Soul Mosaic

Those walls

Not long after that trip, we met up another weekend. He knew that night in Boston that I didn’t respond well to his declaration of love for me. I had explained it simply as I just needed to go slowly.

We stood outside his apartment one evening. He looked at me with such kindness and said, “I want to help you take down your walls.”

In my mind, the answer was instantaneous. Oh hell no, I thought. I just got my life under control.

The struggle as I stood there? Before me stood the kindest …truest heart… and one that I knew had been hurt by others. I did NOT want to hurt him…I could walk away from others, but …he was different. Yet I couldn’t risk upsetting the stability that I had just obtained.

“Couldn’t we just keep it fun and light, no serious ties?”

We met again for dinner at that “family-style restaurant” where I again tried to explain why I didn’t want to get serious. He listened. He was very quiet.

That January, not long after that night, we met on a weekend morning in Torrington. At a diner…which was just across the street from the Burger King parking lot, the parking lot he met up with me the first time he came to Torrington.

Looking at me with what seemed a mixture of sadness yet acceptance, he told me he was setting me free. He could see that I didn’t want to get serious, and he understood. Then he wished me well and took his leave.

I sat there thinking…But…but…

Looking back on that time from now, I feel such pain in my heart. True pain. For the hurt he felt. For the place I was still in, full of fear, yet not wanting to be apart.

Sniffing bags in the garage

We stood together, hunched over the trunk of his car in the Boston parking garage, sniffing the aromas of various white bags.

Closing up the bags, I said to Ed, “You know. This looks bad, us standing here sniffing all these bags. Anyone watching us would think we had something more interesting than coffee here!”

We both laughed, and one of us commented that while freshly ground coffee smelled great, it was too bad it didn’t taste just as good when you brewed it.

Given that Christmas was only a few weeks off, the coffees were gifts for several of our friends. This was an era before local coffee shops, so it was a rare opportunity to find so many exotic and flavored beans in the stalls of Quincy Market.

The first weekend away

Ed had been up in Boston all that week and the next for a software training conference. Since he was already there in a hotel, he invited me to join him for a weekend in Boston. That was the first time I’d ever spent a weekend away in a hotel with someone I was dating. Yet again, I felt no worries. Just excited to spend time with him and explore Boston. Between shopping, museums, and restaurants, we were having a great time.

In fact, that whole fall, getting together with Ed on weekends had been such a joyful time. We both loved food and history, went to museums, went horseback riding, and took walks in local nature parks. Sounds just like one of those classified ads. But truly, no matter where we went or what we did, being with him was peaceful and fun.

We kept finding that we had so much in common. And he respected my wishes. Some weekends, I didn’t want intimacy, just companionship. And he never pushed. I was always amazed that a man could actually accept and respect boundaries, ESPECIALLY around sex. So it made perfect sense that I was totally at ease going away with him.

Anyway, later that particular Saturday afternoon, done with shopping and frozen from the biting cold, we started back to the parking garage. Winding our way from Quincy Market, we turned down North Street, trying to get out of the wind. We suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a farmer’s market. Booths of fresh vegetables and all kinds of foods lined both sides of the street, and people packed the street. Vendors stood around 50-gallon drums that served as makeshift fireplaces, which we gladly made use of ourselves. In spite of the cold, it was a special moment. Just a small little world of its own, tucked into the middle of this bustling city.

Continuing down the street from one fire barrel to another, we turned down a side alley and headed toward a large intersection that turned out to be Union Street. There on the corner was this most amazing seafood restaurant in an old brick building — The Union Oyster House. Apparently, it is now a National Historic Landmark and has been a restaurant since 1826. In fact, according to the sign there, Daniel Webster used to spend many a night at its oyster bar, downing “a brandy and water with each half-dozen oysters, seldom having less than six plates.”

Absolute perfection

Between the charm and ambiance of the old brick building, its history, and the fact that it featured the freshest of seafood, not to mention that it looked incredibly WARM, we went in. And it was better than we dreamed.

