Mental Musings from
The Marginatrix
...because sometimes I just need to share my thoughts.
I wrote this in 2010, but I was thinking about it again today. My son is now 14.
When he was five, he stopped holding my face. One day I just realized he had moved on. Of course, I knew it was coming. It's this endearing little thing that toddlers do, but not too many grade-schoolers. Maybe he did it for so long because he knew he could make me melt. I could never be angry with him if he just held my face and looked into my eyes. I could tell I was becoming dependent on it when I realized how devastated I could be when it ended, and I knew it would have to end. I'd tuck him into bed at night, he'd put his little hands on my face and say, "Mommy, your skin is so soft," like it was a wonder. And like some magic elixir, Id' drink in those words and feel youth surging through this 40+ year old body. Nighttimes were the best. Even if he'd gone to sleep in his own bed, I could count on waking up in the morning with his small head on my pillow and his hand on my cheek. My husband wanted to know why he always ended up with his feet, almost pushing him over the side. When he was six, he said, "Mommy, when can I call you Mom?" Why did he want to drop the "my," the "me" part? But I bravely answered, "Anytime you want Honey." Was "never" an option? He hardly crawls into bed with us anymore. When I asked him why he said, "Cause I don't have bad dreams anymore." For a split-second, I was torn. If I want him close to me I have to hope for bad dreams? Wouldn't that make me the monster? No longer does he run to me to kiss the little boo-boo's away. He still needs me for the big ones, and he still comes to me when he's sick or tired, in need of hugs. He knows I'll never turn him away and he doles out his affections like a prince bestowing favors. I wait expectantly, cajole, and then bargain for my kiss good-night. He's a first-grader now and I feel his littleness slipping away. He still holds my hand as I walk him to school in the morning, though I am not allowed to kiss him good-bye. He no longer greets me with a hug, but holds my hand as we walk home again. I treasure this contact because, all too soon, I know this will end too. It's a fine line. We want them to be well-adjusted, safe, independent, happy, and we want to protect them from being hurt. We see the potential mistakes to be made and need to remind ourselves these are opportunities for learning — perhaps for both of us. We find ourselves possessed of a love so great, we must do what hurts the most — let go. At night, I lie in bed listening to his measured breathing down the hall. "Sweet dreams," I whisper, and realize I may be talking to myself.
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I’m just a regular person. I’m not a history expert, particularly when it comes to war, but I fervently believe in the concept of standing together, presenting a united front, especially when autocratic leaders of pugilistic countries are committed to the destruction of such alliances. And perhaps it goes without saying that recent actions of United States leadership display a stunning ignorance of the necessity both to be and to have allies.
Although war with a foreign entity is still a concern and we must remain vigilant, I don’t believe the destruction of our country will come in the usual way. After all, why not simply pit people against one another in their own backyard? Split apart families and friends and shake the very foundations upon which we have come to rely for our very sanity and sense of self. It’s difficult to worry about a war in the conventional sense when engaged in war with our friends and neighbors, when we can’t even understand our own families anymore. Considering current events, it’s difficult not to be drawn into making comparisons to George Orwell’s 1984. There will always be those who crave power and will pursue it by whatever means necessary. Sometimes it is obvious, but more often than not, the threat is insidious and not immediately recognized. A nuclear warhead headed toward our shores would certainly be cause for concern as an obvious act of war, but in today’s environment, a cyber attack should be just as frightening. When a foreign power is suspected of interfering in our democracy, that should set off all kinds of alarm bells. Unfortunately, that act must be renounced by those in the highest levels of our government. Failure to recognize the seriousness of such an attack and subsequent failure to act upon that knowledge is possibly more concerning than the attack itself. It has the potential to cause people to question the loyalties of those in charge and whether power is more important than country. But managed properly by the authorities, fear and distrust of the other team will lead a portion of the population to defend the indefensible and blind them to the actions of those who do not have their best interests in mind. Power is its own reward and George Orwell predicted this, “The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power, pure power. What pure power means you will understand presently. We are different from the oligarchies of the past in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites. The German Nazis and the Russian Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just around the corner there lay a paradise where human beings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means; it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power.” Perhaps we are behind Orwell’s schedules, but who can blame him? I’m sure at the time when he wrote his novel, 1984 seemed like a lifetime away and I imagine he hoped that his cautionary tale might prevent its realization. Sadly, the