Whores and Martians

After my blog on Forgiveness and Judgment, I received a brilliant email from a friend. It was a very well-thought-out, compassionate and knowledgeable email and there were things said in it, that really set me back, made me think.

I spoke with my APRN about it today - gave her a small paraphrase from the email - to which her response was, "She's exactly right." My APRN is fantastic and has experience working with PTSD and DID.

The paraphrase was something like, "If I insisted you were a martian, you would laugh and think I need my head examined. It's the same with words like 'whore' and you have to dig down and find that wounded part of you that believes you're a whore and help heal that part, hold that part, assure that part that it's safe now and she's not a whore."

She said many other wise things. It hurt in some ways - mostly, though, because that "part" (or those "parts") of me, I avoid. I abhor. I don't want to see them. I don't want to hear or feel them. That makes it a bit difficult to embrace them. I guess it's sad to know some parts of me are crying inside, and if I saw someone else - some other child - crying fiercely over their pain - I would embrace them and comfort them but for me, it just feels so disgraceful, even though I know it's an important part of healing.

I've been working on a story. I'm up to about 30,000 words. I've written it in the third person and that keeps me detached from it. I've also fictionalized 80 percent of the first part of it, but it's my story....or at least, the story of a girl I no longer wish to acknowledge but who seems to control my thoughts, reactions, relationships.

Writing the story, brings up a lot but what's missing is the emotional element. I can't connect, can't understand. I can only imagine what she must have felt, what she must have believed.

Judy (my APRN) says it might be good for me to write about these things - the things it brings up. Truth is, I wish I had someone there, who knew what questions to ask.

"What did you feel when this/that happened?"

"What did he/she look like/"

"What was the environment like?"

"How did you respond? Why?"

Because these elements are missing. It is just as if I am telling someone else's story. Exactly like that. Exactly like it's always been. From a distance, looking through a lens at someone else's life and experiences.

It's a dream of mine, to publish this book. God how many times I have started it and never finished. So many unfinished manuscripts. But this one is different. I have avoided it over the past week. I've shared it with four people - it contains some humiliating facts about myself - so I have only shared with a select few and of them, only portions.

It is hard to write. Hard to remember. Hard to connect. Hard to stay focused.

Thank you, my friend, for your email. And RevAli, for your response. It is nice to hear words of wisdom, of healing, of guidance. Sometimes I feel like I'm hanging by a rope over a chasm and it's about to snap and all I can do is cling on and cry.

My relationships are suffering (except with Bill) because of the distance I've put between myself and the outside world. Most recently I suffered a severe epiphany which brought me great pain. Great, great pain and deep shame and I can't even bring myself to write about it. Perhaps one day I will.

For now, I cry almost nightly because of it. More and more shame, piling on.

Seems too much to share, and too much to bear and sometimes I just have to hang onto moments like this weekend when Bill came and forced me to buy a nightgown and robe. It's the first time in ...I don't know how long, I bought something for myself. Something I really wanted. He helped me plant flowers, and bought me some cacti to make a cactus garden in my dining room window box where the heat is too much for anything else. Somehow I have to hold onto those good moments, according to Judy. Let them in, let them permeate me.

I like that idea.

She told me that I have to learn to do this so when I  get flooded and overwhelmed, I won't shut down so automatically because that's exactly what I do. I get three text messages at once and I  go on auto-pilot. The phone rings and dinner's cooking at the same time, I  go on auto-pilot. I have an appointment and the school calls - autopilot.

She said this is something I learned very young and it is now automatic. So automatic that it happens even when I don't realize it. She is right.

Sometimes I think back on my life when I didn't have it so bad. I mean, the bills were paid and I had my kids and my husband. He was a bit (okay, a lot) controlling so we didn't have any friends and obviously I had little to no family but that was okay with me, because I had my husband and my babies.

I was going to make a life for them, better than the life I had.

I wanted them to become better than I had ever been. I wanted them to know love. Unconditional love.