The crowd inside generated a warmth that immediately started thawing our frozen faces. People were jammed everywhere, especially surrounding the wooden oyster bar. The old dark wood of its base supported a display that was mounded with piles of fresh oysters half-buried in ice, and surrounded with barstools. If only the place could talk, what stories it could tell. History just oozed from every wooden panel, and I half expected to see the ghost of Daniel Webster sitting there amongst the crowd.

The hostess took us up past the second-floor level that was filled with dark bench tables to a booth on the third floor. It was a bit quieter up there, so we could actually chat and hear each other. It was like stepping back in time to another world. Dimmed lights. Wooden booths and floors. Parchment-type menus. And the dinner itself. Warm drinks. Thick clam chowder. Baked stuffed lobster. And us. A moment of heaven on earth.

And then…

After dinner, with stomachs full and bodies warmed, we strolled back out into the cold and ended up inside a little bar called Frogg Lane, which is long-since gone. But that night we sat there bundled up and indulged in hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps, and topped with Creme de Menthe-drizzled whipped cream. The night was absolute perfection. And then…he said it….

“I love you.”

And I quietly freaked out inside myself.

So, this is Torrington…

As he shared with me later, Ed’s “auspicious” introduction to my hometown was watching a fist fight in the Burger King parking lot while he waited for me to come by. I think that left him wondering just a bit what he was getting himself into. But again, he stayed.

I had invited him to come to Torrington for our second date, and rather than struggle with convoluted directions to a restaurant or my condo, I told him I’d meet him at that parking lot. It was right where the road from West Hartford came into town, and thus, the easiest way to manage things in the “pre-GPS” era.

Our first date at that “family-style restaurant” had actually gone…wonderfully. Beyond my wildest dreams. At least I thought so. We spent several hours at the restaurant, talking the whole time. Everything from our childhoods and jobs, to hobbies and life dreams. I shared my longings to be a writer and all my attempts to get that going. He spoke with excitement about all the exciting new computer technology he was getting exposed to, and all the unusual installations he visited to solve software issues. And this time, I was fascinated. Here was a computer person who could not only express what he loved about the digital world, but also explain intricate topics like he was telling a story.

It was just…easy, comfortable, safe. I couldn’t give you scientific evidence why. But my gut said so in spades. I’d never felt so in sync with another human before, like I did with him. So it was a no-brainer for me to invite him over when he asked about getting together again sometime. And we made that sometime, soon.

“So tell me about you”

The question was filled with genuine, kind curiosity.

“I want to know who you are.”

I rolled over, climbed out of bed, and said, “You don’t want to know who I am. Let’s go out for breakfast!” Heading out into the sunny day seemed like the best way to dodge deep questions.

Emotions swirled through me. I had never allowed any man to stay overnight at my condo before. If I invited anyone over, they had to leave afterward. Nobody got to stay over. And it’s not that I did that very much, anyway. And even then, it was only the gentle, sensitive types. Macho types could take a hike. I’d join a convent first before I’d give one of them the time of day. But no matter what, no one got to stay overnight.

However, this man? I never even hesitated to consider the question. He was such peaceful company, a sensitive person — I could feel that on a deep gut level — and just a fun person to spend time with and talk to. And he was an amazing lover. So I was both drawn to him and wary. That latter part was because I had the uncomfortable sense that this was a man I would not be able to easily walk away from. Not like the others. I intuitively knew that a gentle heart like his shouldn’t be trifled with.

The other men I had dated, I always kept up a wall between us. No matter how nice they were, I wasn’t going to get deeply involved. I wanted to remain in control and comfortable enough to walk away if they got too serious. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but I wasn’t going to give up the freedom and relative stability I’d finally achieved for the upheaval of adding someone to my carefully arranged life. As far as I was concerned, I was content to keep things light, free, and fun. I would be happy with a long-term setup like that. A way to have a deeper connection and enjoy their company, without having to disturb my present peace and independence. Or discuss my past.

