The chapter in life never read aloud
We all, no doubt, have moments we are not proud of. Whether the transgressions were big or small, if they were in a book, they would be the chapters “never read aloud.”
But as many memoir writers have noted, to shy away from telling the truth is to defeat the purpose of writing. How do you learn? And if I am writing to heal and to share my story with readers, then I must be honest. How can I connect with anyone if I pretend to be above it all? If I were reading that kind of story, I’d spot it in a second and toss it in the trash.
A therapist, listening to my story a few years ago, said, “Did you expect to be perfect?”
Her frank calling out of my silliness in denying human frailties made me laugh and see how the only person I’d been fooling was myself. Of course, I had WANTED to be perfect…I had DEMANDED that from me. But then that had been demanded OF me my whole life. The truth was, I was just like everyone else — simply a human being. And…there is nothing wrong with being a human being. It just took me a lifetime to learn that.
Still, for me, this is the chapter that is the hardest to write. Others have been hard in a painful way. This one is compounded by the years of judgment and self-hate, and shame. Both by me, and by expecting others to judge and despise me. After all, I figured it would be easier for people…and myself… to feel compassion for me, the child who was abused. I assumed no one would have compassion for, or even understand, the messy path of my young adult self traveling on her way back to stability. So I hated me.
The months from the fall of 1984 through early 1985 were a time of need, yearning, confusion, and then of crossing a line I never would have crossed in the past. It is not possible to go smoothly from that abused, emotionally-battered, and immature young adult to a fully functioning, balanced, and confident one able to have and engage in adult relationships. Like so many other things I didn’t know then, I didn’t understand that the chasm that had to be bridged was huge, and the process for me, maybe for anyone, would be messy. I only knew I had a problem, it needed fixing, and one way or another, I would fix it. All it would need was determination and strength. No time for whining or weakness.
Having been brought up to be tough, to have no needs, and to follow Dad’s command to not be a “stupid woman,” aside from a couple of friends, I was, for the most part, a loner. Friendships with women were mostly a trainwreck, and I especially couldn’t stand to be around women who whined or seemed weak. I thought I was being strong, but the truth is, I was rigid and brittle. That is not strength. At some point, rigid and brittle shatters, and in those moments, you discover just how much you need, and how human you are.
Mother Hunger
I did have a good friend who was so compassionate about my ordeal. During my suicidal months, she checked on me, made sure I ate, and included me in her family outings. Her loyalty and intense caring blew me away. And I was so grateful.
But beyond nurturing, she saw me as a peer. Valued me as a friend. Needed me as well, as she had her own pain and wounds. And even though I was younger, she saw me as intelligent and mature in many ways, and didn’t mock my predicament or my wounds.
For me, I was incredulous. Surprised. Caught off-guard even, because I would never have taken anyone’s interest in me as real. I would have assumed I was misreading things.
Yet with her, for the first time in my life, someone listened to me, saw me…REALLY SAW me. And needed me as much. She affirmed me, defended me. Filled that empty core that felt it had no worth.
All my life, I’d had to fight for my survival at home all alone. There had been no mother I was close to that I could go to. No protection from his abuse. And often, I felt her coldness. I hadn’t realized just how lonely I was until I felt the power of my friend’s attention and caring, and bond. I had such a hunger for any mothering.
Daria Burke, in her book Of My Own Making, described the intensity of that need:
“For girls without mothers or maternal figures suffer an injury that author and licensed professional counselor Kelly McDaniels calls mother hunger, the feeling of terminal brokenness, of primal fear of abandonment, or disordered boundaries, a wound that resides deep within the right brain as a result of not receiving adequate nurturance, protection, and guidance in the early years of maternal attachment.”
So, my friend was exactly what I needed at the time, the combination “Mother-defender-older sister-best friend.” I couldn’t understand what she saw in me, but its effect on me was powerful.
The funny thing was that she was the type of woman I had also been told had no value. She loved nice clothes and was skilled with makeup — all the things in life I’d not learned to be good at, and had always treated with disdain. I wouldn’t have ordinarily been drawn to a woman with those interests, and I considered them trivial, maybe because those were the types of girls in high school who had shunned me. They may have looked good, but I was smart.
But somehow, in my friend, I saw you could be both. She was professional and accomplished, yet also valued makeup and feminine things. In fact, she gave them a grace and dignity. It went against all of my father’s programming.
But, I decided to hell with that. I’d already tossed out religion, God, and any life rules I’d grown up with. Time to toss the preconceived notions of womanhood my father had instilled, and give “femininity” another look. Maybe life, and women, didn’t have to be all one way or another.
The bottom line was that she was amazing to me. And I was grateful. Devoted. And intensely loyal for the care she showed me.
Oh, for tribal elders….
Most people have a time of experimenting during early teens. How to grow up? Have friendships. Meet boys. Share with friends. Those early teen same-sex relationships are a real bonding time that lets you learn so much and grow.