Forgiveness/Judgment

Just finished watching "Woman Thou Art Loosed: On the 7th Day" and I'm still aching. I wish everyone knew what it felt like. I loved the part where she says she feels like a visitor in her own home. It's the only thing I've ever felt and as soon as she said it, tears began to fall. Oh I know that feeling. In fact, it's the only feeling I've ever known. I don't know what "home" is supposed to feel like.


I don't want to give too much away about the movie but I know - and have lived - that life of trying to leave your past behind. I still live it. Some of the things said in the movie almost pierced me. Forgiveness - when they uttered the word - repulsed me, and still does. That's my anvil to stay chained to. At least for  now.

For now, there is a fine line between "I forgive you" and "there's nothing to forgive." The line is so fine, that I cannot even stand on it. It exists within me somewhere, blurry and intangible, unrecognizable. The disconnect too profound, forgiveness of what? Something that happened to someone else? Forgiveness of things I cannot remember or feel or acknowledge?

Maybe forgiveness is difficult if you blame yourself - if you think everything that happened to you is your fault. Then you have to forgive yourself. But then, what if you don't believe it - cognitively....don't believe it was your fault? What if you're purely intellectual and scientific about it, rather than spiritual/karmic about it?

So many blurry lines and unanswered (and un-answerable) questions but I like that movies like this, make me think, really think. I like that they make me ache - remind me that something inside me is still alive.

Only recently have I discovered so many secrets. God...so many secrets. Secrets kept from me and, thus, kept from every- and anyone in my life.

So everything seems like a lie. Even sacred things. Just all seem like a lie.

But then some things come into clearer focus and they seem true. True with a capital "T."

Someone I once trusted and confided in - told a little about my past - turned on me and called me a whore. The word hurt by itself, but it was - in this instance - said over online chat in big, bright bold letters (as big as the letters could be made): "WHORE."

I've never forgotten that. He said it multiple times but he finished with those big, bold, capital letters: "WHORE" and now it's etched in my mind. I was, and am judged. I don't know how to forgive that.

I wonder how it feels when you forgive. There are things in my recent past that, when they flash in my mind, cause me to flinch and sometimes physically make me sick. I can't get past the nausea or the jolt enough to forgive. So...how does that work?

Addendum:

It is things like this that make me want to cut or give me the compulsion to drive that razor as swiftly as I can across my arm (or legs or whatever). The deep-down, soul-shattering belief that words like "WHORE!" and "FAKE!" define you when all you've ever tried to do is outrun them. Those words. Those horrid, horrid words. Adjectives better assigned to animals, by animals. This was instilled in me - this filth, this agony, this self-image that I am and will forever be a whore and nothing more. Yet... those who you let in, those you dare to trust - even just a little - inject you with the needle of judgment and you are thrown back into this darkness that is the vision of yourself. Your Self. Whatever (and whoever) that may be.

How can I forgive those who belligerently and deliberately throw these daggers? I am expected to. They expect me to forgive and forget.

But I can't.

I'm still trying to figure out the things that give me those labels to begin with.

Meanwhile, I must be punished or at least reminded that I am alive.

He/they doesn't/don't understand. They never, ever will.

Emptiness (Poem) (possible trigger)

How can empty
get any more hollow?
There are no seeds;
no strings to follow
The darkness gets darker
no moon, no stars
you talk to loneliness
show your scars
but none other can see
nor hear the shrieks
from a deadened body
from whence blood leaks
at the whim of despair
the quick slits release
drops of blood
moments of peace
a ghastly reminder
we still survive
crimson droplets
prove we are alive
the reaper grows near
whispers your name
begs your surrender
to the monstrous pain
Consulting with loneliness
you quietly lament
secretly wishing
with honest intent
natural causes
will take you away
a coward to the end...

...so it seems, anyway.

(C) Cristina D. Kuptzin-Johnson, 2013

Sex/Orgasms Survivors

Saw a boat on a movie. Just now.

Trying to distract myself, but then I saw the boat.

It had a fly bridge. Something I would not have known if not for my years with Gary. God we had great times on that boat. At least it seemed. Most memorable for me......

We started delving into sexuality and my sexual dissociation - with the help of his therapist, Dorica - and we started talking about it, openly, honestly.

Truth is, we went to Selden's creek (May be Seldon's creek) and tied up there. That night, I remember was so awkward. We were always so awkward alone. Unable to be together without some kind of cerebral stimulation or some task to do.

There was never quiet. Never motionlessness or simpleness. Always something happening. Being alone, wasn't something we did well.

But that night, on Seldon's Creek (Selden's Creek?), I decided to try - try - to be sexually present, unlike times in the past. You see, Gary had a piercing stare when he made love and it frightened me, as well as the noises he made. Probably part of why I dissociated.

But this night, I decided I would try - try to stay present.

This night, he was different. He was far more gentle than times passed. He had touched my face and talked to me. Talked with me. We sat on the bunk and talked and he kissed me and was tender. There were things he did that were still uncomfortable for me, but I let them go, continued gripping as tightly as I could to that strand of present moment.

We made love on Selden's creek (or however it's spelled) and I remember a vision I had. I've actually drawn it, and I described it to Dorica afterwards.

I drew it and entitled it "Orgasm" because I couldn't describe it. I  could only draw it. Still, talking with Dorica afterwards, she said she was interested in seeing what would come of the drawing.

In the boat that night, as I tried - for the first time ever in my life - to stay present, I experienced something I never had. Darkness. A white, dangling package, surrounded by darkness, held by a tiny string.

The implication - at least in my mind is that even as I felt the physical sensation of orgasm, I was alone. He was not there with me. And for me, what is orgasm anyway? Something I discovered on my own, on the gossip of other girls in a group home, hundreds of miles away, via the shower massage. Something they laughed, joked and teased about. Orgasm is bad, ugly, dirty.

Yet here I was on this boat, tied to a beautiful tree, on this beautiful creek with this man I loved trying so desperately to hold onto that moment. Trying to assign some different meaning to something that brought nothing but filth to my mind.

Enjoy sex? Really? Me? How horrid! Still, it was different, and I had questions bouncing around in my head. "Is this what it is supposed to be? Should I have felt that? Should I feel this?"

Anyway, I tried. I desperately tried to overcome decades of sexual dissociation. Tried to lie to myself. Told myself those awkward or "dirty" moments were all in my head and this man - Gary - truly loved me. He did, after all, touch my face. He did these things.... he did other things that I didn't want him to do, but true to my nature (and training), I allowed him to do because they're things a man needs to do, right? I let those slide out of my psyche, attributing my discomfort to my own issues.

He'd done nothing wrong.

When it was over, we left, went south on the Connecticut River and headed to Sag Harbor. It was a windy night. We spent the night together, again alone. It was nice, but nerve-wracking because we were out on anchor and the wind was unforgiving. I cooked dinner for him - a special dinner: Tuna steaks with all the fixings and we ate in the cockpit of the boat.

A goose came to visit and many pictures were taken.

I wore a summer dress. Strapless. Teal. Comfortable. Nothing underneath.

Nearby, two or three boats floated - also on anchor - and I, still trying to make sense of our night on Seldon's Creek, was torn and confused. Did he love me? His eery glare at the time of his orgasms (and during sex) did not change that night, even if other things did. It was as if my brain was on tumble, in a dryer, and everything was mixing up. I kept seeing that image, that haunting picture and wondering: Is this what it is like?

After dinner, he thought it appropriate to have sex there, in the cockpit, under the lights, clearly visible to nearby boats, should they want to watch. I went along. The sand in the paint of the side decks dug into my naked breasts but I held my breath and took what I had to take. It was making him happy, right?

In those moments, I was nothing more than a street whore, serving the same purpose I always had: Pleasing a man. Doing whatever he wanted. I owed him. He was not tender. He was not loving. He was not gentle. He almost seemed proud that he had a slut like me on his boat who would fuck him right there in front of everyone. A slut with no dignity, no self-control, nothing.

And, I suppose, at that moment I did not. I had none of those things. I was nothing. Nothing but a ragged piece of ass that could cook a good meal and screw afterwards, in front of whoever wanted to watch.

There was no white box that night. No question of whether or not this is the way it's supposed to be.

I knew it wasn't.

Fucking me amid a bunch of other boats and boaters, in the lighted cockpit, me, doing all the things he expected, was not romantic nor healing - which was the purpose of my therapy at the time. Sexual healing. He'd even read small portions of the small steps that had to be taken to reach sexual health yet.....

When it was over, I did as always: Pretended it was great. I loved it. Despite the lack of tenderness. No kisses, no kindness. Just that all-present awkwardness we shared and - thank God - I could not see his penetrating stare.

In 15 minutes, everything from Seldon's creek vanished.

Everything except the drawing.

Today I Cry Again

Today I cry again, partly for thoughts that can never be shared - written or otherwise. Private, secret thoughts and images that a woman should never see or think.

I cry, too, because I am lonely and because I have sought help and because I am afraid and uncertain. I cry, too, because as I write Ekopi (an autobiographical skeleton of what is my umpeenth attempt at trying to tell my story), I experience things I wish to not experience.

I learn things, I wish I didn't know about myself but some part of me is glad to learn. The smart part of me, I suppose, is glad to know it.

Then part of me wishes to just stay ignorant. To carry daydreams of a sheer, white, flowing dress, blowing in the wind amid a field of wildflowers as my lover looks on, protecting me, guarding me, keeping me safe. Carefree and unburdened. Desperately in love and safe.

Safe.

This place does not feel safe to me anymore. It was already unsafe, but now even more so.

And my thoughts - so erratic and irrational - that I find myself hard to live with.

I could never have the audacity to compare myself to him, but my all-time favorite author - Edgar Allan Poe - held such deep sorrow in his heart and despair and it contributed greatly to his creativity and brilliance as an author.

I know, now, what courage that must have taken for him. For him to delve so deeply into his own wounded psyche and dig and dig and dig and find the darkest truths, the most monstrous of our capabilities and the most macabre thoughts that we cannot admit we think.

There are few that I can talk to. Or, at least, few I can tell the truth to.

But lately it seems like the idea of giving up gets easier and easier every day.

I keep seeking help.

There is none.

Not for a girl like me.

Again, I just want to run away. Run away, run away. God I wish I could just fly...just fly away. But the truth is, every time I've run away, I was deluded by the illusion of freedom. I was never free.

I am still not free.

The Photographer and the Doberman

I sent this to the Sidran Institute in the hopes they might use it...pass it on to some of their providers.

There are many "professionals" out there, who do not know and cannot fathom how to handle an "incorrigible teenager" who doesn't fit neatly into their DSM diagnoses and treatments.

I hope it helps someone.

True Scenario from a Real Former ‘Incorrigible Teenager”

I am 13 years old. I have survived on the streets now for about two years, during which time I’ve been beaten, raped, stabbed, shot at, bought and sold. Before that – before I can remember – I was repeatedly sexually assaulted, raped, beaten, humiliated, abandoned and hurt. I have suffered multiple STD’s that have gone untreated because I refuse to be ‘locked up’ so I just keep running away. I do not trust you. I do not trust anyone. Especially the police and especially the system.

What pisses me off the most, is when a caseworker or social worker or psychiatrist comes at me as if they know me. As if there’s some anecdote in their fancy scholarly books that describes exactly what it feels like to be penetrated by a man whose penis feels it may well split your body in two or how it feels to suckle your father’s penis when it is supposed to be a bottle in your mouth.

These people who may very much be well-intended, are too pushy and you are the very ones I will hate. I mean hate. I hate you because you don’t know me. You can’t know me. Yet, you pretend you do and you act as if you have all the answers. You come at me with machine-gun questions and I have developed my survival skills to the point where I can answer every rapid-fire question with the perfect answer. Exactly what you want/need to hear.

Because I am a survivor.

Plus I know, if I don’t say or do whatever it is you expect for me to say or do, you will strap me down, stick a needle in my ass while men stand on watching, without regard for the nothingness that is me. What little dignity there is – if any – is dissolved in that moment. Or you’ll stick me in a group of other “incorrigible teens” who are supposed to share their stories but who, like me, are probably just saying everything you need to hear. Giving you ‘just enough’ so you can write on your notes that so-and-so is being cooperative and appears to be making progress.

And then so-and-so will go into some foster home somewhere and run away again because so-and-so, knows nothing else. There is no home for dirty little girls like us. We foul up everything and everyone we touch. We are cloaked in disgust, semen, disease. Our scarlet letter is “W” – stands for “whore” – because that’s all we have ever been. That’s all we’ve ever been good for. These horrid, wretched, ugly bodies that we hate so much that we cut, starve, stab, burn and otherwise maim because we hate them so badly.

But….

There’s another scenario that I want to share from my own personal experience.

Through dozens and dozens of foster homes and group homes, being a ward of the state, belonging nowhere, having nobody, I chose solitude and trust was something I never knew. Ever.

But there was one group home where I met a woman. She was a counselor there. She was also a photographer.

Unlike the other counselors who tried to tell you your problems or ask invasive questions, this one did not. She asked nothing of me. She didn’t try to get close to me or push me. I will use an analogy.

I am the beaten, dog-fighting Doberman, abandoned for losing a fight. I’ve been trained to hate, to fight, to bite.

This counselor sees me, frothing, angry, bloody, mistrustful, and she says not a word as I stand snarling at her from the corner of the room.

She basically ignores me and goes on to piece together the fancy contraption that is her complex camera. I, being the raging angry dog that I am, see her sit down in a non-threatening manner, and my chemistry changes. I see no threat so I, too, sit down, but my eyes remain fixed. I stay prepared – ready to jump at her throat with one false move.

But she continues on with her task. She lifts her camera to take a photo, and my head pops up with the movement. What is she doing?

She is pointing the camera in the opposite direction, away from me. Not even looking at me. Not even acknowledging my presence. I lay my head back down on my bloody paws, and watch vigilantly.

She takes a few more pictures, and then she starts to speak – almost to herself – “Too fuzzy,” or “Wrong lighting,” or “Wrong lens” or “Damn, that was off-focus.”

She pauses, looks at me and I raise my head again, suspicious.

“You know, I think I need to get a new lens,” she says to me. “This one is starting to get foggy and I think I got some sand in it.”

I cock my head to the side. I don’t know what she is talking about but at least she is not coming near me. I am curious. Why isn’t she?

She does this day after day, every day. Never imposing, always calm, always with her camera. Sometimes she brings me pictures and she asks me my opinion. “Do you think this one is too much?” she asks me.

Eventually, I move closer. Just a little.

And closer.

Just a little.

She takes her camera apart and puts it back together again. She switches the lenses and the flashes. She even takes my picture and then shows it to me.

I move closer. Just a little.

She shows me the picture of myself. She tells me it’s a great shot. She doesn’t patronize me and tell me I’m beautiful or gorgeous or pretty or anything else. Just says, “It’s a great shot.”

She does not know me. She cannot know me. And she makes no pretense to. She is simply calm and consistent. She shows me the buttons on her camera because now I have moved close enough that my nose almost touches her thigh. She does not try to touch me. Just continues to show me her prized possession.

Soon I feel this desire to show her something of my own. To give something of myself to her, even if I am not sure she will take it, nor what she would do with it.

So, one day, she comes and she sits in the doorway and I scoot a little closer. I rest my scarred nose on her thigh. She does not touch me. Instead, she smiles at me, accepting me.

She still asks no questions. “How did you get this scar? What happened here? What about your parents?”

Nothing. She simply sits there, being who she is, and allows me the space to be who I am. She was the first and only person I ever dared trust.

I was taken away from her – moved to a new place – but I won’t ever forget the gentle, non-invasive way she reached me, deep inside. At least, deeper than anyone else ever had. She gave me herself, instead of expecting me to give myself to her.

I will never forget the photographer at Babbler State Park in Missouri.

No Safe Place. Heartless man.

Bill got home earlier than normal last night, after his drive from Coatesville. It was so good to see him. Over the previous 24 hours, I had gone through this sort of emotional awakening that both hurt, and felt  good, reveling to me things I secretly hold inside. I don't care, yet, to share, but it was a profound experience and very emotional.

I wasn't really quite sure how I was going to handle seeing him when he walked through the door; just knew I wanted to look into his green eyes. That's all I wanted.

I felt good. I felt safe. We embraced and I felt something I haven't felt since I last  felt it with him. It was a closeness and a trust. Something I've never shared with anyone. It was confusing and exhilarating at the same time. Part of me felt alive, trustful and adventurous. I felt like I had when I had met him almost 11 years ago. There was someone here who I knew, who knew me, who I trusted.

At my suggestion, we decided to walk down to the Ivoryton Pub and have a couple of drink before dinner. It's been so long - so long - since we went out anywhere. Finances didn't allow it and time just seems to melt away but we were both excited to get outside the walls of this apartment and explore our new neighborhood.

We went to the pub. Previously, we had questioned whether or not we wanted to go there because they proudly have a rebel flag flapping over their door, next to the American flag so it made us wonder about the clientele. Still, we decided to give it a shot.

We went in and I played a game on the Megatouch. We met the bartender - Donna - and each ordered a Corona with lime. Donna was very pleasant and the atmosphere was friendly. Seemed a lot of people knew a lot of people. We met a guy named Marcus who talked to us briefly about his work at the Ivoryton Playhouse. He was nice.

We went out back for a cigarette -Donna asked one of the waitresses to show us the path leading out to the smoking area- and we had a cigarette. We came back in and put $5 in the jukebox. There was a pretty good selection. We were enjoying ourselves. We ordered two more Corona's as we took our seats at the bar. We accommodated a couple who had come in and needed another stool so we moved down so they could sit together. All-in-all, everything was going swimmingly.

Then, we decided to go have another cigarette.

As we walked down the path towards the smoking area, we passed the kitchen. We paused a moment and I saw George Lincoln. He was a casual friend of mine and Gary's. Nothing close, mind you. I mean I don't recall seeing him at any parties or having him on the boat but we met sometimes when we'd go to the Pattaconk and he was bartending. We felt bad for him when he lost his job there. George was slow, but he was nice. He always knew what Gary wanted to drink so really, he was among those who were Gary's friends, and I was just Gary's girlfriend.

So I said hello to him, told him it was good to see him. Asked him how he was doing. Joked around a little with the kitchen staff, asking what the best thing on the menu was. All told, the interaction was about three or four minutes and I told George, again, that it was good to see him.

We went out and had our cigarette. We came back in.

We sat down and we were going to order one more thing (our music was playing) and Donna suddenly came up to us and said she was told she's not to serve us anything more.

There was no explanation. We asked why. Asked what was wrong.

She said she  didn't know, just that the manager had said we weren't to be served anymore.

I knew immediately why.

George.

And Gary.

And his rumors and lies.

I felt so foolish. I had put on make up and dared to venture out, trying to meet new people in the neighborhood, maybe even develop friendships or acquaintances but instead, I was singled out because of vicious lies and rumors by a man who ....oh Don't get me started. I've been very, very kind when it comes to the things I could say and/or do to make his life hell.

But still, the damage he did to my life here - even as I've tried so hard to build something safe and secure for me and Trevor - is irreparable. And he could care less. He thinks it's some big joke. And those who listen, those who believe him, are fools.

He's a cruel, cruel man who did horrible things to me and to my son and like an idiot, I stayed. Some people witnessed it, many did not.

He's very clever.

Up to this point, my fear of going outside, of being seen, of going anywhere, was based on the rumors he told others. Up to this point, it was under my control because if I didn't want to be seen, I didn't have to be. I could lock everyone out, hide. Stay away.

But this one time. God dammit this one time, in my own neighborhood, where I've tried to move on and build a new life and truly heal....

This one time, he brought it into my home. He attacked me through his viciousness and vindictiveness vicariously through his "friends" who believe everything he says.

Well done, Gary. Just remember, I won't ever touch or harm you - I loved you - but karma will, even though you don't believe in it. You believe in nothing, except your own inflated ego and that, too, will destroy you. I needn't do a thing.

We had our two corona's and we left, me crying, sobbing, collapsing, in total disbelief.

Suddenly, this was no longer home.

There's never been home. I've never been home.

I thought I was building a home.

Now I want nothing more than to disappear.

Having my secrets - my past, my issues, my pain - broadcast to every town within 50 miles invades every sense of self I have, which is very little. The work I'm doing to help myself and all the pain I've gone through with every memory and all the things I'm working on for myself, seemed to just be for naught.

Because last night, Gary came back and made sure - vicariously - that I would never belong here. I would never have friends here. I will never belong here.

This will never be home.

Now, more than before, I don't want anyone to see me. I ripped off my necklace and felt so stupid, so stupid. How stupid for me to think I could fit in anywhere. And a rebel-flag-hanging PUB of all places!
 

Love/Writing

I've been writing a book for awhile now. It's not easy to write - not just because of the content, but because my roller-coaster life is difficult to fit into a book. I don't say that out of arrogance, just that so much happened that is difficult to explain (or has too many/much details/backstory) to fit in. So I've had to improvise. The improvisations have been relatively easy and I haven't changed anything about my personal experiences except that I have left many, many out. I figure a few rapes here, a few rapes there, and people get the idea.

I'm up to just over 44,000 words, thanks to the encouragement of my friends Bill, Hannah and mother Cindy.

Not that others wouldn't encourage me; I just haven't told anyone.

Anyway, yesterday things started to really get to me and by dinnertime, I was a ping-pong ball - back and forth between wishing I were dead, to desperately, hopelessly hating myself, to - for an instant - feeling an intense rage towards my father. I even spoke to him - or started to - as I stood in the kitchen. My son was there.

I hadn't even realized I was speaking aloud until I heard my own voice and my son looked at me quizzically. "Huh?

I just shook my head - which felt it might explode - and told him never mind. Went through the process of explaining to him that mom was having a rough night and apologized to him. He usually understands and handles it well. I wonder, sometimes, what he thinks about during those nights.

Love was the topic of the mind last night, strangely enough.

I wrote a section in my book where I met Bill and went through the details of our relationship and how it began. It was an experience I cannot aptly depict with words or colors. I wrote it as if I were there, as if no time had passed. God, I remembered so many things that I had forgotten over the years and I began to hurt inside.

I began to realize this man - Bill - never has given up on me. He never changed, either, and has kept every promise he ever made to me.

Does he love me?

And it occurred to me, well... he must.

And for the past few months, I have taken that for granted. Not intentionally, but by virtue of forgetfulness and the pain I went through going through my break-up with Gary.

So many things came into question as I thought about my relationship with Bill. All ten years of it (almost 11 now). I wanted to hold him. I wanted to shove him away. I wanted to cry to him. I wanted to hide from him. I was terrified. I was....moved. I felt selfish and I felt alive. I can't explain it but something burst open and it hurt so deeply that I trembled.

Love.

I cannot write here, on this blog, my thoughts on it. They are private and if they're too private for me to post on this blog, after all the personal things I've put here, then you know they must be REALLY private.

I'm still reeling.... still confused....

I'll see Bill this evening and I keep wondering, what it will be like.because I know I will be seeing him through different eyes.

Strands of Trust

Trust begins as a thread of glass. The smallest, most fragile glass your mind can conger. To compare it to a strand of silk, torn from a robe or that of a spiderweb, would not only be too cliche', but also inaccurate.

You see, the web of a spider can be repaired and the thread of silk can be re-tied.

But the long, slender, fragile length of glass that represents trust, shatters into a thousand pieces and cannot be repaired. Sadly, it takes very little in these formative stages, for this shard of trust to disintegrate as if it never existed. It falls into darkness and dissolves there, never to be retrieved again.

This, however, is only how it begins. Begins as a small strand of fragile glass from one heart to another. Sometimes, of course, the strand never forms. The trust is broken before it is even created.

There is really no limit to the number of crystalline strands of trust one can have, although some do intersect and combine.

As time passes, this fragile strand of glass trust, thickens with consistency and patience; love and attention; compassion and caring.

As this happens, this strand of trust strengthens more and more. So that slight transgressions might create hairline cracks or cause little chips in what is now a thicker band of  glass trust. Fragile, but still in tact, if just a little worn.

As time continues, this trust begins to calcify and what was once smaller than a grain of sand, just like that grain of sand slowly emerges and evolves into something larger, harder and less breakable.

The difficulty and problem with this is that trust can be built - albeit with some hard work and a lot of patience and "I'm sorry's" - but then, when one who has calcified that trust, who has built a solid, sturdy band of trust, hurts you deeply, the trust won't break. And so you keep allowing it and allowing it and allowing it. You must deserve it, right? After all, this person built this trust. I know this person. They wouldn't hurt me unless I did something wrong.

This trust - this solid, calcified trust - is toxic and painful. The reverberations this band of trust echoes, shatter other, small, fragile forming bands on trust - the ones as thin and fine as a hair.

Trust is fragile. Until it is solidified. Then it is destructive.

Saturation

Picture, if you will, a long, wide - bigger than you can handle - piece of plastic. Like vinyl. Waterproof. Nothing can penetrate it, really. Nothing soft or supple, anyway.

Above this vinyl, is a fabric. I don't know what kind of fabric. It is absorbent, like a sponge. It takes and takes and takes. It becomes saturated by everything that touches it. Love, hate, ignorance, bigotry, innocence, rage....still the vinyl does not give. It holds the weight.

But the fabric does absorb love and everything else. Mostly love because it is what it wants most. Love. Tenderness. Like the touch of a misty raindrop.

It absorbs love all the way down until it meets the vinyl. And then it stops.

Beneath the vinyl, there is a vast space, a darkness, an uknown.

Here, in this unknown, are fears, nightmares, thoughts, memories, nightmares. Thoughts...

It occurs to me that we are all capable of these vile, vicious, violent, despicable thoughts. But most of us don't think them. We see them on television or hear of them on the news. But we don't see them ourselves.

But when we do, these thoughts cannot be un-thought. We are brought to this place in our psyche where we realize our inhumane capabilities. We shake our heads radically. We numb it. We shake and rock and dream of fantastical places yet....

We know we have thought the thought. The evil, wicked thought and thus, we know, what we are capable of doing. We know what we can be pushed to. We know our depths.

Many may disagree but I am going to say: I cannot be loved.

I have the vinyl.

It keeps me safe.

I let people saturate me to that end....to the end...where nothing more can penetrate and perhaps if there is a pinprick, it is quickly sealed by fear because I know, based on my saturation, there is no way they can love me.

I cannot love me.

Nobody can love me.

Broken Glass

I've loved them their whole lives.

Tonight he said he wasn't sure if he ever loved me.

And so, here I go, swallowing that broken glass, wallowing in it, kneeling in it, rolling around - cobalt, green, amber, clear....shards slicing me in ways only I can see. The way it's always been.

"Terrible mother. Terrible mother!"

It's rings in my head over and over.

"You're a terrible mother!"

I was once told this by a big black cop who had me hog-tied, bleeding on the side of the highway. He leaned over me when nobody was near and sneered, "You're a terrible mother. Stupid bitch!"

That was after I'd been attacked by my boyfriend. I was bleeding. He had slashed my tires. I had tried to tell him what happened - tried to get him to follow my then-boyfriend's car - but he was more worried about my blood and didn't want to get any on him so he hog-tied me.

And my therapist. And the ones before her - the ones from years ago. The ones who were useless. They lied.

I knew they were lying but I went along. Said what they wanted me to say. Swallowed the glass.

So tired of swallowing glass.

How much glass must I swallow?

The price you pay for never saying a word.