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From the Beginning --
8-15-04
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y mom had me and a second child by two different men and was pregnant
with yet another man's baby when she married for the first time.�
He was an alcoholic and physically abusive to my brothers.� He was
completely distant and unkind to me.� The only attention I ever got
from him was when I was getting into trouble for something.
��� He was in the military, and therefore made a living
that should have supported a wife and four children as it became, and yet
we lived in filth and poverty.
��� My mother has had emotional problems for as long
as I can recall.� She would have moments of total melt down, in which
she would sob uncontrollably at the top of her lungs about wanting to die.�
It made me feel like everything inside my skin had turned to liquid and
would be forced out through every pore.
��� While they were married, we lived in Germany for
a few years, and then Texas for a few years before moving back here to
California.� C was the only dad I'd ever known, and I called him Daddy
and loved him in the way that I understood love.
��� Our return to California was supposed to be temporary,
as he had been stationed back to Germany, and we were to be joining him
upon his acquisition of a place for us to live.� Instead, he took
up with a woman and left us living in my grandpa's garage for several months.�
After wearing out our welcome there, my mom moved us into a roach motel
where she began drinking heavily and brought men back to the room with
her on more than one occasion.� I was only 12, at this time, so I
did not realize what was going on with C in Germany, but I absolutely knew
what was going on in my mother's bed, only four feet from mine, while she
thought I was asleep and while I thought she was still happily married.
��� It was at this time that my mother became re-acquainted
with a man she'd gone all through school with and had grown up with his
family.� He was single and had a large home, so he invited us to live
with him until C called for us.� The five of us, my mom, my 3 siblings,
and myself slept on beds set up in the storage room off the back of the
garage.� At night, when my mother thought we'd gone to sleep, she'd
sneak into his bedroom and sleep with him.� Then she'd come back before
we'd wake up.
��� Eventually, she divorced C and married Step-Dad.�
That's the man she's married to now.
��� Theirs was a ridiculous relationship.� There
were drugs, alcohol, and violence on a regular basis.� I remember
a moment in which Step-Dad had my mother pinned to the floor with his knees
on her throat.� He threw the telephone at me and told me to call the
police because he was going to kill my mother.� My mother laughed
in her drunken stupor, and told me if I called the police, she'd kick my
ass.� I herded my siblings into my room and tried to keep them calm
until the chaos subsided.
��� Along with this chaos came a less than desirable
group of people including a man who found nothing inappropriate in making
comments about my teenaged body.� He even went so far as to unfasten
my bra as I was standing in the kitchen helping my mom make dinner, "to
see if I still had the knack."� When I told my mom that this made
me uncomfortable, she told me I was being a bitch and didn't want her to
have friends.
��� I became accustomed to ignoring my own needs for
stability and leaping into the fray to try to calm any situation.�
When my mother had melt-down, it was my shoulder she cried on.� When
Step-Dad was screaming, I was the one who tried to reason with him.�
Peace-maker became my whole identity.
��� Through all of this, I was as passionate and dramatic
as any teenager one could imagine.� I had romantic fantasies of weddings
in forests with iridescent glitter falling gently on my perfectly curled
hair as my groom gazed longingly into my eyes.� After, he'd sweep
me off to a bed of satin and rose petals and make love to me in every way
I could imagine (which really wasn't much at that point, as I was very
naive).
��� But along with my need to play peace-maker, was
my need to never make waves.� In fact, where most children rebel for
attention, I did exactly the opposite.� I conformed like mad.�
I was a bible thumper.� I got excellent grades.� I never touched
drugs or alcohol.� I told everyone else what they were doing wrong
in their lives, and I hated myself and everyone else in the world, while
still dreaming of Prince Charming coming to sweep me off my feet.
��� My boyfriend in high school came from a home not
much different than mine.� My wish to remain a virgin until marriage
(a virtue pounded into me by my grandmother who had been married more times
than I can count) meant nothing to him.� He was pushy and grabby and
did things I wasn't ready for and all the while I believed it was my fault
because I didn't fight hard enough.� When I tried to break up with
him, my mother started crying.� So I stayed with him because he was
a member of my church and I didn't want to hurt or disappoint anyone.
��� After I finally managed to be rid of him, I met
the man who would be my husband.� I really was truly, madly, deeply
in love with him.� He was beautiful to look at.� He was funny.�
He was respectful and nice.� He was clever.� He was talented.�
But even he pushed me into things I wasn't ready for.� He was my first
lover, and I'd been taught by my grandma and my church that that meant
God wanted him to be my husband.� So when he asked me to move in with
him after I graduated from high school, (he was 3 years older than I),
I told him that I wouldn't feel right about it unless we were married.�
So that's what we did.� July 15, 1989.� I sobbed uncontrollably
on my wedding night.