And that had worked just fine…until now. There was just something about him. The others were nice men. But he was nice on such a deeper level. How was I going to keep this under control?

All the self-caring touches

He told me later how, when he was in the bathroom, he noticed all the small, self-caring touches I had in there. The perfumes, the powders, even the bar of Maja soap – an exotic soap from Puerto Rico that was a gift from my uncle, who was a missionary there. I loved how it smelled, and I kept it in there just to inhale its fragrance now and then. I still do. I don’t use it. I just revel in its fragrance. And remember my uncle, too.

Also, Ed loved the flannel sheets on the bed. That was something new for him and a real treat. They were so warm, snuggly, and inviting. To this day, it’s strictly flannel sheets. We tried silk ones one time because they were supposed to be what everyone loved. Couldn’t stand them. Too cold…physically and emotionally. And all you did was slide around on them. Nope. Flannel only.

Years later, he told me how all those small sensory things impressed him. Told him here was a person who knew what she liked, and liked herself enough to treat herself to them.

But maybe if there was one true predictor of our supreme compatibility, it was that we both loved and had a lot of books. And he immediately noticed that we both had the same “log home and underground home” books. It was like two nerds recognizing a kindred spirit, even as the deeper significance was lost on us at the time.

So, while emotionally wary, I couldn’t resist seeing this “very different computer person” again…and again…

“I believe we have two lives. The life we learn with, and the life we live with after that.” — Iris, in the movie, “The Natural”

Read the ——- manual…

At 29, you could never accuse me of being wishy-washy or not willing to push the limits.

One sunny afternoon, I took a drive out into the backroads areas of Litchfield. I’d gotten to like that routine as a way to center and think. I had a new car and was trying to get as familiar with it as with my old one. I happened to notice that the fuel gauge hovered at “E.” On my old car, I knew from reading the manual that “E” meant there was about a gallon left and still a fair number of miles to spare. I wondered if this car did the same.

Now, your average person would have just pulled out the new car’s manual to check that, but hey, I just didn’t feel like stopping to read. Instead, with a streak of adventurous spirit, I decided to just do the “experimental” method and find out. Duh.

I ran out of gas. Out in the countryside of Litchfield. In an era of no cell phones. In a time when most gas stations were self-serve, and any kind of “rescue service” was hard to find. When I didn’t have AAA, and the nearest house was a half mile back down the road. So yes. I walked. Thankfully, someone was home, AND was even willing to make a call to a local station that still did repairs.

Suffice it to say that it was the most expensive gallon of gas I ever bought in my life when you added together the inflated cost of that gallon of gas and the service call fee. In any event, I learned that day, never question “E” again. “E” really did mean “empty,” not, “Hey, you better get to a gas station soon.” And next time, read the ——- manual.

But maybe the biggest lesson I needed to learn that day was the one I had been out driving around and thinking about – rules.

Why had I felt the need to push my luck that day in the first place? Why had I resisted reading the manual and instead just “rolled the dice?”

Rules. I had lived by so many my whole life. And they not only didn’t save me, they nearly destroyed me. I was angry and had thrown them all away. But was that serving me well? After all, there is angry, and then there is just stubbornly stupid. This ranked up there with shooting yourself in the foot to get back at the world.

I needed a new relationship with life, period.

A map to see what was?

When I was a kid, I came into possession of a topographic map of our town and the surrounding areas. I was fascinated. Here was something that not only showed you where various things were in relation to each other — north, south, east, and west —but also VERTICALLY!

Each of those rings stacked within each other told me if I was in a valley or on a mountain top, about to fall off a cliff, or amble on a level plain. Just the kind of thing I needed for my life.

I’d like to say I had the presence of mind to do something like this for my life then, but alas, I was still too unaware. I was just trying to stumble my way into new rules. And I would yet have a lot to learn.

