Mental Musings from
The Marginatrix
...because sometimes I just need to share my thoughts.
There was a part of me that knew it was coming, but I was wholly unprepared. And in retrospect, I'm sure my mom was not looking forward to what was coming and how she would explain it. It's never easy to explain death to a child. And so it may have come as a bit of a relief when I said, "Please don't tell me if he dies. I'll ask if I want to know."
After my little brother, Blacky was my best friend. Not a very original or creative name, I know, but I was only four when I chose him and he was black from head to tail so it made sense. And naturally, he was the runt of the litter. Even then, I was attracted to the underdog, or in this case, undercat. Blacky was an indoor/outdoor cat. On Long Island, the worst predator for a cat was a car, and there wasn't a lot of traffic on our street. His litter box was in the basement and he was not allowed in the bedrooms. That didn't stop him, of course. I shared a room with my brother. After being put to bed, I'd whisper his name and then I'd hear his kitty paws patter up the stairs. He'd wait for me to pat the bed, then crawl under the covers to cuddle. On more than one occasion, I'd hear my dad calling Blacky, but we'd pretend to be asleep. It was our secret. Blacky was no angel. A Tom cat, I imagine he'd prowl the neighborhood every night looking for a fight. And all too often, he found a willing participant. One morning, he returned to the house with a gaping wound on his back haunch, evidence of a vicious foe. At the time, I didn't understand how little extra money my parents had. Nevertheless, they took him to the vet, who stitched him up, covered the wound, and admonished them to keep him indoors until it had fully healed. My parents explained that they would not be taking him back for further treatment so he had best behave himself. Unfortunately, Blacky didn't believe them. Within a few days, he'd escaped the confines of his prison. When he limped home the following morning, his side once again oozing, my heart sank. My father took him back to the vet. I wanted desperately to believe that he would stay there until he'd recovered. The days passed and turned into weeks. Slowly, I came to terms with what I suspected just be true. One day, I approached my mom. "Blacky's not coming home, is he?" My mother has always prized honesty above all else. She stopped what she was doing and lowered herself to my level. She looked me in the eyes and said, "No, he's not. He's in Heaven now." I nodded in understanding and said, "Okay." It wasn't until much later I asked her for details. It was years before I learned just how hard it had been for my father, a funeral director, no less, to hold Blacky as he took his last breaths. In his typical manner, he joked about it, but there was this underlying sadness that was hard to miss. He had held Blacky in his arms as he'd closed his eyes for the last time. I was no stranger to death, but it had never seemed quite real to me. My father's family owned a funeral home and he worked there part time as a mortician. His parents lived upstairs and when we used to visit, we would take the side door into the building because the front door was all the way on the other side of the building. That door led to the storage area, where rows upon rows of caskets sat silently, expectantly in the darkened room. My brother and I would race to the door on the far wall to enter the public area, and safety. We'd threaten to lock one another in the haunted room, but neither of us actually had the heart to do it. One day, while wandering through the hallways and viewing rooms,I happened upon a girl younger than me. She looked so peaceful lying there, her dark brown hair framing her angelic face. I gazed at her in confusion, no doubt scrunching my brow, as I attempted to square my vision with what I knew to be true. Only old people die. I couldn't understand, and my younger brother was no help in this endeavor. So we sought my mother's help. I imagine this was a conversation that, even if anticipated, was certainly not relished. And somehow, like so many other times, she had the right answer. Sometimes God takes children because he needs more angels, but not to worry, he doesn't do it often and he chooses judiciously. He only takes those who are so good that He cannot bear to be separated from them any longer. I think my brother and I both breathed a sigh of relief, confident in the knowledge God wouldn't be taking either of us any time soon.
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I thought they were leaves. It hadn't seemed very windy when I'd walked to my car, but as I drove to school, I found my conveyance bombarded with tiny leaves swirling through the air. It's springtime, I thought. This looks like a fall flurry, an autumnal assault. Where did all of these leaves come from?
