More Of The Same - But Different

I have been nightmaring again. I have very vivid dreams, sometimes I wake up with the emotion of it all still fresh in my throat and heart; fear, sorrow. One of my nightmares I've actually turned into a novel. In time, I will post excerpts from it. But for now, here is a nightmare I've turned into a poem:

Outer Being / Inner Conflict

When shadows and darkness fall

            we see them holding in their laughter and blackest evil

            we sit in corners full of fear

            listening to the deafening silence in the room we two occupy

                        Dowsed in moonlight are the wooden floors

                                      moonlight taking shapes of windows. . .      vortex

All lightless lays the rest of this home

                                    I see you though

                                    you’re crouched down

                                    the only article besides me in this emptiness

and you grin. . .

holding in

the evil and the sin

            We wish you’d let go and release your rage

            you can torture us forever but soon it wears thin my friend.

I see no hair

I see no eyes

I see no part of you but I smell your amusement

                                    and I taste your form

I feel your intentions in the nightfall

            hearing all the talk of the wooden boards

This is no hunt for we know each other’s position in this place

this is no dream, I am here you are there, my heart is beating steadily

                                                            I know I bleed

Speak! Speak demon

                                    these words I can not whisper

                                    this pain. . .    

I can not speak

                                                                        be with me my soul

                                                                        and do not linger off

                                                                        be brave spirit

                                                                        do not desert

My back merges with the wall

I open my eyes, you greet me - “Don’t open your eyes, when you do I can read your mind.”

Your nose touches mine, your eyes are so black they can not be differentiated from the surrounding space

My teeth lock on to your face as I grab your arms and I fight for my life as any of you would

            our bodies fall against that which is sensuously caressed by the light of the moon

                                                                                    disturbing

                                                                        the intercourse between the two

            you and we manage to get to our feet ferociously lunging at throats

                                                                                    forgetting that we possess hands not claws

                                                                                    forgetting what we tread upon,

                                                                                    only knowing that we will devour the other

You shred our skin

as we breathe in

no

this is not a dream

            I bleed

                        I bleed

We ask for no rescue, deliverance or forgiveness

            not now. . .

                        maybe once but not now.

We return the blow breaking bone

            I could not breathe as you limped to me and grinned

            placing your hands on my shoulders I watched you lick your bloody teeth

                        I couldn’t let you seep in

I stepped back

You stepped forward

I stepped right

You stepped right

to any stranger we were dancing, to any except us.

                        you seemed not to mind the broken insides

                        there was no scream of pain as I had imagined

                        only the sight of one undeterred baring the grin I am familiar with

                        one that resounds

                        as you hold the laughter in

                                                I’ll win demon

                                                I’ll win.

Perhaps not my best work, but it got the job done at the time, and I needed to purge. This is how I release the blackness in me - I write. So there will be lots of writing here, lots of purging.

 And this is good; it's good that my soul is not empty, because it means it can be filled with light and love, just as it was filled with darkness and pain. You all are helping me carry pails of healing salve to my wounds. I hear your voices, they are whispering resonations of encouragement and they chime like the voices of priests and priestesses in the sanctuary of my being. So I keep sending thanks, as I listen to the sounds of your melodies.

Tomorrow, Chiming In. . .

Life Goes On I Suppose

Some of you have been here from the beginning, since Normal to EatPB, so you may know that this blog featured stories of tragedy and a search for normality. But I have ended my tragic theme yesterday. I will still examine normal, but the tragedies have ceased for now.

I've asked you all to vote on what I write about next, and the winner is a write in. Most have said that I should write about whatever I feel like writing about, which means you all win, because I'd like to write poetry, short stories, and tales of the benign and eveyday. And so let's begin; this is me, being normal:

Here is a poem I wrote for my father,

A kiss on the check
a solemn goodbye
to hear his last words
and know they were lies
a promise to keep
that was never kept
a heart that was broken
and eyes that wept
to leave
and forever be gone
to cry
at the break of dawn

I know this poem backwards and forwards, I carry it around in my head like spare change. It jingles and jangles and is with me where ever I go; and that, is the magic of memory.

It's hard to stand by someone like me. Someone with memories like spare change buried at the bottom of my mind-purse. Sometimes they clang together and make so much noise they drive people mad. Sometimes, you reach in, for something very important, and instead your hand draws out one of these memory coins. Sometimes I use them as projectiles, and throw them at my nearest friend.

So it is hard, when you’re being hit with the brunt of memories, I, using all of my brute force
It is hard, when there is a cacophony of irritating jingling
It is hard, when they just keep popping up - those memories - at critical moments that don't require them
It is hard to stand by me

And so, I am blessed by company. Your company, my friend's company, my husband's company; and now that I have cleaned out my mind-purse a little, I am free to accept the blessing.

Tomorrow, More Of The Same - But Different. . .