And as more than one therapist would explain to me later, those friendships and that time of life are all about experimentation and learning. Answering questions like who I am attracted to? What do I seek in them? What is it like to kiss? Am I gay? Straight? Mixed? And exploring things at your own pace as you move toward becoming a healthy, sexual adult. They added that most people’s first sexual experiences are often not great. People are trying to figure things out, testing out approaches, and sometimes just trying to get beyond having sex the first time so they can get past that “never-having-done-it” stage. You’re experimenting. Learning. Screwing up. And I didn’t have any of this.
Between my total domination by my father, my isolation, and the rules of my religion, I was totally unprepared for this part of life. So while I was a 28-year-old adult, in a lot of ways, I was emotionally a 16- or 17-year-old. That is a difficult situation to resolve, especially when you add in intense emotional needs and then the physical needs of young adulthood. Hormonal power versus the terror of men. Not an easy mix.
It was understandable that there was terror about men and sexual intimacy. My life had been filled with violence, terror, and fear. The message from my father was always, “I need this, you must do it,” so sex was something that had to be done or else. All depended on it. His messages: This helps me with your mother. This keeps the family together. This is love. It was all so badly skewed. And it put all the responsibility for family integrity and his personal satisfaction on me. There was nothing in any of that about love, connection, or soul mates. To me, as far as sex and men were concerned, it was all one-way demands that were out of control and sucked the life out of one’s soul.
Add in that even if I did find a man I liked and maybe even TRUSTED, I had that whole disgusting background. How could I ever explain that? How would any man ever love me, much less not revile or judge me?
Yet, the power of hormones and the impatience to make a “normal life” for me was such that, in spite of all the odds against me, I wanted to try. At this point, it was almost an obsession. A “let’s just get this over with,” and then it will be all right. I saw it not so much as an emotional thing or connection, but a problem to fix. I was out of sync in life. I had no good prospects or boyfriends. There wasn’t a relationship that was going to slowly lead me to a gentle crossing over from virgin to “initiated.” No, this was a problem that just needed to be fixed. It wasn’t going to solve itself. And I was going to have to do something to just GET THIS OVER WITH. It would need action, not the passivity I’d had to learn as a victim all my life. No one was coming to rescue me. I had to rescue myself.
That said, I so wished I were part of some tribal group where the women elders guided, instructed, prepared, and supported the younger women as they made this crossing into adult womanhood. But that wasn’t going to happen.
I shared my despair, impatience, and frustration with my friend. I trusted her. And she was my mentor, my older sister, the one I’d always wanted. Maybe she had some advice.
The “eyes” have it
Hearing my woes as we drove somewhere, she laughed and said, “You just really need a good lay!”
Totally frustrated, I acknowledged the plain truth of her words, “Yes! I know that! But HOW?”
I so deeply appreciated that there was someone I could talk to about this. Yes, I could have brought it up in therapy, but we hadn’t gotten that far yet. And he was a man. I wanted that mother/sister figure to commiserate with and help me find my path in this area. My friend didn’t mock me but honored me with her caring and empathy. I responded one day by telling her how much I appreciated the respect she showed me when no one else ever had.
“I just want you to know I so appreciate you, and am totally loyal to you. I would do anything for you.”
She had a funny smile and said, “Anything?”
I noted the tone in her voice and the mischievous look in her eyes, but shrugged it off. Just as I shrugged off a couple of other looks I thought I saw from her. One time at the gym when we were in a sauna, and another time when I was in a bathing suit, it seemed like there was a slow looking me up and down. I wondered, felt flattered almost, but figured there was nothing to it. At that point in my life, the fact that someone was nice to me was overwhelming. And while I sometimes wondered and felt a strong attraction to her because of the emotional connection, I had never allowed or even considered anything more. I was satisfied with having the friendship.
Yet, there were those looks, and the question in my mind.
We continued to discuss ways to help my “problem.” One time, she suggested that since I was a 27-year-old adult but an emotional teen, maybe I should find a teenage boy. It was probably a joke, and for me, even in my current dilemma, there was no way I wanted that. That would have been what happened to me, and it would be statutory rape. No. That was not the answer.
And another time, she said maybe I should accompany her husband on a business trip. That I was totally uncomfortable with.
I came to the conclusion that this was not going to get fixed through normal channels, given my age and background. I’d seen articles about sexual surrogates. To me, that seemed like a possible answer even as it was a fringe idea. But I had grown up through those 1960s years of the sexual revolution and free sex. Maybe extreme problems needed extreme answers? And at least it wouldn’t be some teenage boy. Maybe there was someone who could help me overcome my phobia? All I knew was that this was my responsibility to fix.
Now I will say that I would most likely have brought that up with my therapist. I don’t think I would have unilaterally taken such an extreme step without consulting him. I do know that these days there have been studies with therapists employing sexual surrogates as part of therapy, though I don’t know how mainstream it is even now. And I am grateful I never pursued it, given that the early 1980s were the beginning of the AIDS epidemic. In any event, before I could discuss this with the therapist, things took another turn.