I was transported back to New England. I remembered driving down dark country roads at night, the headlights illuminating only the road in front of me. The tiny skittering leaves dancing before my car. The larger ones rolling across the pavement, doing impressive impersonations of mincing mice or frisky frogs, daring the auto gods. I'd cringe for each one that tempted my tires, waiting for the telltale… Splat! that never came. I pulled into the school parking lot to wait for my son. He got into the car and said, “I guess it must be migration season.” I liked at him in confusion and asked, “Why?” “Look at all of the butterflies!” I shook the scales from my eyes, and looked around me, as if for the first time. Lost in my memories, I had failed to notice the miracle surrounding me today. 03-13-2019 I remember in college taking a course that has a profound impact on me: Women & Violence. I learned about Tracy Thurman, repeatedly beaten by her husband then stabbed, despite a restraining order, in front of police who did nothing to protect her. I learned about Kitty Genovese, murdered and calling for help while all of her neighbors ignored her pleas. We talked about snuff films and the signs of an abuser and the cycle of abuse. I questioned why any woman would stay with an abusive partner and I honestly could not understand or relate. And after a few years, I forgot the most important parts.
Pride comes before the fall. He was so charming when I first met him. So attentive. So conciliatory. So concerned for my well-being. So anxious to be with me. So enamored with me. So involved with me. So obsessed with me. So controlling of me. So disappointed in me. So frustrated with me. So angry with me. So much a victim to whatever feelings I made him feel, whatever actions I made him take. It happened so slowly, I wasn't even aware of what was happening. At first, I needed to be knocked down from my pedestal. I needed to understand I wasn't perfect. I wasn’t as great as I thought I was. I wasn't as smart as I thought I was. After all, if I didn't like it, I should just leave. Naturally, these insults were followed by profuse apologies and gifts, as well as promises to do better. The first time he slapped me, I was stunned. I imagine I stood there with my mouth flapping opened and closed like a fish flaps its gills, struggling for oxygen, unaware it has had been plucked from the water. I was so disoriented and unprepared, I was speechless. Maybe that was the point. But I had never bothered to consider how I would react if someone hit me because I could never imagine that anyone actually would. I didn't come from that kind of family. I wasn't predestined to choose an abusive spouse. It must have been a mistake, an anomaly. Surely, this wasn’t the same man I had come to love. I forgave him and believed it would never happen again. For a while he was careful, but then the verbal abuse escalated. Dragging me from bed in the middle of the night to attend to his needs for food or a drink when he'd stay late “at work” became a nightmare of mine. The bullying and threats came more often, along with the taunting that I didn't have the guts to leave him. Until one night when he asked me to pick him up after work, since he was already drunk from an afternoon spent with coworkers. From the moment he got in the car, he was nasty, ripping the rearview mirror from the windshield to demonstrate his disregard for my property, for something I had earned myself, before him. I don't remember what he said, but I can still remember the hopeless feeling that drove me to consider crashing my car because that was the only way I could imagine escaping him. Ultimately, I drove home, and as he continued to abuse me on the way to the apartment, I screamed and made enough noise for neighbors to come out to their balconies to see what was happening. Someone asked if he should call the police and I cried out yes. My boyfriend left. When the police arrived, he was long gone. We called my brother who came to escort me to his apartment and the following day my mom came to get me. I packed what mattered most and went home with her. I didn't go back. I moved in with my grandmother and my boyfriend began “courting me” again. At first, I wanted nothing to do with him, but he was persistent and seemed truly changed. He had given up drinking and I thought things would be different. After many months, I agreed to move back in with him, but this time we would live close to my family. Things were good. He proposed, we got married, had a baby, but somewhere along the line he started drinking again. And I think he became jealous of our daughter. He became belligerent, controlling, and nasty, often drunk and when he wasn't yelling at me, he was crying about how I didn't love him. He couldn't live without me. He would die if I ever left him. Then, he almost died. He worked nights and when he didn't return by the time I needed to get to work in the morning, I was angry, but it never occurred to me to be concerned. Until that afternoon when the police called. He had driven his car into a ravine and had been spotted by a police officer who happened to pull over another driver near that spot. They estimated he had been hanging upside down in his car for at least 8 hours. Enough time for the alcohol to leave his system. When I got to the hospital, he was in surgery. The neurosurgeon told me we'd have to wait and see whether he'd live. The man had no bedside manner, never considering his dispassionate words might cause me pain. I’m not entirely sure that they did; I was torn. There