ignorant masses are all too eager to forget the past. They consider themselves too smart to fall for trickery and rationalize their choices by blaming others. And it’s so easy to forget and to deny what is right in front of us. Our enemies, both internal and external, have wisely chosen to prey upon our basest instincts and fears. They use deceit, fear, misdirection, sleight of hand, loyalty to our “team,” mistrust, propaganda, anger, dehumanization, and vengeance. They divide and conquer, placing us on opposing teams fighting a zero sum game of war between ourselves. They convince us that the “other” is evil and deserving of our disdain, even hatred, and must not be allowed to win no matter the cost. As Orwell presciently stated, “The enemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and it followed that any past or future agreement with him was impossible.” What’s frightening is that this statement from Orwell has become a truth in today’s world, and it has been twisted to present the “foreigner” not only as someone from another country, but also as someone who thinks differently. “If he were allowed contact with foreigners he would discover that they are creatures similar to himself and that most of what he has been told about them is lies. The sealed world in which he lives would be broken, and the fear, hatred, and self-righteousness on which his morale depends might evaporate. It is therefore realized on all sides that however often Persia, or Egypt, or Java, or Ceylon may change hands, the main frontiers must never be crossed by anything except bombs.” It has reached the point where bullets and bombs are traded on a regular basis within our borders by our own citizens, the two minutes of hate cleverly replaced with Trump rallies where enemies are demonized and insulted, the press branded as “enemies of the people” for failing to regurgitate the party line. We have become the enemies. We are called to action and the response has been frightening. We have been played. While we should be fighting the powers that be, we have been instructed to fight one another, and we have fallen for it. While those in power become richer and more powerful, the masses are masterfully turned against one another. We forget that nobody wins when we fight ourselves. We are all part of one body. Deciding that the left arm needs to be amputated because it does something with which the right arm disagrees fails to recognize that it is the brain causing the action. The brain directs the various parts of the body and the brain can be fooled. Just like an autoimmune disease causes the body to fight itself, politicians have caused citizens to fight one another. We rant and rave and paint the “other” as the enemy as the real enemy grows ever stronger. The enemy knows that sometimes the best way to bring down a foe is by fostering reactions that will cause your foe to tear itself apart. Meanwhile, the enemy sits back and watches, adopting a face of earnest concern, while he or she continues to feed more lies and fear to the conflict to foment anger and further drive a wedge between people. If it distracts from the corruption and pillaging, that’s a bonus. The United States spends a huge amount of money to ensure its military superiority over all other countries. But I fear that our armed forces may not be able to help us in this war. Orwell admonished, “Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.” It is essential that we become conscious of the destruction that has been wrought upon us, often with our own consent. We must join together to repel the enemy who seeks to tear us apart. Orwell said, "The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command." President Trump told us, "Just remember what you’re seeing and what you're reading is not what’s happening." Setting aside the grammatical error in his statement, perhaps it’s worth considering that he is not seeking to serve the needs of the people, but rather his own desires for wealth and power. Maybe we should believe what we are seeing. He speaks the words his followers long to hear, and despite his failure to follow through on his promises, they continue to believe him because to question him would cause them to question their own judgment and that could be catastrophic. They ignore the lies because he feeds their fears and fear is a powerful motivator. It may be time to take a step back. Can we return to a time when the United States stood for a body united? Can we give people the benefit of the doubt? Is being right so important that we’re willing to give up being connected to those we love? I propose that it is long past time to seek common ground. President Trump and the GOP will not save us. In fact, the very idea is contrary to their best interests. Likewise, the Democratic party hasn’t the strength or motivation to reclaim power for the citizens. It is naive to think anyone will save us. Remember, the purpose of power is power and those who have power will not willingly concede. We need to purge our government of politicians and create something that truly represents the will of the majority, not just those with the means to impose their will. I don’t believe the armed forces can do this for us, but I hope they will not prevent it. I hope they will remain true to their purpose, to defend our democracy, and will refuse to follow the commands of a corrupted leadership that seeks to control and which may well attempt to weaponize this force against the people. November 14, 2018 At a certain point, my choice in the matter became irrelevant. This was something I had to do. Until I had exhausted all of my options, I feared I would have no peace. I sat down at my computer and my search commenced.