The energy
The conversations between us veered more and more into the topic of sex. What we thought about same-sex relationships. Preferences during sex for being in control or being led. Also, there was a lingering, and an energy to the kisses hello when I came by to visit. I felt drawn, safe, and loved.
Before I pursued the idea with my therapist of a surrogate, I came across an ad for a couple of dating services. One was, in my mind, too weird, with people making videos and talking about themselves. It wasn’t me. But the other was almost more like a matchmaker. You had to visit their office and fill out extensive questionnaires. Were you looking to get married? What kinds of activities did you like? Dining? Theater? Sports? And it was expensive. More than I had.
I almost walked out of the office. But then I considered things. They promised 3-5 “introductions” a month. Better than I had been doing with friends, trying to match me up. This was in the Hartford area, and these were men who were professionals — businessmen, doctors, men who wanted more than the bar scene and didn’t have time for that. I considered how in my town, there weren’t many options, and they often involved the doctors at the hospital stepping out on their wives or guys in bars, neither of which appealed to me. The form said you could stop your membership at any time. I looked at the book on the table with photos of happy couples. I signed up and paid the money. What did I have to lose?
The way it worked was that they would send you a note with someone’s name and contact info. You would call the office, and they would tell you about the person. If you were interested, you could arrange to meet somewhere. That kept it simple, safe. If you didn’t hit it off, you could each leave, and no big deal.
That was how I met a nice, gentle man who lived near Hartford. I was relaxed with him. We met up a few times and had a nice time. So when he invited me to dinner and his home, I nervously agreed. My friend helped me get ready — pick out an outfit, do the makeup…all those things I’d considered silly in the past, but now really appreciated help with.
It was a lovely time at dinner, and yes, I felt safe enough to join him at home. It was a risk, but I was going to try. It didn’t work out well – that whole first time with someone is often awkward, but this time it was not because of my issues in this area, but his. Maybe that was for the best. It was an opportunity to experiment with “being with” someone and to learn that it didn’t have to be out-of-control, and that others, men included, weren’t perfect in the sexual arena.
While maybe that could have been worked out in time, the fact that he didn’t seem to care about my needs in this raised a flag. And the last straw was his mentioning about have had sex with his cousin. That was a deal-breaker right there. I flashed back to my father telling me on a car ride how upset he was when he was in the Navy, because he missed out on the same thing with his cousin when his brothers didn’t tell him about their escapades with her.
So while that first experience left me feeling more confident and less afraid, there was no satisfactory outcome.
Can you handle it?
At this point, things continued to be suggested in conversations with my friend. And a sharing of some porn videos. Then, on one car ride, she admitted she wanted to be with me. I was both surprised and electrified. By this point, the increasing innuendos had affected me. And the depth of my feelings for this person who had helped me through the worst times of my life was very deep. All of it together made it overpowering.
She did hold back on one point. She wondered if I was “up for something complicated like this.” The implication was that this would require a more “sophisticated” person who could handle “complexity and shades of gray.” Could I handle something like this?
It was that kid part of me from years ago who answered with indignation. That kid, who, when riding her bike around the block, and her buddy said he could nail his football right in front of her bike tire, retorted indignantly with, “Go ahead! I dare you!” That kid who never ran from a challenge and was convinced she could do it. I, of course, hated the implication that I was a baby and couldn’t handle sophistication.
So, overwhelmed with need, emotionally and physically, I went ahead.
I had no idea of my own power yet. And emotionally, I was too far gone to turn back. I knew what we were doing was wrong. Not because it was a same-sex encounter, but because she was married. That was the wrong part.
At my house, she said I had to make the first move so I wouldn’t feel trapped, and again, I rose to the challenge. It started okay. But it’s one thing to kiss, and another to try to actually have sex. I was awkward, clumsy, nervous, and after a certain point, non-functional, and didn’t know what to do. And, frankly, aside from the kissing, I wasn’t really “feeling it” in terms of proceeding. And based on her responses, I suspect it wasn’t working for her either. Afterward, we both noted that.
But instead of dropping it there, we moved to the next step. She involved her husband. That worked better. And it was a relief. Finally, a situation that worked.
At the time, I just remembered thinking, “FINALLY I overcame that terror, that hurdle!
I can be NORMAL…I can be like everyone else! I just wanted to leap and rejoice….and of course, I felt proud I had handled “complex.”
In over my head after all…
The arrangement didn’t last long. My friend bowed out, but did send her husband over a few more times. But then it started changing again. I was in over my head and didn’t know it. I actually didn’t understand the rules of this, and was stuck in the “present moment.”
She said something that was right on the money, and when she said it, it was like someone snapped their fingers and the hypnotic dream world of it all evaporated. Instead, I was like “DUH! Of course…how could I be so stupid and not understand this…”
And once out of that dream world, I found myself in shock, wondering, “How did I end up here?” It was like that time on my bike with my friend and the football…I DIDN’T outrun it and instead, found myself upside down in the air….
Soul Mosaic 
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