was a part of me that thought, finally, I'll be free of him. To be honest, I had been close to leaving him anyway. Another part of me thought, but my one year old daughter needs a father. I decided to wait and see. If he died, I would be saved the effort of going through a divorce. If he lived, I'd give him another chance. He lived. I lost track of the number of times I wondered why God hadn't just taken him, why He hadn't saved me from additional misery. I suppose He wanted me to save myself. My husband wasn't the same man. After being in a coma, there was a certain innocence about him that was endearing and brought out the protector in me. I would care for him, nurse him back to health. But he didn't handle frustration well and his rehabilitation was destined to be fraught with difficulties. Once again, I became the scapegoat. What's worse, he confabulated fantastical stories that I believed, until his therapist told me they were untrue and also told me that if he was hitting me (he was) I should leave him. One day, as I sat with my two year old on my lap as my husband grew increasingly agitated as he yelled at me, he unexpectedly kicked me as hard as he could across my shins. This time, my shock only lasted a few seconds. Suddenly, I saw everything with absolute clarity, and the lessons I had learned in college came flooding back to me. The cycle of abuse: When a little girl sees her mother being abused, she will grow up to be an abused woman. Would I ever allow anyone to harm my daughter? Absolutely not! So why would I allow anyone to hurt me, and in so doing, teach her to expect the same? That was the last time my husband ever hit me. Afterward, I looked over the list of the signs of an abuser, and he fit every one of them. If I had remembered what I had learned, perhaps it would have saved me. Perhaps not. The one thing I have learned in life, repeatedly, is that judgment of others leads to lessons for me. Whenever I have looked at someone else, judged their actions, and thought, I’ll never do that, I have been tested in ways I had not, but probably should have expected. It’s so easy, especially when we are young, to make snap judgments about others and have absolute certainty that we would never make such mistakes. I don’t advise that. Why does a woman stay with an abuser? The reasons are many, but for me they were partly disbelief, doubt, fear, hope, and inertia. I was willing to sacrifice my own happiness for someone else’s. I thank God for my daughter. If not for her, and my overwhelming and all-consuming love for her, I might still be there, forgetting who I was bit by bit as all hope and all willingness to fight was drained from me. For her, I was willing to fight, and I was willing to not only hope for something better, but also to refuse to accept anything less. Because of her, I found myself again, but it was a better me — a me who does not rush to judgment, a me who is more compassionate toward others, and a me who values her own happiness as much as anyone else’s. I never imagined I would need to hide it, put it under lock and key. Protect it. Until he used my words against me.
My heart seized and I opened my mouth, desperately searching for a reasonable explanation, though I knew there wasn’t one. There couldn’t be one. I shivered at the realization as the frigid fingers of fear poked me, a staccato beat that matched the furious beating of my heart. Again, I thought, it can’t be. With measured breaths I formulated my question, “Did you read my journal?” He didn’t have the decency to act contrite, instead spewing contempt and judgement as he criticized my private thoughts. I shook my head in disbelief, my sanctuary violated, exposed to ridicule. Deliberately, I closed my eyes, then carefully, I closed my heart. Mentally, but not in writing, I planned my escape. 8-22-2018 My husband gave me my first mixtape. It was a collection of songs he had assembled to attempt to convey to me exactly how he felt. It was a safe way to tell me he loved me because he could always claim it was just a song. I got the message and began to create my own.
The thought and care that goes into creating a good mixtape is substantial, and because this was my first time and because he was, and still is, an audiophile, the pressure was high. How was I to convey my feelings in a way that was original yet clear? How could I hope to create something even half as good as he had? I did my best, and he loved it. And so it began. Over the years, we exchanged collections of music to express our feelings for one another in ways that were sometimes sappy, but always entertaining and enjoyable. And then for a while we stopped. I moved across the country and we lost touch. I married and had a child but that didn't last for long. He was never far from my mind. At a particularly low point, I reached out to find him, to reconnect. We exchanged letters until one day I received a package in the mail. It was a new mixtape, one that expressed the uncertainty and hope that we both felt as we embarked on this new exploration together. I made one for him in return. We continued in this vein, with occasional visits until a year later, when he moved here to join me. For our wedding, Joe created a series of mix CDs to celebrate the longevity of our love for one another. Every guest received a copy of one. Music, and especially mixtapes, will always be a symbol of our relationship. 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. 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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