All that Ever Was

The Interlude. . . (Can there be an interlude before the show starts? Hmmmm.)

Before I start my post today, I would like to acknowledge some of my most loyal readers. I want to do this because there have been days when I wanted to hide and keep silent, but these people, with their kind words, helped me continue on (in no specific order):

My Husband, "You're really helping people with this. . . do you really still see this guy, because I know some people I can get on him right now." Thank you for loving me enough to want to break somebody's face for hurting me, but respecting my wish of non-violence :)

Rosaria at sixtyfivewhatnow, "You are sorting out the drawers and boxes of your life trying to put everything in order, shine a light on those dark spaces, illuminate the scenes. I'm in awe! This is hard work. It is essential work." [A Lost Father] I love you lady - thanks for the words.

Simon at Simple Simon Says, "You are very open about your life's experiences and thoughts ...a rare and refreshing quality." [The Accident] I appreciate you coming here - appreciate isn't that right word - thanks.

Mark and Libby Miller at Lark, "I can't seem to stop thinking about this site and what you - a stranger - are going through and the pain you have felt in your life." [The Big bad Wolf] I peeked into your life and you peeked into mine - we both saw the truth.

Susan (big HUGS - she nick-named me Pandora) at non linear thinking, "I'm so sad about your little nieces and the losses you have endured. I think you are absolutely right to cut off any more contact with your father. Life is too short to willingly allow poison people to be a part of it." [A Lost Father - the Second Coming] Oh Susan, my every day blog friend, I am choked up right now for the support you've shown me.

JJ at methenjim (really funny), "At least he died a baller if that's any consolation. Interesting blog, for sure." [The Death Of An Uncle] You make me smile and give me a man's perspective - both are well needed.

I'm crying and I haven't started the tragedy yet :) HAPPY TEARS, happy tears. . .

TvZ, "wreath of holly - spilled on frosty ground a seed " [Recipe for A Baby] Your words online and over the phone have been a source of wisdom for me.

Sweepings From My Mind - your twitter support and blog support have been taken to heart - thank you fro feeling protective of me!


Kappa No He at Kappa No He, "I'm so sorry for your losses. I remember also being left to my own devices as a child. There wasn't any abuse but I did so many things that I shudder to remember" [A Lost Father] Thank you for sharing with me.

C Lo at One Smarmy Mama, "You're an amazing writer and, clearly, and impressively strong lady. I look forward to catching up on this blog. :)" [Normal To EatPB] I envy your life and you're still here supporting - selflessly.

Land of Shimp at Land of Shimp, "I'm sorry you had to go through so much when you were younger" [Fists And Blood] I send love your way for the support.

The Animated Woman (my twitter mama) at The Animated Woman, "You're courageous to share this (it's very well written too btw, I'm riveted). *admiration*" [Fists and Blood] What do I say to the woman who has promoted my blog selflessly and cried internet tears with me - there are no words.

Jenny, The Bloggess at The Bloggess, "Terrible. Don't you wish you could go back in time and just tell all those people how wrong they were? Your courage is amazing." [Fists and Blood] You are too big for words and yet you took the time to check me out - now I know I am worthy :)

Kalamy Addict at Kalamay Addict, "but i think what matters the most is how we stand up and survive those trials... i know you'll get over this crisis soon enough.. it looks to me that you are one strong woman.. :) " [Normal To EatPB]  "and I really, really hate at your insensitive neighbor! rrr... " [Fists and Blood] I added this quote because you're just so cute! You're halfway around the world from me and yet we share the same emotions. . .

Just Another Lesbian (affectionately known as JAL) at Lesbian in Cincinnati, "Hmmm.. interesting. To some extent, I can almost relate, but I'm not quite sure how. I'm going to have to dwell on that for a bit. Too many thoughts flying through my head at the moment." [The Big Bad Wolf]

&

Kim at Twad'dler, "As they say, everything happens for a reason. Dont ask me who 'they' are though" [Right and Wrong]

Thank you both for reading despite some of the subject matter, you're both proof, that some feelings are universal.

The Simple Dude at Simple Dude In A Complex World, "I have to admit, I have no problem with the "R" Rated portion of this post - but that's the 'guy' in me focusing on the dirty parts. That being said - it's interesting. His attitude is unlike anything I have heard of - granted I have never slept with a dude before." [Breaking Me] An undercover EatPB fan - thanks for the very humorous support!

I'm sure I am forgetting some folks - please forgive me. Also, according to my traffic, there are a lot more people who read than comment or follow. To my silent readers, blessings to you and love.

____________________________________________________________________________


And now, All That Ever Was. . .

This is dedicated to survivors; survivors of domestic violence, rape, child abuse, the system, miscarriage, abandonment, death, and suicide.