But recently, I thought back to that map I had as a kid, and decided to look at my life during that period in a “topographical kind of way. Not just what happened and when, but what effect those events had on me.

What this tells me, what I was unaware of at the time and thus had no empathy for, was just how much damage all that chaos had inflicted on me. I saw the cliff I’d fallen off of when I saw that movie about incest that night in my condo. And just how deep the pit was that I landed in. Not to mention just how steep the walls of that pit were, and how hard it would be to climb back up.

By listing all the forces that pounded me all at once in that 1983-1984 time period, it left me amazed that I ever even tried to come back. And maybe a little less judgmental of that 20-something me. In contrast, looking at it all now, I am flat out amazed at her courage and tenacity. She was doing her best in spite of being a bouncing pinball at that time.

There is a saying that I’ll paraphrase: It’s not how far up you go in life, it’s how far down you had to start from….

New directions:

What I do know is that I came to the decision that I needed to get moving. I didn’t ever want to find myself that far off track again. In fact, I was proud to be simple, and if I couldn’t abide “complex,” that didn’t make me a baby. And…I had every right to be who I was.

I also needed to get back to focusing on my life and where I was going in it. There were some basic rules from the past that maybe were okay to keep. Basic decency. Love. Loyalty. But new things were needed… like boundaries. Never say “anything” again.

Regular life was resuming

As to my friend, we remained so for several years. It would be other things later that would finally break that.

In my outside life, work was getting worse. I had been working in the bacteriology lab now for seven years. I couldn’t do it much longer. That spring, I decided to take a solitary trip to Germany, a place I’d always wanted to visit. And a friend of mine had a brother there in the service that I could meet up with at some point on my travels. I went via a flight to Iceland and Luxembourg, then directly to Germany. I had no particular itinerary other than the one place where I would visit my friend’s brother. I drove around the countryside, saw some World War II sites and cemeteries, and thought.

It was, reflecting on it, a gutsy to just “wing it” on my own. I’d had German in high school, so I had a somewhat basic ability to ask questions at least. And for the most part, everyone spoke English. It was, at times, lonely and a little scary. But for the most part, it was beautiful, a boost to my confidence, and a breath of fresh air.

By the time I returned, I had decided I needed to make a change to my job one way or another. I started checking on pharmaceutical sales jobs. Looking back, I know I was not a good fit for that, but I was trying. And I kept doing my freelance writing, trying to sell articles to magazines.

Finally, a stroke of luck came late that spring — a second shift job opened up in the lab. It meant working all the lab departments — chemistry, blood bank, hematology, etc — and no longer doing the daily grind in microbiology. I applied. When the lab manager asked if I would reconsider and stay in microbiology, I told him I wanted the new position, or I’d quit and work at a burger place. So I got the job. THAT was a major shift for the better. Thank God. The second shift was all about emergencies, and getting back into all the lab areas versus only one. It also meant working with more of the other lab staff. It was a relief and made it possible for me to remain at the hospital job.

In that time period, I also finally resumed my dating service membership, which had been on hold for the last few months. It was a gentle easing back into life, and was working well. I met some very nice men, including one whom I dated for a bit and was able to be intimate with and experience no terror. There were others who were clueless that I didn’t bother with, and felt confident in saying so. I was slowly learning to trust my judgment, even as that quality would still take years to develop. But it was beginning.

Recover, repair, begin again…

The bottom line was that slowly, my life was starting to mend. The giant tear in my heart was finally pulling back together, even if scarred. A ripped apart heart will never, ever be the same. Not possible. But it can mend. And it will hold together enough to grow stronger.

That would be important because life was about to change again, dramatically, in August of 1985. The rapid changes would continue…

Pollywog revisited

So. In the months since being suicidal, I had managed to allow my friend to be a close emotional support. Something I never had before. And with her and her husband, I’d gotten beyond a major hurdle. But…what did that all mean? And did I even have the presence of mind then to begin to question things?

My friend observed where I was currently at: “You can’t keep getting sex from my husband and emotions from me. You need to unite the two in one person.”

As soon as she said that, I remember thinking, “Duh! How could I have been so stupid and so blind?”

The truth is, I wasn’t stupid. A harsh judgment again, especially given that I’d been “hanging on for dear life” to something that felt safe through the rapid changes over the last few months. But of course she was right. And I realized in that moment that I was like that kid back in the Pollywog class at the YMCA, desperately hanging onto the side of the swimming pool, terrified to let go and determined to just stay put and stay safe. But this wasn’t Pollywog, and I needed to start swimming on my own in my life’s “pool.”

Because there is only “now”

Looking back, I understand that this situation was a temporary thing. I probably realized it even then on some level. But at that moment, I was just “frozen,” appreciating the first semblance of solid ground I’d had in many months. And in my house growing up, I’d always had to operate from the “present moment” to deal with whatever mood Dad was in. So I was always reacting, not looking ahead.

In her book Of My Own Making, author Daria Burke spoke about how abuse and trauma narrow your focus so tightly that all you can see is the present moment:

“Surviving under such conditions puts a constant, draining demand on both body and mind…siphoning your energy as if simply making it through is a battle you fight over and over again….a cycle that leaves no room for rest or reflection….The brain, molded by the forces of environment and experience, turns its focus inward. The aperture narrows to the present moment…blur any vision of the future, making it difficult to see beyond the pressing needs of now.” (pg 72)

I certainly wasn’t in a place of reflection, seeing the bigger picture, or looking down the road. There had been so many changes, so much confusion over these last several months. I was struggling to handle the present, much less know what I needed to do next. The truth was that I had gotten in over my head in this….and I found myself asking myself: How did I end up here? And what had I done?

After the rejoicing, the shock and shame

In the light of day, blasted out of my narrowed focus on overcoming my sexual limitations, reality was shining a hard light on things.

This had helped me, but…had it been right? Ethical? What had allowed me to do something my old self would have never done? These were questions I would continue to ask myself for years to come, and the true understanding was years down the road.

In that moment, my reaction was simply a growing mixture of shame, horror, fear, and guilt. Shame and guilt, not so much for a same-sex encounter, or even the threesome, but more that I had been alone with her first, without her husband knowing. And that, by my old rules at least, was adultery. How had I let myself do that?

My one realization was that it had been driven by intense need and fear. The POWER of those needs took control, and I ended up doing things I never thought I would. At the time, I even shrugged off the red flag that maybe this wasn’t the best or a permanent choice when my friend had said, “Don’t tell your therapist about this.” All of it shook me to my core.

The person I was in the past was that devoted Catholic who followed every “Thou Shalt Not.” But I did. So, then, who WAS I NOW? I had thrown out all the rules in my life because everything from my past seemed a lie or a failure. And God had failed me. Still, I found myself questioning if having no rules was really the right answer in life.

I’d been like a pendulum in the wind, swinging wildly, struggling to hang on. I’d gone from one perception of reality to having it blown apart. From suicidal to hanging on, but lost in a pit of confusion. I may have clawed my way back from the edge of life and death, but…to what? I had stayed alive but crashed on the shore of relationships.

I couldn’t shake the guilt. Yes, we were all consenting adults, though, again, that first part left out her husband. And unlike childhood, I wasn’t a “victim.” While I was vulnerable, that didn’t make me a victim. Given my emotional background and my history, this all made perfect sense. In that moment, I simply knew that with no solid ground under my feet, and no moorings or rules, it wasn’t surprising I’d ended up so far from who I was at my core. But still. I owned my part in it all.

So, while I knew going back to the person I was before leaving home wasn’t the answer, still, it was time to figure out who was I, REALLY? Where was I going, and what WERE my ethics and guiding rules for life? It was time for a course correction here.

For the next several months, I didn’t go near anyone. Didn’t even date. I needed time to think, and figure out who I was, and what DID I believe in?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized this was not the direction I wanted to be in or stay in. I realized that my friend had, in fact, been right about one thing – I was NOT the sort of person cut out for “complicated.” But this time, I didn’t see that as my failing. It was me, who I was at my core, and trying to live any other way was just not me. I was a simple person, not that imagined “sophisticate.” And I was far down a road I did not want.

It was time for some rules again. While I realized that maybe the rules of the past didn’t apply, I needed to find a new set. Life still needed boundaries, ethics, if I was to live in a way that matched my conscience. So the next focus was to determine: Who was I, and where was I going?

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….

Making the sausage

There’s an old saying about not watching the sausage being made because it is such a messy process. Best to just enjoy the result.

We had a similar rule in our house for when our young son washed the kitchen floor. He absolutely loved to do it. He’d play his music, sing, dance, and splash water everywhere. Yet at the end, it would all come out beautifully.

The trick was not to watch it happen. Just set him up with the mop and water, arrange all so no harm could come to him, and then go upstairs until he was done. At that point, we could both be happy and celebrate, because I’d have a clean floor, and he would feel great about his success. We both understood that there was a “messy middle part” that was best not to watch.

I feel the same about the journey of coming back from that despair and rebuilding my life. It was a long, weary, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, trudging time. And it would get messy, something I would feel ashamed of for a long time. Something I would judge me harshly for, and refuse to look back at for decades.

Only now have I dared to stop running, turn around, and see that earlier “me” with more compassionate eyes. Only now can I pull out that mess, put all the pieces together into a whole picture, and understand why it happened that way so that I could welcome my younger adult part back with love. But that would take years.

Not wanting to miss out on anything

During those darkest days, I continued to keep walking, each day giving myself permission to always wait until tomorrow before deciding whether to kill myself. Fortunately, I started pushing out the “deadline.”

Over time, it eased more, and I could make it two days, then a week, then a “You can always come back to it in the future.” I knew I was turning a corner when that process began to be more trouble than it was worth, and I could feel shades of that feisty young kid from my childhood starting to push back at it all.

Eventually, my stubborn side did win out. I wasn’t exactly sure what I WOULD do with me, or what kind of future I might have. But, still, just like those nights driving by the Naugatuck River, I didn’t want to give up and risk missing something in life.

“Chewing on things”

Aside from more months of long walks, I started to take drives around the farm roads nearby. As I drove through the countryside, I let my brain chew on what kind of future I could create. At that moment, it was a blank slate. I’d dumped out all the pieces of my life on a table and was now picking through them to see which ones to keep and which ones to throw away for good. So, while it was still unsettling, at least it wasn’t bleak anymore.

Moments of Respite

I also went back to giving me those MOMENTS OF RESPITE. This was that same process I’d used all those years to get through the difficult days when life felt like a hand pinning me to the ground. At those times, when my mind would ask: “Why bother? Why try?” I would seek out a momentary escape.

Moments of Respite were my way to find beauty and refuge, even while surrounded by trauma. It wasn’t a “dissociation” thing, but maybe more like a ‘’hyper-focus,” or a meditation. I wouldn’t have known to call it that back then. I just did it, intuitively I guess, as a way to survive.

In the solitary moments when I could retreat from Dad and shut out the abuse, I would find some small detail in my environment to appreciate, a sensory experience to savor, or one of my interests to lose myself in, even for a little while. I could eke out sustenance where none seemed possible. And that would keep me going.

One of the things I did during this particular time was to go back to what I did best – learn and explore. So, I indulged my art side with classes at a local art shop, as well as at the local community college. That latter one even offered the opportunity at the end of the semester to take a bus trip to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. And I pushed myself another time, to go to Boston for a weekend bacteriology seminar through my job. All of these were hard in a way – it was a real effort to get back out there in the world more. But still, it was progress.

On other days, the moments of respite were more spur-of-the-moment outings. One Saturday, it was a visit to a local airfield to take a ride in a glider, and I even got to fly it for a bit. The beauty of the forested hilltops below me, wisps of clouds streaking by, the silence except for the sound of wind slipping over and under the glider wings, it was a moment removed from the heaviness of gravity, both physically and spiritually.

Another day, it was an adventurous ride in a biplane with a local pilot. That was sensory overload in terms of the noise of the engine, the rush of wind right into my face, and the pressure pounding my sinuses went he put the plane into a nosedive. One time was enough for that. But for sure, it was a respite. And even though I did all these things alone and I felt the loneliness, still, I was at least getting out there.

Most of the time, though, they were exercises in focusing on sensations in the moment, no matter where I was. And while the back of my brain continued to “percolate” on the question of what my future might be, those experiences would be feeding my soul. Whether it was picking out the strains of individual instruments in a piece of chamber music or the unified prayerful voices of the Abbey nuns singing Gregorian Chants, those moments gave me peace and a chance to “inhale” life.

That fall, there was one particular experience I carry with me to this day that just abounded with the bounty of sensory delights. I can still feel the crisp air in my nostrils as I walked under steely gray skies surrounded by bare trees…

The orchard barn:

Pulling into the dirt driveway of the farm, I parked near the barn, the only car in the lot. It was a small farmer’s barn not far from where I lived, and where he sold the many varieties of apples that he raised.

Dried leaves crunched underfoot as I approached the building, and the air was heavy with that sweet smell of damp earth and composting plants. The sun hung low in the sky as the late afternoons were already taking on the appearance of night sooner than I wanted.

Inside the dimly lit barn, with my breath visible in front of my face, bushel baskets of nature’s bounty were arrayed in rows before me. Grease pencil writing on cardboard signs listed the varieties there: Early McIntosh. Golden Delicious. Baldwins and Cortlands. Empires and Granny Smiths. So many to choose from, thanks to nature’s gift of abundance, whether of flavors and textures, colors, or sensations.

That gift, though, presented the dilemma — which one or ones to choose? Even the questions came in abundance: Sweet apples or tart? Crunchy or soft? All? How much money was in my wallet? (Farmers then didn’t take credit cards, and there was no Venmo or Squarespace.)

More questions followed. Would it be pies for the freezer? Or applesauce? Caramel or candy apples, or baked ones? The type of apples makes a difference, of course, depending on how you are going to use them. And then there was just that simplest of delights, eat them cold and crisp right after being picked.

I walked the rows of baskets, the gravel of the barn floor grinding against my boot soles. Back and forth, assessing the red ones, the green-red stippled. The sizes. The shapes. I sought out the best ones with the fewest bruises. It was good that I was doing this during prime harvest time, before the apples were all picked over. But even then, bruised apples made great applesauce.

Finally, I chose a large basket of McIntosh and another of Cortlands. Unable to wait any longer to sample one, I grabbed a large Mac, rubbed it against my jacket, and tore into it.

When you eat apples that are fresh off the tree, the sensations come all at once: the aroma of sweet and spice mixed together; the snap of crisp skin giving way under your teeth; a flash of tanginess as the soft flesh hits your tongue, and the syrupy juice that sprays out and runs down your chin. It is an overload of delight.

In that “Moment of Respite,” the despair of that day temporarily evaporated. In the raw air of a fall evening, drowned in the sensations of a fresh apple, I felt the totality of an autumn miracle right in the palm of my hand. And refreshed, I could go on.

Details, the “marrow of life”

So many times over the years, those Moments of Respite saved me, fed me, gave me the energy to try again. For all the times when my world was torn apart, life was sustained by the abundance of small details.

It is those precious details that preserve the lifeblood of our souls. To me, details are life itself. Personal friends. They make all the difference in the experience.