��� D put me on a pedestal I didn't want to be on.�
I wasn't allowed to have any sexual desires.� If I encouraged him
to do something other than what he was doing, he would pull away from me
in disgust.� He treated me like I was his child.� He told me
what routes to drive to work and back.� He'd scold me for swearing.�
He gave me $40 per week to buy groceries and put gas in the car.�
He had every piece of stereo and guitar equipment one could imagine, but
I didn't have enough underwear to get through a week.
��� I felt like nothing.
��� We divorced when I graduated from college and realized
that I could not go back to being nothing more than an extension of him.
��� One night, in mid October of 1998, I'd met a guy
at a Renaissance faire.� I thought he could be that Prince Charming.�
We had so much fun flirting and playing.� New to fair, I did not realize
that this was the typical mating dance at faire after hours, and that I
was to be notch number 476 on his bedpost.� Despite the fact that
it turned out to be nothing more than a one night thing, it was the most
passionate, romantic night I'd ever had.� I went home completely high
from it.
��� The next morning, as I sat in front of my second
period algebra class, I was asked to come to the front office.� When
I got there, I found my mom and step-dad holding each other and looking
anguished, and I knew D had killed himself.� I wondered if it was
a punishment for having enjoyed myself.
��� Well, if that wasn't, JC was.� JC was the malignancy
that I became involved with 11 days after D's suicide.� I can't even
begin to describe what a parasite this guy was.� He had a gift for
making me the villain in every situation.� He never worked.�
He rarely contributed to the household maintenance, nor certainly to the
budget.� I found him downloading child pornography.� And when
we split up, he began dating a girl he'd met when I was coaching cheerleading.�
She had been the drummer in the pep band.
��� And then there was B.� I really thought B was
the Prince.� He was creative and passionate.� He loved to travel.�
He danced with me in the living room to music in his head.� He had
a million dreams.� We lived together for two years, dreaming.�
During that time, I was teaching full time.� I'd come home, clean
house, cook dinner, do laundry, do yard work.� He'd sit in front of
the television.� Sometimes he'd work and sometimes he wouldn't.�
I would try to discuss my frustration with regards to the imbalance in
responsibility, but it would start a fight and I would quickly revert to
peace-maker mode and change the subject, or sugar coat it in some way.
��� On my 32nd birthday, I had an appointment with Shrink.�
I expressed to him a reaction I felt when I would get stressed out about
things, and he asked me where that reaction came from.� I thought
about it and realized that that's the same reaction I used to have when
my mother would have her melt downs and I would feel like the world was
coming to an end.� Believe it or not, that was the first moment that
I realized that my mother was not a good mother and that my childhood was
not a normal one.� I suddenly had to ask myself, "How could she say
she loved me and yet let those things happen to us?"� Within a few
days, I realized that I could ask that question about every relationship
I've ever had.� "How could they say they loved me and yet do that
to me?"� How could D say he loved me and yet make me beg for money
for a bra?� How could JC say he loved me and lie to me so much?�
How could B say he loved me and let me work my ass off while he did nothing?
��� In my whole entire life, I am the only person who
has ever taken my needs into consideration.
��� After almost two years of soul-searching, I've realized
that in my pursuit of the romantic elements, I forgot to pursue the practical
ones.� I never looked for a man who was stable, only a man who I felt
some sort of soul connection with.� I desperately want to believe
that there is a man out there that has been my lover for many lifetimes.�
There's a great scene in Mists of Avalon that I think is one of the most
romantic love scenes of all time.� I want that.
��� But my heart has taken too many direct hits.�
I have to be careful, now, because I don�t know how many times you can
break a heart before it stops healing.� As it is, it�s numbing.�
I don't want to look at happy brides and grooms because it reminds me of
all the things that I've wanted but haven't gotten.� I don't want
to hold the beautiful little girls with pigtails because it reminds me
that I'm 33 and still haven't found a man who would be a good father.
��� I think that this is why R is such an anomaly to
me.� Despite the weirdness of the circumstances, I feel that soul
connection with him, and I know that he's a strong man who
takes his responsibilities seriously.
��� Yes, I do realize that he falls right in to the
previously mentioned description of pursuing romantic elements but forgetting
the practical ones.
��� In any case, I want so desperately to believe in
romance, passion, and love, but now I have to be convinced.� So I
have become cynical and I hate it.� And I've become bitter, and I
hate it.� I hope and pray that there is a man who is patient enough
to convince me that it is possible to have the soul connection with someone
who is also responsible and considerate.� For that man, I'd wear a
wedding dress and carry a bouquet.� For him, I'd bear a child. |
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