These are my secrets

I must have been about 4 when it began.  My mother had a best friend. They were very best friends. They liked to laugh, and talk, and go over their troubles with each other. I’m not sure what brought them together, to me they seemed so different. My mother was more quiet and polished and refined; her friend, on the other hand, was loud and just raucous over all. They seemed to be opposites to me. The only thing they had in common, from my perspective, was that they both had children. My brothers and I were much younger than her children though. When I was four or five her son was about seventeen and her daughter about sixteen.

My mother and her friend were so close, that often, my brothers and I – along with my mother – would spend the night at this woman’s house. Sometimes we would even spend days there. It was almost like a second home, we would run and play and relax on the strange new furniture. We would stare out to the balcony which we didn’t have at home. We would eat the stranger’s food, which was the only exception to the rule that we never eat at anyone’s house other than our own. This is how I knew they were best friends.

I can’t tell you the very day it started, but I can tell you what I remember, clear as day; as clear as I remember my cousin standing on my head in the crib when we were babies in A Lost Father. It was late at night and everyone was asleep. We were at the woman’s house again. Her son and daughter slept in separate beds, and my brothers and I shared a bed. We were all in the same room. I had to pee, so I got up to go to the bathroom, but when I got up, I was intercepted by the woman’s son.

Give me a moment, I want to slam my laptop into a wall right now.




NIGHT. . .
I was in my cozy little pajamas. I was warm and cozy and being picked up by the woman’s son. I thought he was helping me to the bathroom, and I was warm and held, and I hugged my arms around him to help him take me there. When we wound up in his bed, I was still okay – but I had to pee. I didn’t know what was going on, but I felt safe. Then he pulled down my pajamas, and safety left, safety went away. Warm and cozy went away. I went away, I went somewhere else, somewhere in my head, while he penetrated me. I said it hurt, but he said it was okay and to be quiet, and then my mind turned its back on my body, and went to go play somewhere.

Afterwards, he took me to the bathroom and watched me pee. I’m not sure, but I think he jerked off into the tub while I was peeing. I remember something about the tub. . .


AND DAY. . .
Sometime later, it could have been days or it could have been weeks, my mother’s friend’s daughter was babysitting us. She was fun, she liked to play with us, and she let us watch cartoons. She was a fun babysitter. One day, she took me by the hand and led me to the kitchen. She went to the refrigerator and got a hotdog. I wasn’t hungry though. I just wanted to go watch cartoons. She took the hotdog, fresh out of the pack, and led me to the bedroom. When she started undressing me, my little mind was off somewhere again. Somewhere special, somewhere safe, while she put the hotdog inside her and mounted me.


I’m not sure how long this went on for, and it is no surprise that I do not remember my aunt discovering the daughter molesting me because I would leave my body and go away. But I am as sure as sure can be that my aunt did discover what happened because I remember the repercussions all too well.

MOTHER HURTS
I remember, my mother sitting in her bathroom at home and calling me to her. She asked, “Did anything happen to you?” I said, “no”. Again, she asked, “DID ANYTHING HAPPEN TO YOU?”, and again I answered, “no” I don’t remember how many times she asked, but I do remember her being frustrated with me. She was boiling angry. She was angry with me, and I was scared. She was angry and I knew she wanted to hurt me. She went to the utility closet and got a straight phone cord. She told me to get undressed, and she beat me from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. I had whip marks everywhere, some were bleeding. She put vasoline on all of the marks, got me dressed, and marched me over to her friend’s house.

In the elevator and on the street, people stared at me. Although I was bundled up, because it was winter, you could still see the marks on my face. When we got to her friend’s house my mother explained what happened. I watched as THAT mother chased HER daughter around and beat her with a belt.


From then on I knew never to tell my mother of any assault that happened to me, hence my silence in I Guess He Was A Friend. I have been molested and raped several times by many different people, but I was always quiet. Once, during an attempt to hurt me, I spoke out and was laughed at – so any bravery in my heart was completely put to rest on that day.


THE AFTERMATH
Many things happened after that. For one, I started wetting the bed – I had become afraid to go to the bathroom. This was a source of irritation for my mother and whenever she thought I was getting too “uppity” she would remind me that I pissed the bed.

Secondly, a rift developed in my feelings for my mother; there was tremendous love, but also tremendous hate. This was the same mother who danced with me, who fed me, who held me close – and yet, she was my enemy.

The rest of the aftermath is in the stories I’ve already told you. This is why I wanted to be hurt, this is why I wanted to protect, this is why my brothers mean so much to me – because they were all I had for so very long.


THE AFTERWARD
Many years later, after I moved out, I went to visit my mother. We spoke about the past. We talked about me being molested and SHE APOLOGIZED to me for treating me the way she did. She apologized for allowing the woman’s daughter to hurt me. But then, there was a question, or – a statement really. I looked at her and told her that the son also raped me. She nearly broke in two. All those years I thought she knew, but she didn’t. To me, it explained why after that fiasco, she still allowed the son to be around us. It still did not explain why she continued to let the daughter babysit us though.

We had this conversation that seemed to bring about this new revelation of understanding and love, and then. . . She invited me to the daughter’s bridal shower. She insisted I go. I went, why, I will never know. Maybe to be as strong as some of you think I am. When we arrived, at first I could barely look the daughter in the face, but by the end of the night I bored a laser beam look into her soul.

MY COMMENTS
There is so much more to this story – devastating bits and pieces, but I could barely get this out. Please share this story; the lesson is to come forward, not hide. The lesson is to use your voice.

Tomorrow, Life Goes On I Suppose. . .

I Guess He Was A Friend

Well, here goes, my next to last post on the subject of tragedy. These are the most difficult memories - the most terrifying and puzzling to live through, because I didn't understand; and experience - life - is all about understanding. Understanding to process what is happening to you and around you; understanding to form an opinion or reaction. Without understanding, you’re a blind man swiping at a cold wind in defense of yourself. Understanding is the fundamental building block for love and hate - whether it be true or false understanding, the sense that you know something and have an opinion based on that knowledge is what gives rise to passionate uprisings, upheavals, upsets. It makes way for delectable loves, delightful kisses, and delicious caresses. Seeking out understanding is a human truth; perhaps you search for answers from God or science - but it is this curiosity that drives us. Yet, as children, there is so much to learn and so many sources to learn from. Do we turn to the bible, our parents, the gossip channels? Who will grab our attention; lead us to untold joys or terrors? In my case, I guess he was a friend.

In A Lost Father, it is immediately clear that I will have "daddy" issues for a long time. Men were a source of confoundedness for me since the age of five. I wanted to please them, but I hated them all the same. Truly, I can't blame it all on him. In my next installment, All That Ever Was, I will surmise a series of events that caused the most damage - if I can find the strength. And so, at the root of me, there was this conundrum, just waiting for the right person to come along and abuse my state of confusion.

When I was 12, a new neighbor moved in, with them was a girl about a year younger than me. She was out-going, out-spoken, and outrageous - just the opposite of me. I was shy and retiring, mostly keeping to myself, writing poetry and songs. I had very few friends, none of which lived in my building. So it was nice, when my mother became friends with the neighbor, I became friends with her.

She took me all around; to the park, to other people's houses. She had more friends than I did and she knew more places to go despite the fact that I had lived there most of my life. All of her friends became my friends; especially the boys. She was cute; short, shapely, and athletic. The boys were drawn to her like bees to honey, and she liked the boys.

It was through her, that I met a boy 4 years older than me. I had seen him several times before, but we never had cause to talk. But because of my friend, I would see this boy at least three times a week. He would come to either my door or her door and talk to us. At first the conversation was benign. We would talk about music or gossip about people in the building, but not too long after he started visiting us, the talk became fresh. He wanted to take my friend into the staircase, she would go, and when she came back she would tell me how he kissed her and grabbed her breasts. We would giggle and laugh, and then she would tell me how she really didn't like him, she liked his friend.

It wasn't long before he turned his attention to me; attentions I wanted, but didn't want. I wanted attention but I didn't want to be touched. So, when he invited me down to his house, I didn't hesitate. It was like when he came to our doors to hang out, except this time I was going to his house.

I was babysitting one of my younger brothers that day and brought him with me. When I knocked on the door, he looked at my brother and told him to wait outside. He invited me in and asked me if I wanted a drink - the whole while leading me to his bedroom. My heart was thumping. I had no idea why he wanted to see me. I didn't understand why he wanted my brother to wait outside. Things were happening so fast and I felt like there was no turning back.

Once I was in his bedroom, he sat me down on the bed. In an instant he was unbuttoning my jeans and tugging them off along with my panties. I was mortified. He was holding me down on the bed and I struggled to get away from him. When he pulled down his sweat pants, that's when I started screaming - screaming to the top of my lungs. He covered my mouth while he penetrated me. The next thing I heard was banging. It was my younger brother banging on the door with all of his 8 year old strength. Banging, muffled screams, grunts of pleasure and a spinning room - those were the sensory inputs being crammed into my brain, never to be forgotten.

When it was over, he led by the hand to the door. My brother had been screaming for him to let me out the whole time, and when I emerged from the apartment, he asked if I were okay. I had been crying, but I straightened up enough to tell him I was fine.

Afterwards, whenever the boy saw me, he tried to corner me and rape me again and again. Sometimes he was successful. He would stalk me; into parks, basements, stairwells; forcing me to give him oral sex, kissing me, opening me up with his penis. And I would cry, and scream, and fight - but after a while I just gave in, because there was no one to come to my rescue. There was no one who cared. To this day, I hate kissing; I hate it because of these memories.

I refused to leave the house after a while. I stayed indoors and wrote. One day my friend came to me, she was in disbelief about something. Then she began telling me this story, one that amounted to this: The boy who had been raping me, was also raping his nieces and one of them confessed this to my friend. I told her that she should tell. We tried to get his niece to tell on him, but the whole time I felt like such a hypocrite. I never told what he did to me, but here I was trying to convince this 10 year old girl to tell her family that her uncle was raping her.

I lived in fear until I was about 13, that's  when he was sent away to military school for raping his nieces. I never did confront him. Sometimes I still see him when I visit my mother. And for as strong as I think I am; for as strong as some of you have said I am, I'm still afraid.

Tomorrow, All That Ever Was. . .

Normal Mistress

Whoever you are, please stop coming to this blog to jerk off - it's rude and unsavory considering that I am sharing to help those in a similar situation, not to provide porn to the likes of you.

Too Good To Be Beaten

For many years, I was intent on hurting myself. I couldn't figure out why my attempts to feel like everyone else hadn't been working, and it made me furious with myself. Why did I still feel like people could look right through me and see the cancerous growths of abnormality caused by losses and abuse? Why did I have to think about things like remembering to smile and to keep looking up? (When I was about 14, I was walking down the street on my way home from school. It was a sunny day and felt good inside. The block was very long and it usually took me about 15 minutes to walk it. That day, something amazing happened, the glare from the sun had caused me to look up. At that moment, it dawned on me that in all the years I had been walking down this block, I never looked up. I never saw the row of trees leading me home - only single trees as they passed me by. I never saw the winding concrete path - only one slab of concrete pavement at a time. And so, I forced myself to look up and straight ahead, to be more normal.) My favorite weapon against myself was men. Even despite the heartache and violence I saw my mother live through, there was a point in my life in which I didn't believe I was worth anything, and I certainly wasn't too good to be beaten.

While at an accounting firm, I met a man who was different than those surrounding him. He was aloof and tall and seemed to be free of caring about what the world thought of his choices and did not care what people thought of him in general. Although we worked in the same department, we rarely spoke. If he needed something, he would come to me, but other than that he kept his distance. One night, at a company gathering at a bowling alley, I decided to get to know him a little better. I cheered him on as he knocked down pins, and I sat next to him and bragged about my own bowling skills, which seemed to increase with each beer I drank. We had great fun together that night, and it wasn't long after that he asked me out on a date.

He let me choose the place. It was intimate and dark; a place I had been before with co-workers, but not on a date. I was happy that he enjoyed it. The mood was a little tense though; I put on my mask and used it to make the situation more comfortable. I smiled, I flirted, I laughed; I strategically placed careful caresses on his arms and legs like little bombs I would detonate later. I was glad to feel so in control and so successful with my manipulations when I saw him returning my smiles and sharing in my laughter. When we exited the restaurant, we walked around to the side of it, and he pulled me by the back of my neck towards him and kissed me deeply with such force I had never experienced before. I was surprised; he was so mild mannered during dinner, never laid a hand on me the whole night, and then, on the street, in the mist of literally hundreds of people walking by, he attacked me with a kiss. On top of that, something inside me made me think that he did it because he knew it would make me uncomfortable. I never liked PDAs (public displays of affection), I preferred to keep my brand of sexuality private.

The first night I was to go over to his house, I spent a great deal of time making a quiche. I sautéed the vegetables and fried the bacon, and experimented with a seasoning pack. When I arrived, bottle of wine and dinner in hand, he led me in and let me heat up the food I had just made. Just before I served the quiche to him, I tasted it and I looked at him, "I am not eating this crap, feel free to eat it if you want to, but I am not eating this." He looked at me and laughed and asked for a taste. It was way too salty - I picked it up, and threw the whole thing in the trash. It was the most beautiful looking quiche I ever made.

We ordered pizza and sat in front of his small television watching - if I remember correctly - Fight Club. Normally, I wouldn't even bother to mention the title of the movie, but it's just so darn appropriate. During the movie, he began kissing me very forcefully again. Then he explained to me what he expected; I was to belong to him. I was to be his slave and he, my master. He told me that whenever he wanted to, he would hit me. If he wanted to beat me, I must allow it. He told me that when I was with him, I was his, for him to do whatever he chose. I was fine with all of this; I was looking for a new way to hurt.

He sent me home in a cab and gave me money to get my nails done before we saw each other next, he liked the way I kept myself up and wanted to pay for all the things I did to make myself look beautiful for him. At work, he began talking to me more but he didn't want to much attention drawn to us, so he still kept limits. Occasionally though, he would drag me into an empty office and press his full body against mine, planting kisses on my mouth.

The next time I went to his house, as soon as I came in, he led me to the couch, grabbed a fistful of hair, and led my mouth down to his erection. While I busied myself with it, he continued to tug at my hair - very, very hard. The whole while, I was thinking, "This is what I deserve. This is what I get for being me. This is right." I just kept thinking that I NEEDED to be hurt physically. I NEEDED physical pain to drown out the emotional pain. I NEEDED physical scars to cover-up the emotional scars. I took as much as I could stand, and then I excused myself to the bathroom, "I have to go pee." I stood up and walked into his bedroom to the bathroom and locked myself in. I wanted to prepare my hair for another round of abuse, through all of this, I still wanted to be pretty. After a few minutes, he came, banging on the door and demanded that I come out. He sat me down on the couch and explained to me that I could not take control like that again. He said that we weren't 'playing' at being sadomasochistic, that this was truly a sadomasochistic relationship, and I could not just slip in and out of character when I wanted to. I was his slave, and when I became his slave, I gave up all of my rights. He then told me to give him a massage. He took off his shirt, sat on a chair, and let my hands knead his back muscles. The whole while, I was thinking, "I need to be better at this." that thought - I need to be better - had driven me to the deepest darkest corners of my mind in search of some type of perfection that would lead to an unconditional love I never felt.

Afterwards, we talked, he wanted to know so much about me. Almost everything - like he wanted to take what made me tick and use it against me - it would be a complete picture of degradation, physical and mental. I opened up completely, much like I’m doing with you, now. He talked like we were brother and sister. I shared my past traumas, present mistakes, and future wishes. When we were done, we went to bed and I allowed him to violate me.

In the morning, we sat down and spoke some more. We listened to public radio; we had intellectual discussion as I watched him roll and smoke cigarettes. The conversation was seamless, and we spent many hours voicing our opinions on many different subjects. Finally, he looked at me and said, "You're too nice. I can't do this to you. You're such a good person." I felt rejected. I begged him for another chance. I would be a better slave, I would do whatever he wanted, except, I didn't want him to give up on me. I knew - I NEED TO BE BETTER - and I knew that I could be, given enough time.

He agreed to give me another chance. At work, he was happy to mention my name when I wasn't nearby, around other men, and watch their faces turn red - he was happy to know that they wanted me, and he had me. He would tell me these things after work, he would tell me how he made married partners squirm when he mentioned my name, and how they stuttered when they said I was a nice person. We laughed at them together, and we would go back to his place, and we would do things that would make my blood boil in a rush of self-mutilation. He would always give me money afterwards, it was another way to enforce that I was only worth as much as what he paid and not a dime more, and I was okay with that.

One day, as I was coming from work, he called me. He told me that he couldn't do it anymore. I was too strong-willed, and I was too nice. He broke up with me and I cried in the street like a lost puppy. Stumbling in my heels, blinded by tears and grief. thinking once again, I AM NOT GOOD ENOUGH - another thought which consumed me and drove me to desperation. I AM NOT GOOD ENOUGH, but apparently, I was too good to be beaten.

Tomorrow, Normal Mistress. . .

Stolen

Before I begin today's entry, I have a request of my very loyal readers. I only have four more entries left after this one. I was planning on ending my blog after the last entry; mainly because the last entry will be my most personal and heart-breaking entry and I anticipate slipping into a deep depression after writing it. However, there are those of you who read my blog, who have encouraged me to continue writing. I have no idea what to write about if I choose to continue, and so, I encourage you to vote on my next stream of thought. I believe that my blog is set up so that you can reply anonymously if - for whatever reason - you don't want anyone to know that you read this dribble. So, here are the choices:

1. Details about some of the entries I've already posted
2. Poetry (I have hundreds of poems, some are good - some are not so good)
3. Short Stories (I have at least 50)
4. Novels (I've written 3 none of which are published and I never shopped them around)
5. Or I could just write about my every day happenings and other stories from my past which aren't so depressing (my life is filled with drama as you can see. . . L )

So vote wisely, otherwise, you could end up with 30 days of something you have no interest in reading, lol :)

Also, I wanted to take this time to mention, that although my blog gets a lot of traffic, I don't have many followers. If you enjoy what you are reading, please follow this blog. It makes me feel good inside to know that there are people who I can touch with these stories of mine in some meaningful way. Maybe you are learning something from all of this, if you are - please click the follow button at the top left of your screen. Thank you loyal readers, your support has not gone unappreciated nor unacknowledged.

While reading Lesbian In Cincinnati, I have come to realize that these feelings that I feel, when typing these words, are not unique to me. This sense of loss coupled with the wisdom of hindsight, it's normal. A natural occurrence when one recollects a past pain or hurt. Every day that I am here, typing away, I find out one more thing that makes me like the rest of you; one more characteristic that moves me further away from the feeling of being outcast; one more similarity that beckons me to the shared pool of humanity. It's like the 'American Dream'. As a child, I heard so much about this dream; and although I never heard it verbalized in a way that I could comprehend, I knew that it meant having a family, a job, and a house with a white picket fence. I wanted my American Dream to come true, but I knew there were many obstacles, one being that I had my identity stolen.

Some of you may remember from A Mother And Daughter, that my mother used my identity to rack up some bills in my name before I moved out on my own - away from her, and away from my boyfriend. It infuriated me. I felt betrayed, and I was abused in a way that impacted where I could live and what I could buy. I knew that one day, I wanted my own home, complete with a picket fence - but that couldn't happen with delinquent debts in my name. She promised to take care of the debts; she promised to have them moved to her name and paid off. It took several months, but she finally took responsibility for the unpaid bills she had that were attributed to me.

For a while, I was happy. I had a good job, my relationship with my mother could resume, and I was saving money. I wanted to buy a house so that I didn't have to worry about sharing walls with my neighbors, waiting for an unresponsive landlord to make repairs, or rowdy children running up and down the hallway of my apartment building. I wanted a bit of blissful seclusion. Just when it seemed I might have some, I checked my bank account while I was at work one day, and discovered that nearly all of my money was gone. I was hysterical. I had no idea what was going on or why this was happening to me. I called my bank right away; thoughts racing through my head like, "Oh no, my rent is due next week. How am I going to get home? What am I going to eat?" I was never big on carrying cash, and so this was a very scary moment for me - not having access to any money.

What I learned was that someone had tapped into my account. They bought a vacation to Tahiti, they set up several accounts with money transfer companies to have money wired to Mexico, they created accounts with internet porn sites, and they applied for a mortgage using my social security number. I felt so violated, like I had been raped. This was such a different feeling from many of the tragedies in my life; so different from being stalked, or from losing my friend, but it was painful nonetheless. Fortunately, I caught it early enough so that I was able to get most of my money back, but the damage done to my credit was not immediately reversible. It took years of writing letters to take some of the delinquent accounts off of my credit report, and even then, some of them I had to pay off. But, soon, I felt like I was on the path to home ownership again.

I filed a complaint with the FTC and the police and moved on. Almost a year later, my account was struck again. There were more purchases in my name, there were more accounts opened - I went directly to the police, filed a report, and contacted the credit bureaus. this was becoming old hack for me. Always in the back of my mind though, I would wonder how all of this was impacting my personal American Dream. I thought, at most, it would set me back a few more years - and so I worked on cleaning up my credit and moved on.

Years passed; I met my husband, and we began our journey to creating a family together. Unfortunately, due to circumstances outside of our control, we needed to go the route of in-vitro fertilization (See A Recipe For A Baby). It was an exciting time. Once we found out we were pregnant, we started preparing for this new life of ours.

Because of the procedure we had, we expected multiple babies, and there was no way we could keep up to 3 babies in a one bedroom apartment. We decided to go house hunting. We searched in 3 different states; looking at big houses, small houses, white houses, yellow houses, new houses, old houses. We were in love with each new house we saw. We spent many nights online just looking at houses and wondering what our lives would be like with our babies in those houses. Finally, my American Dream was coming true.

Shortly after our search for a new home, I noticed strange activity on my account again. I had been through numerous debit cards and even closed my old account and opened a new one, yet here it was, I was once again hit with identity theft. This time when I went to the police they suggested that I change my social security number and close all of my bank accounts and switch banks. I was in a downward spiral. I knew what all of this meant - I would not be getting my house. I was terrified, I wanted the best for my unborn babies, and that meant having room for them to grow up without feeling crowded. It was a very down moment for me. I was broken, because my dream had been stolen.

Tomorrow, Too Good To Be Beaten. . .

The Expediters

Some have commented that I am brave, courageous even, but if I am so it was through these seemingly never-ending trials and tribulations that made me so. I have been grown in steely ground and I seek the silky loam of a garden I have never seen. It seems that as fast as heartache and disaster comes, I am there to meet it - its brunt force striking my cheek and knocking me down. But sometimes it seems I can never meet the trouble fast enough, for it has expediters.

While I was living with my boyfriend, in my youth (see Leaving Home and Moving on), a friend of mine helped me get a job with expediters. I had no idea what an expediter was; what I learned is that an expediter helps "push" architectural plans through the department of buildings as their main function. The people I would be working for were a man and a woman who had known each other for years. They were based out of a shared office, several expediting companies divided by cubicle walls, right in the heart of the building housing the department of buildings.

My job was part secretary, part personal assistant. I would go upstairs and file plans with plan examiners, and I would remind the female partner to eat - she was diabetic and had to adhere to an eating schedule. There were already two expediting assistants who seemed to know just as much as the two partners; I felt like an unwanted step-child breaking up a happy family.

From the first day I knew that the female partner didn't like me. She found flaws with everything I did. Two weeks into me working there she began yelling at me, whatever went wrong in that office was instantly blamed on me. Unfortunately, because the company shared space with other companies, everyone who was there could hear this woman call me stupid and all sorts of jackasses at the top of her lungs. One day, she yelled at me so bad, that an intern from another company came to me, pulled me into the stairwell and gave me a hug. He gave me little pep talks almost every week. I would go home so stressed out that I couldn't turn my head from left to right.

