year old, and one day after school, while she talked to him on the payphone, I struck up my own conversation with her older brother who was 18.  7 years wasn't such a big deal after all. Was it?  Besides, I was almost 12.  Within a few weeks he was driving out to Parker to meet me at youth group since that was the only place my parents ever left me, knowing I'd be under the supervision of another trusted adult.  I snuck him down to the basement of the old church house. He snuck my hand down his pants, and taught me what to do with what I found down there.  Then one day he disappeared. His mother told me sweetly that he had moved to Florida to be with his father.  There was no judgement in her pleading voice when she told me to please take care of myself.  She asked shakily how old I was, and when I told her, she said "Please, sweety, don't try to call him anymore, ok?"

The carelessness with which I put myself in situation after situation just asking for trouble became a life long pattern. And when I paid the price with violence, I knew it was what I deserved. A pennance of sorts. I wasn't about to make any reports.  Who would believe a little liar like me? And who would believe one person could be telling the truth about rape in her twenties after accusing someone of statutory rape as a child.  I had no credibility.  I had cried wolf as a child, and as an adult would have no one on my side if they knew.  As an adult I was raped twice.  Both times because I was drunk.  Both times I cried as he did what he did. I cried because I already knew I'd have to keep this time a secret too. I cried because I deserved it.  I cried because I wanted to be a better person than this.

Sharp

Hurting myself has always been a way of life for me.  I have no idea why.  I suppose emotions have just been too sharp and overwhelming for me. Suicide has always been an option, and I have attempted several times, each time with the honest to God intent not to survive.  Each time God has intervened. I don't know why. So far I have not proven to be of any real significance to anyone but my children.  That's why when I feel like I am failing them, like they would be better without me, its hard not to jump down into the blackest emotional pit.

It may seem that I am just a week individual, not strong enough to withstand the normal ups and downs of life.  I would argue that the pain I feel is so strong, and so sharp, and so heavy, that making it this far sometimes makes me feel like I am pretty strong.  So why do I think I have more pain that is normal?  I have no idea.  I feel at times like I was born without the skin that protects the oversensitive nerves that we all have, but on an emotional level instead of physical.  I can tolerate physical pain just fine. In fact I have often inflicted it on myself.

I'm going to be honest. The last few weeks I have spent the majority of my physical energy on survival.  Not enough has gotten done on the house and with the kids. But each night I go to bed exhausted from the tireless thought processes spinning through my head. Never slowing down. Never stopping.  Like I'm wading through a dense jungle marsh without a machete.

Full Moon

I've always been a little crazy,

Some days more than not

I've chased my share of friends away

Not one have I forgot.

But those still standing at my side

Have weathered scary stormy tides

They've learned this too shall pass and soon

I'll ride the waves and be the moon

Regret is in my DNA

I may not make it through,

I'll take the days and love the sun,

Each time it can shine new,

And tuck my head

and hide in bed

When the night binds up my mind

And sanity is hard to find,

And in the morn,

Each time I wake

I'll thank my God

for those that stayed

Buzz!

I have this rule.  No plungers, toilet bowl cleaners or vibrators are allowed as a part of a move.  I mean really, they need to be thrown away every once in awhile, and while the cleanliness issue is obvious for the first two, the third item is really left out as a matter of risk.  Am I really going to remember what box I packed my buzzy friend in when we get to our destination?  I'm certainly not going to write "Sex Toys" on the box, although Dan did that once when we moved just as a joke. I think the box was actually filled with Towels and soaps etc.  There were several helpful friends who were quite taken aback when that was the next box in line to be moved during our last few transitions. And what happens if someone is kind enough to want to help you unpack?  How'd you like to unwrap a used Rabbit while helping your friend unpack the non-essentials?

What if you die in transit in a fiery car accident leaving your parents and brothers to manage the things you left behind?  Good grief, I may be paranoid, but I even make sure my closest friends are on board for sex toy cleanup should anything happen to me every time I go on vacation. Listen, its not like I'm a hoarder of all things crude and pornographic.  I have one item at any given time.  One. But not when its time to move.

So this week was the perfect time to clean out my dirty little closet so to speak since Dan was out of town, we were almost done with showings and inspections, and me being the only one responsible for taking the trash out.  I pushed that bad boy carefully down in the trash can under my sink, thinking that my next job was trash collection throughout the house.  I'll get there, I told myself.

Then the phone rang.

There was a showing scheduled, and as we were still not officially under contract it was important not to cancel showings.  I gathered the kids up as quickly as I could, kenneled the dogs and headed out.

And hour later we walked back in the house, and as I went to let the dogs out of their kennels I heard, through the wall, my bathroom trash can vibrating violently, and the door to the bathroom firmly shut.

OMG how did this happen? Were they digging in my trash?  Did someone touch it?? Are they going to tell my realtor? There is this portal where they can post their feedback regarding the house online. They could totally post "House showed great until my child pulled a vibrator out of the trash can." "Great house if you're a freak" "Beware of vibrators"

I mean this mofo was pretty big! I can just hear it in my horrified head: "Look Mommy, what is this toy for?"

The plot thickened.  I recieved an email from my realtor thanking me for letting the buyers in to look around again today.  The buyers.  The people who I have to sit across from at closing in a few short weeks signing my house over to their horrified mugs.  Its going to be great. "So, any interesting finds lately?"  "Which room vibrate- I mean do you like the most?"  

And this is why I have a blog. Because you can't just let a part of your history like this horrifying day slip out of your memory.  It needs to be recorded. Remembered. And hopefully eventually, laughed about.

Psalm 40:2

Psalm 40:2 2 "He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure."