Soul Mosaic

Rebirth

As impossible as it may have seemed, we made it. Despite managing marriage, parenthood, jobs, caring for his parents, and fighting mine… despite all the odds, Ed and I stuck with therapy, and it started working.

In looking back at my journal entries and talking with Ed about all the things I’ve written here, we both just shook our heads. Both of us agree that we don’t know how we did it, and that it is flat-out amazing that we made it through those years. But we did. And we are both deeply grateful now.

As our love and marriage grew stronger, it would show up in small ways. It was especially telling on one occasion when we bought a new tree for the front yard of our home. Our son said that because the tree was part of our family, it needed a name. So he promptly called it “Ralph.” I have no idea why.

But then Ed spoke up and added to its name the words, “the passion tree.” Ralph, The Passion Tree. I looked at him, and he just said, “Ralph is a symbol of our growth…a testament to the changes that are happening in both of us, and in our marriage.”

So, Ralph was rebirth…and so were we.

As an aside, Ralph grew from a 4-foot sapling into the strong tree pictured below, in spite of hurricanes, winter storms, and even the chaos of house repairs going on all around him. He thrived despite, or maybe because of, challenges. I think the same has been true of Ed and me.

With things between the two of us settling into a real partnership and a place of peace, another issue rose to the surface that needed to be dealt with.

So what about women?

My husband saw that title, laughed, and said, “That is my question every day!”

It was a moment of comic relief as I tried to tackle my Achilles-heel topic, friendships with women.

My track record wasn’t great. I was a caring person, capable of much love. I was honorable and loyal. And I wanted friends, and could be a good one. But things weren’t going well. And there were so many mixed messages operating in my head. Some came from Dad. Some from Mom, or maybe more to the point, the “lack of Mom.” And some from the unanswered questions regarding my friend and our sexual relationship.

Early programming

Dad presented a couple of problems. For one, he had drilled into me, his rules: “Don’t grow up to be a stupid woman,” and its corollary, “Don’t be weak.” He had abused and demeaned my mother. I hated him for how he treated her, and I was angry at her for allowing it. I definitely saw her as weak and was determined not to follow in her footsteps. Hence, I had my own rule: “Don’t grow up to be my mother.”

He also interfered with a very primal need – the formation of a mother-daughter bond. To be denied that connection denies any honoring of, or even awareness of, the feminine side of life. He denied me a good relationship with her, so I never learned that there was a value to it, even as I felt its loss under the surface.

She, in turn, was passive and did not protect me or try to have a deep bond with me. That reinforced my dismissive attitude toward the value of women. What I was left with was the message that power = men. Weakness, being abused, useless, and powerless = feminine. Bottom line – be male in your approach to life.

Even those old Slovak women who always said, “I str-r-r-o-n-g like bull!” were ultimately still at the mercy of the men they married. Their strength was in enduring the garbage their men handed them.

There was one exception to all of this – my high school teacher, Terry Doyle. She had shown me that there were some women who were powerful and accomplished. So if I honored anything of the feminine side, it was her role-modeling. But beyond that, I wrote off any women who could not demonstrate that quality.

Add to this the fact that during those years, I was standing guard against Dad constantly, to make sure our kids would be safe. So I was totally focused on being a warrior, girded for battle. To be weak was unacceptable.

I operated totally from the mindset that no matter what came up, as long as I was as strong as any man, I could bull through anything and keep going. As long as I was “strong,” I was safe. As long as I was strong, I could keep others safe.

In fact, I remember thinking one time, “What happens when I am no longer strong?” That thought terrified me, and I blocked it from my mind as some long-way-off-in-the-future possibility. That possibility would come up sooner than I would expect, but more on that later.

While those rules served me well at that moment against him, as far as the rest of my life, they did not. Tough is a brittle form of strength. That approach leaves no room to flex or bend, no softness to catch you and hold you in the vulnerable moments. And most especially, no awareness that vulnerability was important and necessary in life.

As far as “feminine qualities” in my life, I could feel and allow things like compassion, empathy, and gentleness in my heart. And I don’t know that I considered them “feminine” anyway. I think I thought of them more as qualities befitting an “honorable” person. It was kind of like a “chivalrous” approach. I was a warrior when I needed to be, but could be kind where it applied. I didn’t bully or take advantage of someone weaker than me. So, honorable.

But vulnerability? That was an ultimate feminine quality, and it was a non-starter. That represented danger and weakness, being conquered and controlled. So, risk being vulnerable? Never.

It never occurred to me that vulnerability WAS strength and required courage. That one could employ the idea of Yin/Yang – the balanced use of both the forceful male energy as well as the softer feminine. But then balance was a concept never recognized, respected, or taught in our house. In our house, battles just had winners or losers. You were either strong or weak.

The ultimate quandary

So with all these threads woven into my psyche, I was not very adept at knowing what to do with women. And because of that, I was facing the biggest irony in my life.

Even as I either ran from, feared, despised, or refused female friendships, I also so desperately wanted and needed them. The hunger lay beneath the surface, and I was clueless that it was driving both my attempts to reach out and hampering my ability to be successful. I didn’t trust any of it. In fact, even though I didn’t realize this either at the time, I didn’t even trust myself.

Who and what was I?

If I tell you who I am…who I REALLY am, will you still be my friend?

Women. The list of issues was long.

I made “friends” easy enough. I wanted to have friends. But I can also look back now and see the patterns. I realize I was looking for certain things in friends, all things related to my own life wounds around “Mom” and “best female friends.”

I wanted a mom, a mentor to guide me and answer the so many questions I had about life, questions that I could never talk to my own mother about. I wanted someone I could tell anything to without shame, self-consciousness, or feeling judged. And I had a deep need for mothering, protection, and the “I’ll-love-you-no-matter-what” type of loyalty and devotion. All things my mother never gave.

And then, regarding mothers, I also wanted to save them. My mother was wounded, weak, and trapped, and I had to abandon her when I left that house to save myself. On some level, I felt awful about that, and looking back, I realize I sometimes befriended women who I sensed were hurting or struggling with something in life.

While I couldn’t save my own mother, maybe I could stand by that friend so they never felt abandoned? I knew what abandonment felt like in life, and I never wanted anyone else to know that despair. If I could give them support to take charge of the issues in their lives, unlike my mother, who never did, maybe they wouldn’t end up like her?

It was also partly a cross between that honorable, chivalrous, warrior mentality of always being there for a friend in need, and those early messages I learned in church when I was growing up. I had internalized Jesus’ message of “Greater love had no man than that he lay down his life for a friend.” So those ethics were as deeply ingrained in me as the messages Dad had drummed in.

Then there was that other big lack in my life – that fun, totally best female friend of adolescence. The friend you would die for. Share anything with. Giggle over boys, discuss how to kiss them, how to do makeup, whatever. I never had this, and on some level, missed it even if I didn’t know it or admit it.

And there was the huge well of shame. I carried secrets. No one knew the kinds of things I’d done in life or had to do. The self-hate I felt because of that past. Even if a friend DID like me, would she still feel the same way if I told her the WHOLE story?

It was not a prescription for success. I wanted to be able to just tell a friend all the secrets of my life. First, it was like a test of my worth: If I tell you who I REALLY am, what I’ve done, will you still be my friend?

Second, I wanted a woman’s perspective on the things I’d done in life. I had a therapist, but he was male. And though I did work with a woman therapist and a women’s group for a bit, I can look back and know it wasn’t enough. I wanted the compassion and caring of a close friend. Empathy over what had happened.

So that hunger under the surface for a mom and best friend drove my interactions with an energy and intensity that either put people off or gave the wrong impression. If I shared that I’d had a sexual relationship with another woman and her husband, I wanted acceptance and answers as to why it had happened. But would they know that? Or would they think I was looking for another one of those relationships?

If I wanted a friendship with someone in particular because she seemed kind, protective, or fun, did my neediness show? Those emotions can overwhelm someone and drive them away. People sense a need that is “too big,” that they know isn’t about them, and that they cannot fill. So they back off.

When friendships wouldn’t work out, I would feel like a true failure. Broken, rejected, and even less willing to trust someone in the future. So, I would just give up for a while. Until I met another person who truly seemed like THIS TIME, the friendship could work. But I would navigate it all so mechanically, in such a klunky way, all because of that giant well of hurt, abandonment, and longing for that feminine connection.

Did I understand ANY of this back then? No.

Nor did I understand the source of the fear lurking in the back of my brain about that earlier friendship. Could that sexual relationship issue from the past rear its ugly head again? That had been such a powerful force that came out of nowhere and blindsided me. I wasn’t looking for it now. But could it happen again anyway? I was terrified.

So, I talked with Ed about it.

I know who you are

“So you aren’t worried?”

“No.”

His response amazed me. “But…why not?!”

“Because I know you…I know who you are.”

I had shared my fears with Ed about not knowing why that sexual relationship with my friend had happened. If I didn’t know that, would it happen again? That he wasn’t worried mystified me.

But there it was – the crux of it. Or at least part of it. HE knew me. But I had no idea who I was. I felt like someone who’d been caught in the vortex of those powerful life forces. And I never wanted to be at the mercy of that again. But how could I be sure?

I only knew I was battling self-loathing from the past. Confusion over how things could just blindside you. Confusion even about my own identity at that point. I knew I had always found men…the male body…the draw for me. And still did. So WHY did I end up in a sexual relationship with a woman? Was I “bi?”

But then, even that wasn’t the real issue. Sexual identity didn’t matter. Because at the end of the day, I was committed to my husband, totally. I knew we were soulmates. But I was afraid that whatever powerful outside force that drove me before might someday come along again and put things at risk. Did the power of sex allow for choice?

Ed looked at me with no concern, almost mystified at my own frantic worries.

“Look. We committed to each other. And certainly, there are times when we might find ourselves attracted to another. That’s normal. But we chose to be together.”

I calmed as I listened to him. Everything he said was absolutely true.

“Our marriage is about so much more than just sex. And we didn’t get married to step out on each other. If that changes down the road, then we need to have a serious conversation about our future.”

Again, all true. There were no secrets between us. And there had never been any betrayals. But I marveled at his certainty. And trust. Not of himself. But of me. The truth was, he DID know me — frankly, he’d always known me better than I knew myself.

“I think you see sex as some all-consuming, uncontrollable, outside force. It’s just sex. And you can choose or not choose. But you ARE in control. It’s just that all your life, your father taught you that it was uncontrollable.”

That one was like a rap on the head that snapped me into awareness. He nailed it. I DID always see sex as this “energy” to be feared. Something “outside of me” that had all the power.

But then, given that it had always been forced on me, why wouldn’t I think of it that way? Dad had conveyed it as a “must have,” the most important thing at all costs. So, of course, I would see it as having all the control over a person. It sure did for Dad.

But Ed was right. That wasn’t who I was. I didn’t want anyone else. I never did. In my fear, I was looking to protect our commitment. Yet that still left the question, if sex was controllable, why had that episode happened with my friend and her husband?

I sensed that the key to putting this to rest was rooted in a need to understand it all.

It was EXPECTED…

In sharing all of this with our therapist, he wasn’t the least bit surprised…or disturbed. In fact, he said it made total sense.

I was glad it made sense to somebody.

First, he put sex in its proper place. “Nobody NEEDS sex to survive.”

Wow. Given Dad’s driven approach to molesting me, THOSE words were revolutionary.

“You need food. Water. Air. Sleep. Those are survival. Sex, while nice, is NOT required for survival.”

My mind reeled not just at that fact, but that here was a MAN saying that sex isn’t everything!

“Second,” he said, “that relationship you had was a natural outgrowth of what you went through. In fact, I am just amazed that, for what you survived, you were even willing to let another human being close to you. Despite it all, you were willing to be open to take in ‘love’ from someone. That was amazing. You were RESILIENT.”

Resilient…I was speechless. I had carried such shame, and here he was complimenting me. And I was just amazed that not only was that whole past relationship something he actually EXPECTED, but that he even saw something POSITIVE in.

He went on to explain that because I’d been denied the chance to go through that period in early adolescence of exploration and experimentation, I didn’t have a chance to learn “who I was.” He said those are the years when teens start to figure out who they are, who they are attracted to, and their sexual identity. It’s a time to experiment to find out what is right for you. I hadn’t gone through that, and there was no “getting around that.” If you didn’t go through it then, you would have to later. And since I didn’t get to experience that in my early teens but later as a mature sexual adult, it made total sense that the relationship turned sexual.

“So even though you were an adult at the time of that relationship, emotionally, you were still a child.”

I just sat there taking it all in. At that point, he thought I would benefit from working with the women’s group there and referred me to the therapist who led the group.

Terror returned. It was one thing to say these things in the privacy of our therapy session with just the doctor, my husband, and me present. But now, tell these things to a whole group of women? Would they judge and shame me?

So I arranged for a private appointment with the therapist who led the women’s group. I wanted to get her take on things.

The therapist weighs in

“So. When am I supposed to be shocked?”

The therapist smiled, adjusted her glasses, and looked across her desk at me. Her eyes, though boring right into mine, were filled with kindness.

“It all makes perfect sense. It’s not a problem.”

As with our regular therapist, I just sat there amazed at the “normalcy” that she viewed all of this with.

“In fact, if you had told me you never experienced this kind of relationship, I would have thought you were lying.”

It seemed that everyone else…but me… understood why I had responded the way I did with my friend.

The doctor continued. Even though I was in my twenties at the time of that relationship, I was emotionally a pre-adolescent, a phase of life development my father had prevented me from going through.

“It is not uncommon for teens, and especially teen girls, to go through a phase of falling in love with their friends. A same-sex attraction sometimes. At that age, it might or might not be acted on, and eventually, the teen discerns who they are and who they are attracted to. You had not been allowed to go through that phase until you were an adult. So when you go through that phase in an adult body with adult needs, it isn’t unexpected that it becomes sexual.”

Emotions swirled through me. Gratitude for such logical, helpful information. The ebbing away of all that shame and guilt I’d carried. Consternation at all I hadn’t learned in life. Relief to understand, finally.

Regarding relationships, she explained that Dad’s abuse of me made so much of my early programming about relationships sexual. I had little role-modeling for different kinds of relationships, i.e., sexual, platonic, friends, different kinds of friends, etc. So I was just trying to figure out my way around all of this.

And as to sexual identity, she added that nothing in life is black and white. Sexuality is on a continuum, with very few people being either strictly gay or heterosexual. Most fall somewhere in between.

As she spoke, I could feel some of that terror around my whole history subside. There was so much I hadn’t known or understood about what forces were driving me at that time. Her kind explanations made so much sense. And even about one’s identity – if everything else in life was on a continuum — weight, height, looks, etc., why not sexual identity?

When we finished our session, she had two requests of me. She wanted me to share my truth with a couple of close friends. She felt it was important that I be who I was and not be ashamed. Also, she wanted me to share all of this in the women’s group because she felt there were others who might benefit from hearing my story.

In spite of wanting to run the other way, I did what she asked. It was a first attempt to stretch my courage and ability to trust other women. And also to see that true friends would not be at all put off by my truth, which they weren’t.

Also, her requests gave me my first experience with another revolutionary concept — vulnerability. In contrast to the belief system in my house that to be vulnerable was to be weak or “too sensitive,” I started to realize just how much strength and courage it takes to be vulnerable to and open with another. That is a trait definitely NOT for the faint of heart.

Since then, I have had other occasions to face being open with friends. And sometimes, that openness would be “misunderstood.” But then, maybe those individuals were never meant to be true friends after all.

But each effort was another lesson in learning the art of friendship. It would take years. A lifetime of closely held shame, fear, and defensiveness doesn’t melt away after one effort. But it was a beginning.

So why tell my friends, or even write it here, now?

Because…it was my life. My truth. And it didn’t deserve to be shamed by me or anyone else.

Because I am tired of carrying secrets.

Because I don’t want to live behind a facade or some fairytale story, I didn’t live when telling people about my past. I don’t need to proclaim it from a street corner to all.

But if I am to be free of the ghosts of the past, I just need to…be…me. And end the shame and the hiding. I didn’t choose my past. He chose it for me. But I CAN choose my present.

As to friendships in general with women, I would still have more to resolve yet. The mechanical approach, insecurity, and clinginess still needed healing. But at least this one question about why that relationship happened had some answers. And I could begin to make my peace with it.

Resilience

In a Fresh Air interview with Tonya Mosley, Jane Fonda talked about her own broken relationship with her mother, and about the struggles it caused. They came to the topic of resilience, and Fonda shared what she learned in her own sessions:

“Resilience is such an interesting thing…resilience is when a young child who is not getting love at home kind of – there’s a radar that’s scanning the horizon. If there’s a warm body that maybe could love her or teach her something, you go there. You find love where you can. You find support where you can. That’s a resilient child.”

Fresh Air Interview – 9/2/25 Jane Fonda with Tonya Mosley

So, to quote Ed’s and my therapist, I was …resilient. I had been brave enough to risk letting love in from someone.

Instead of a condemnation, it was an affirmation of …strength. It felt so good…

Now, having laid out all the many things happening during the early years of our marriage, the next item is about dealing with Dad, and those warrior years of adulthood…

Time for a new mind map

After the chaos of the winter months of 1984, I’d like to say things quieted down, and I could then just proceed in therapy to full healing and live happily ever after. For sure, at the time I thought it worked that way — if I worked REALLY hard, fast, and fiercely, I could get over all of this quickly and be “normal” and healed. That statement alone indicates just how far from understanding myself and the situation, I really was.

Yes, I had stabilized and was no longer suicidal. And that was no small achievement. But it just meant I had finally landed at the bottom of that abyss, the crash hadn’t killed me, and I was now standing upright on two legs facing a mountain whose top was obscured by a heavy bank of clouds. I had no idea then just how high that mountain was or that I would still be climbing it today.

Anyway, given the rapidity of changes and experiences I’d undergone in the few months since leaving my parents’ house, this seemed like the perfect place to stop and do a status check. As a former lab person, when I feel overwhelmed by so many thoughts coming all at once, or confused about how to clearly tell the story next, I reach for my strongest talisman, and I make another mind map. Then, with all my thoughts spread out on the paper in front of me, I can see what they tell me — both about the things I was aware of then, and the things I realize only now, as I look back.

To spare anyone the craziness of reading that map, I will distill the essence of what it told me. I think three main things were operating…driving me…in the spring and summer of 1984: Emotional issues, physical needs, and one big problem — sex. Of course. It was the ever-present elephant in the room. But first, the other two.

Emotions

In terms of emotions, there was so much whipping me around. I had just been through a meat-grinder of an experience, riding out the storm of whether to go on living or end it all. Now that I had decided to hang around, there were the issues of how to form a life for myself, especially when you have no idea how to do that.

First, it’s hard to live a happy life without “relationships.” Even for simple friendships, I had no real idea of how to do that well. For all of my life, I’d been cut off from having anyone “close” to me. There had been none of those teen sleep-overs and BFF experiences where you stay up all night baring your soul and talking about “everything.” And it would take me years to understand just how big a loss that was, how it stunted my emotional maturity and development, and how it would drive my needs and decisions very shortly, and for many years to come.

I knew I longed for someone. I FELT such a need for a “mother,” older sister, BFF, trusted confidant, protector, even as I couldn’t articulate that back then. But I’d had none of these growing up, and I FELT its effects driving my actions. I was lonely and insecure, and when I did get a good friend, I clung to them for dear life, desperate that they might abandon me. And I needed outside validation that I had worth, or even to know what was up or down, right or wrong. I didn’t trust friends. I didn’t trust me, even as I didn’t realize it then.

Regarding trust, why would I TRUST anyone after what happened to me? The very people I should have been able to trust most – my parents – betrayed and destroyed that. As to self-confidence, given that anything I had ever felt or thought, my father discredited and replaced with his own programming, I didn’t feel I could make my own choices. And since he raised me to serve him and his needs, I was not brought up to see myself as a separate person. I wasn’t allowed to have my own needs, sense of self, or personal power, much less that I was allowed to use it or know how. I was trained that to follow my own path was hurtful to others and I should always defer to their wisdom.

So I felt the effects of these things and operated from that broken core. I knew I was broken. I just didn’t know how badly or what was causing it, much less that it needed fixing.

In terms of “broken,” I knew I was not a “full adult,” yet. I felt like a baby, ashamed of who and what I was. Not good enough. I felt desperate and like a hopeless case because I was so far behind all the other adults. I was that aberration of nature. I feared that I was so far behind that any normal methods of healing wouldn’t be enough, and worse, that it would show, and others would see my brokenness.

And then, regarding fear, there was one other one…that elephant in the room – sex. I was terrified of men, and especially the idea of having sex with them. Sex seemed like this out-of-control force that caused harm. I didn’t know then that I was deeply traumatized, or that there was even such a thing as trauma.

I only knew I was like this “child-adult,” a child in an adult’s body, desperately wishing she could be like all the other “grown-ups.” They dated, fell in love, made love…were normal. And I wasn’t.

I also didn’t understand then that the programming he’d drilled into me taught me another useless lesson — that all my self-worth was measured by sex. That was all Dad valued me for, and it was the thing he risked everything to get from me. So “sex” had a HIGH value tag attached to it. And from that programming, I equated the ability to be sexual with my self-worth, and with being loved. Without being a functional sexual adult, what good was I?

Physical

And then, add to this volatile emotional stew, a lit match — hormones. I may have been immature emotionally, but I was an adult with a body that had needs. And longings.

I was tired of “waiting for love to find me.” And even if it did, worried that I’d be unable to respond because of my fear. I’d been passive my whole life, always having to just wait for something to change, or wait for someone to rescue me, until I finally learned I had to rescue myself. So I was impatient and determined to take action. Never again would I wait and settle for passive patience.

The “Problem”

So the problem was: How does an adult who is emotionally more like a pre-teen in certain areas, with a background story no one could ever understand, much less accept, and who is way behind in terms of knowing how to find or develop relationships, meet men, and have a healthy, intimate relationship?