You can draw a circle on a paper and color it in with a red crayon and call it an apple. Or you can dive deep into the details and savor a miracle. Instead of the circle-and-red-crayon approach to life, you can paint on a blank canvas panel, slowly spreading burnt umber for shadows, then layer in increasingly bright pigments of cadmium red, cinnabar green, lemon yellow, and titanium white. You can vary the intensity of the colors and the depth of the layers. Whatever you choose, the details make it all the richer for the moment. And it is in seeing the details that we are reminded there is more to life than just the pain we are struggling with at the moment.

Moments of Respite would be my reminders that in the midst of chaos, life still offered worlds of richness and sensory escapes where my overwrought nervous system could retreat to find calm…where I could bind my wounds, restore my mind, and return, ready for another round of the battle.

I no longer live in New England, but the minute the leaves hint at shades of alizarin crimson and burnt sienna, the evenings get a chill, and the light departs sooner than I like, I remember that barn during fall harvest time. Even more so, whenever I hold a crisp, fresh apple, no matter the time of year, that moment comes flooding back — fall is right there with me. And, even if just for a few seconds, the world seems a little less daunting, and I am reminded that details are always my friends, and the very marrow of life.

The “lucky” break

I felt horrible. Whatever virus I’d picked up had spiraled into one hell of a sinus infection, and finally, my doctor called in a prescription for antibiotics.

Speeding down the road, I slid through the stop sign at the end of the street and turned, minus any blinker. And then, the blue lights filled my rear-view mirror.

Sighing, I pulled over and waited. In the back seat, my dogs – I now had two of them – growled softly as the policeman listed my offenses. I shushed them, then apologized and explained I was on my way to get a prescription because I was really sick.

I must have really looked it too, because I lucked out. The policeman just gave me a warning, told me to slow down, and let me go on my way.

The “contender”

I walked to the pharmacy counter in the back of Maxwell’s Drug Store, blinking in the glare of the bright lights, and asked for my prescription. From behind the counter, one of the pharmacists yelled a greeting. He came over – HG, my old boss. When I was 16, my first job was as a clerk in a local pharmacy, and HG was the owner. Here he was, after all these years, looking rested and happy. He’d sold his business, retired, and was working part-time as a substitute pharmacist here.

“So what are you doing now?” he asked loudly – he’d been hard of hearing for years.

I explained through my pounding headache that I was a Medical Technologist working in the laboratory at the local hospital.

“The lab?!” he yelled. “Why did you stop at the lab?! You’re smart! You could’ve been a doctor!”

Someone called him away at that moment, so he waved and wished me well.

It was good that they did because I had no answer for him. In fact, I choked up, without actually realizing why at that moment. I was just suddenly overcome by the intense ache in my heart at his words. “You’re smart! You could’ve been a doctor!”

I suddenly felt like Marlon Brando in that old movie lamenting his life, crying in agony, and saying, “I coulda been a contender!” I could have been the contender in life, too. But I couldn’t at that moment.

The future work

HG’s words reverberated in my head all the way home that night. And for many nights. And years. In fact, the pain of his words would only intensify over the years, right through to today. It is something I am only now realizing fully — Just how much of my future my father stole from me. I will talk more about this later. Because it is the anger and sorrow of that loss that I understand so much more now. And which I have had to grieve and work to heal from.

I will simply note, HG wasn’t being mean. He was being himself. He always wanted to see people go as far as they could in life. He, a man, an *older* man even back in 1984, felt that everyone, including women, was smart and deserved to reach for the stars. And he felt I had that capability. And yes, on one level, I did. I WAS smart. But what I couldn’t tell him was that with all the trauma and battles I was fighting, such a future was impossible at that moment. In fact, it is only now, with years of therapy and healing, that emotionally, I feel I could take such a path. But now it is too late.

It would be my future work to grieve that loss and learn to celebrate now, all that I have accomplished

But for that moment, I was still just trying to stay alive….