Facebook? Nothing. Instagram? Nothing. Twitter? Nothing. LinkedIn? A minimal profile with very little information and no picture to confirm I had found the right person. The location seemed about right so I sent a connection request. And waited. And waited. But I'm not a patient person, and within the week, I knew I would need to do something more proactive. I began composing a letter. And back to Google I went. It's surprising the information you can find with minimal searching. I found some obituaries, but thank God, not the one I feared most. I'm not sure why a frisson of fear caused me to gasp at that thought. Perhaps because, to me, he was still the young man I'd worshipped in my youth, the one I'd loved despite logic and any sense of self-preservation, all too willing to sacrifice myself upon the altar of his choosing. Perhaps it was just because that would mean acknowledging that I, too, had aged. Before I knew it I had narrowed down the location to two possible addresses. I also found a phone number but I wasn't that bold. I suppose, in retrospect, that would have been fitting since our relationship had begun with a phone call 36 years ago. Let him be the one to call this time, I thought. Still, my motivation back then was driven by desperation and infatuation. Now, my motivation was driven by concern, and yes, curiosity. The common denominator was a question of “what if?” The smart person prefers not to make decisions in a vacuum. I didn't know how contact might be received so I needed some feedback before taking the risk. And I needed to closely examine what I hoped to achieve. Might it be best to let sleeping dogs lie? If I were being honest, did I still harbor some hope that I might understand where things had gone wrong? And was that wrong? Ultimately, this was something I had to do. In a way that I was unable to put into words, I knew there was something bigger at play; there was an unknown, indefinable, indefatigable force pushing me to do this. A piece of my heart, long forgotten, called to me from where I'd left it, 3,000 miles away, an invisible psychic tether drawing me back to it. I hit print, addressed and stamped the envelope, and handed it to the mail carrier on a Friday afternoon. Wednesday morning my phone rang, and though I didn't know the number, I knew the area code. I let it go to voicemail. Some days later, I reached him by phone and we spoke for almost two hours. He wondered how I'd known he needed a friend now. Had I suspected his life had gone to shit? Had I come to save him? How had I timed this to so perfectly align with his need for connection? Was I married? Was I happy? He told me how sorry he was for the hurt he had caused. And that he’d thought of me often and had regretted it many times over the years, and questioned why he'd done what he'd done. He still didn’t know the answer, but I suspected I did. He'd turned to drugs. Not a surprise, really. He'd wrecked one marriage and was enroute to wrecking the second. I told him, no matter where you go, there you are. I hung up the phone and the first thought I had was, there, but for the grace of God, go I. At one time, I'd considered spending my life with him. I’d imagined I could be his savior. Thankfully, he had prevented any further consideration of that in a way that was both painful, long-lasting, and final. I sighed as I realized I had dodged a bullet. Not for the first time, my guardian angel had saved me from a harm I would not have recognized myself, and redirected me toward something better. Ironic that my guardian angel should work through him to my benefit while allowing him to self-destruct. Perhaps he had been my savior instead. November 20, 2018 When I was a kid, I don't think my mom ever had any doubt that I would go to college. As the oldest child, and arguably the smartest, in her family, she had been denied the opportunity to go because she was a girl and her parents could only afford to send her brothers, who had never taken school as seriously as she had. They weren't nearly as curious or motivated to learn as she was. As a result, she instilled in her kids a curiosity and love of learning that might have been innate, but just as easily could have been environmentally influenced. And it worked. Until I reached my teen years, at which point my desire to oppose everything important to my parents became my overriding motivation for everything I did.
Don't smoke. Check. Don't drink. Check. Don't get involved with the wrong crowd. Check. Get good grades so you can go to college. Check. And by check, I mean do the exact opposite. It was only natural that I should want to get a job at the age of 16. After all, there was no greater desire than my need to get out of the house, out from under the ever-watchful eye️ of parents, particularly my mom, who seemed to care more and be infinitely more involved in my life than any of my friend’s parents. I don't recall asking them to care. In fact, the message I tried to convey was just the opposite. Oddly, all of my friends thought I was the luckiest kid around to have such an amazing mom. If only they knew. Off I went, literally across the street, to apply for my first job, and later that afternoon I was the proud recipient of a minimum wage waitressing position in the local nursing home. It went without saying that my parents would purchase the required uniform. It was a fun job which perfectly aligned with my school schedule, which was probably why so many of my classmates worked there as well. The best thing was that school vacations and summers offered additional hours as that was the time when the full-time waitresses got to take their vacations. In this way, I was introduced to the regular, or should I say adult, waitresses. So began my odyssey toward furthering my education. These women weren't having nearly as much fun as my friends and I. To them, work was a drudgery of responsibility and complaining, the highlight of each shift the opportunity to gossip or discuss the latest sermons of Pat Robertson or Billy Graham. I didn't know who either of these men were, but apparently they were on the TV and these bitter women found them somehow inspiring. That was enough for me to know that I wouldn't. These women inspired me, though likely not in any way they might have expected. The reality of the lives they were leading gave me the vision to realize I would much prefer another four years of school to the mundane and mind-numbingly dull future I might have if I followed in their footsteps. It wasn't too late. My grades weren't terrible. With two years of school to go, I needed to get serious, and now I had my motivation. I think we often believe that motivation or inspiration will come in the form of a vision of what life could be. But for some of us, it can take the form of a dystopian vision of what we hope our life will never be. Thankfully, my mom had instilled in me the belief that there was something more available to me, and I grabbed hold of that belief and confidently pursued the future that was possible. I will forever appreciate these women for the lesson they taught me. October 24, 2018 If you push something to the back of your mind long enough, you may grow to believe it has been forgotten. You may even forget it, and begin to believe that it may not have even happened. Until suddenly, an outside event can propel it to the forefront of your mind and force you to come to terms with what you have long denied. Memory is a funny thing, and particularly in regard to traumatic events, the details remembered can be surprising and the details forgotten lead to additional questions. Questions that may never be answered adequately. Yet, the remembered details can be enough to haunt you and color everything in your life. Sometimes confronting these traumatic events can be the most cathartic way to deal with them, and truly leave them behind. Other times, they can never be left behind, but perhaps, they can be transformed into lessons that can help others.
I found myself forced to confront these feelings, these memories, and here are my thoughts: Thirty years ago, I was raped. For many years, I used euphemisms. He forced himself on me. He took advantage of me. He didn't listen when I said no. Recently, I acknowledged, he sexually assaulted me. Then, my mom asked me to tell her exactly what had happened. When she told me I'd been raped, I cried. How many women go through life minimizing their own personal experiences, justifying the actions of someone else, because it could have been worse? Because we should have done something differently? We’ve all been programmed to believe that there’s violent, stranger rape, and there’s something else. We avoid the dark alleys. We avoid walking through a parking lot alone at night. We hold our keys in such a way, we believe we can use them as a weapon if necessary. We play out scenarios in our heads and take self-defense classes. We remain on alert, prepared for the attack that will likely never come. But we fail to prepare for the more likely attack. When we’re with friends, we relax. We don’t suspiciously eye everyone in the room. Maybe we have a couple of drinks. Maybe we get completely wasted. Why should it matter? Why should alcohol and drug use be permitted only for males? So, we relax some more. And when our inhibitions are lowered, what that really means is that our fears are diminished. We’re not so serious anymore. We’re fun. We might even flirt. Because it’s exhausting to function on high-alert at all times, and if you can’t relax with the people you know and trust, when can you? How could I go thirty years, refusing to acknowledge that I was, in fact, raped? I was a teen in the 80s, and looking back now, with the maturity that comes over thirty-plus years, I think that had a great deal to do with it. I grew up watching John Hughes’ movies and was caught on the cusp of “good girls don't” and “women can have it all.” The teen years are confusing enough without throwing in drugs and alcohol and mixed messages for boys and girls. The boys were supposed to get sex, in whatever way they could. The girls were supposed to avoid sex, and be careful not to tease boys too much. If a girl had sex, there could really only be two reasons — love or coercion. Either way, she ran the risk of being labeled a slut. The ever-popular double standard. Back up. Did you see that word? Coercion. That was perfectly acceptable when I was a teen and a young adult. Perhaps it still is. It was acceptable for a boy to coerce a girl. In fact, it was expected. Coercion could take the form of wheedling, trickery, plying her with alcohol or drugs, peer pressure, roughhousing, manhandling, overpowering, but never outright threats of physical violence or actual physical harm. Psychological harm was acceptable, and even expected. Separation from female peers was preferable. Removal of alternative choices was required. She had to feel helpless. Then came the locker room talk. Did she or didn’t she? Was she good? Can she be “blackmailed” to do it again? Surely, she wouldn’t want everyone to know. If she didn’t fight hard enough, she was “easy.” If she did, she was a “tease.” Always, she got what was coming to her. There was no right answer for the girl who dared to express herself or expected to be treated as an equal. Equality was, and is, a myth. Is it any wonder girls were bullied into silence? Half the time we weren’t believed, and the rest of the time we were shamed. And there wasn’t a word to describe what was happening. If you didn’t come away with bruises or other signs of a struggle, you didn’t fight hard enough. Never mind the fact that good girls were taught to keep their mouths shut. You don’t question the way things are; you just go along. If that means allowing someone to touch you in ways you don’t like, you pretend it’s not happening. You just get through it. The alternative might be ostracization or actual bruises. Once you’d been chosen, your options were severely limited. The thought that someone you knew could “rape” you was unimaginable, to some, laughable. Rape brought up images of threats with guns or knives, criminals, fear of death, dark alleys, strangers, physical pain, and wearing a skirt that was too short or a dress that revealed too much. Even in cases of “real” rape, there was still a way to blame the victim. But the tools of the “real” rapist and the “friend” as rapist are frighteningly similar — darkness, psychological manipulation, threats, separation, and shame. Separate her from her friends, prey on her trust, use drugs and/or alcohol to lower her inhibitions (relieve her anxiety — after all, there’s no reason to fear a friend), threaten her with public shaming, make her think she’s crazy, or even better, she deserved it, and finally, encourage her to compare her experience to a “real” rape so she’ll think it wasn’t that bad. I recently heard the term “consensual rape” used by an official describing what was clearly a rape, but had never been prosecuted as one, despite ample physical evidence. The victim knew her attackers and was foolish enough to drink and allow herself to be alone with them. That was her crime; that’s how she consented. I was flabbergasted. This may be the biggest oxymoron since jumbo shrimp, but although the latter might make you chuckle, the former is horrifying in how accurately it describes the views of some, particularly (and I really hate to say this), men. When “acquaintance rape” became a thing, I’m sure I wasn’t alone in breathing a sigh of relief. It was nice to be able to put a name to that feeling of helplessness and violation that so many of us have experienced. Unfortunately, it didn’t make it much easier for any of us to report it. Shame runs deep. It is the most damaging and most powerful emotion that any of us can experience. And, as I’ve recently discovered, it doesn’t really go away. Men have learned to weaponize shame so that women are afraid to speak up, afraid to make accusations for fear of the repercussions. When we speak our truth, we are victimized yet again — mocked, disbelieved, ostracized, threatened. It seems all of the tools with which the “consensual rapist” manipulates his victims are real and society is all too ready to implement them. I’m going to suggest an idea that will be controversial. Is it possible that while women have been suffering in silence, while slowly finding their voices and speaking out, men have been blindsided by something they never imagined? Is it possible that, viewing the exact same events, our interpretations are colored by our gender? If I were to confront my rapist, would he even remember the event, much less view it through the same lens? Might he think the encounter was entirely consensual? It’s worth considering that my truth may not be his truth. That doesn’t make his truth equal to my truth. What it does do is suggest that I cannot expect him to truly understand what happened until it is explained to him. I want to believe that there are men who, if confronted by their actions from the past, would feel the shame that women have been carrying for years, and might even be prompted to apologize. I think that should be allowed. Just as it harms us to hold onto shame, it also harms us to hold onto anger and I can say, unequivocally, that I would welcome the opportunity to offer forgiveness for what was done to me. All I’m asking for is acknowledgement and an apology, and since I’ve been carrying this for so long on my own, I don’t think that’s too much to ask. October 3, 2018 |
Elizabeth J. Connor
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