I began noticing that the woman rarely yelled at me in front of her partner and it dawned on me - she thought I wanted her man. I asked one of my young co-workers if the partners were dating, she told me they lived together.

After weeks of being subject to being treated like an imbecile, all of a sudden she started being nice to me. There seemed to be peace in the office.

A certain plan examiner started visiting often, dropping off plans. This was highly unusual as plan examiners try to distance themselves from expeditors. One day he asked me to lunch, at the time there was an unwritten rule that I eat lunch at my desk so someone would always be in the office to answer the phone. When we went, the female partner told me to take as long as I wanted. Mr. Plan examiner and I ate lunch together 3 times a week.

One day, the female partner told me that the plan examiner wanted to take me out. I thought about it, plans were being approved at a lightening pace, and there was no more yelling. Although I knew she was pimping me, I chose to go all the same. I expected to have a nice time out - maybe dinner and drinks, but I was treated to something entirely different.

I met him downstairs and got into his shiny sports car. The first stop we made was to his dealer - he wanted to pick up some weed. I never did any kind of drug whatsoever and had no plans to do so - I was so uncomfortable as he rolled into this impoverished neighborhood and walked to a shady corner in a park and made his purchase. For all I knew he could have been purchasing crack, but I didn't have the fortitude to leave the car and go home.

Next, we went back to his place. . . I was mortified. It all made sense; I was supposed to have sex with this man in exchange for fast approval of architectural plans. I was livid. I went upstairs with him and sat at his kitchen table; he poured me a drink and began massaging my shoulders.

I stroked the glass gently, picked it up and swallowed in one big gulp. When he sat across from me I looked him directly in the eyes as he told me to get undressed. I said no, and that it was time for me to go home. He looked baffled, as though I were speaking some alien language, but after some thought; he stood back up and drove me home to my awaiting boyfriend.

I stopped having lunch with the plan examiner and the verbal abuse began again. During the last blowup the female partner had with me she actually came out and said I couldn't have the male partner. The next day I was fired.

I never let anyone speak to me like that again; not CEOs, not Presidents, not Heads of departments. I treated people with respect and demanded it in return. I am human, and I am worth something.

Tomorrow, Breaking Me. . .

Miscellaneous Wrong-Doing

Enemy Of The State

I seemed to have strayed into some tutorial on morals, when truly, if you've read Normal to EatPB, you'd know that my intention here is to flesh out the tragedies of my life and figure out if these are normal occurrences. Figure out if I am normal. Figure out if my life is some warped twisted barbwire of abnormality and confusion - or if I am one shard of glass among many from this broken window God peers through. I have been down on my knees so many times; crawling and begging for mercy. I've been places I never thought I'd be in life and sometimes I wouldn’t understand how I got there. How did I get to be an enemy of the state?

A few years ago, I was down on my luck. My consulting jobs started drying up and I found myself out of work for over a year. At first, it was no big deal. I had quite a bit of money saved and was on unemployment. Sure, I couldn't travel anymore and go to fancy restaurants like Per Se or Aureole or Savini (II), but I was okay with that. About 6 months into being out of work my unemployment benefits were cut off. I had enough money to make it another 5 months and was scrambling to try to find something, anything. There was no 401k to fall back on, I was consulting, and I was young. The money I had saved would not sustain me long-term.

I went from making a substantial salary being a consulting Project Manager, to applying for jobs at McDonald's and Wendy's. I applied for everything I thought I could do, and would have been happy to receive any of those jobs, but I never knew how hard it was to get a job in fast food with my age and experience. I felt inadequate and obsolete. There was no one I could turn to, as I have mentioned in other posts, I am the top earner in my family. Everyone was struggling, and the last thing I wanted to do was be a burden to my mother or one of my brothers. So, I swallowed my pride, and emailed my father.

I cannot tell you what it took for me to get up the strength and courage to email the man, when I promised that I would do a little jig on his grave someday. The man who abandoned me and my brother, the man who sent my mother $2.00 a month to support us. The man who cancelled my health insurance when I was 10 years old - preventing from getting needed surgery on my ankle - a physical flaw I have to this day. The man who left my brother and me with a woman he called 'crazy'. There are no words to describe the sinking heart, or the teary eyes, or the pain and pressure I felt.

In the email, I explained that I had enough money to pay my next month's rent - but that would leave me with no money for anything else. No money for food, transportation, or my utilities. I knew that he was doing well, he was about to retire from a medical career, he had a house that was just about paid for, and his wife worked. The email I received back said that he had no money to give me. Not $500, not $1, and so - I was on my own.

One of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make was to go down to my local welfare center and fill out a form. I was mortified. How could I, Ms. Success, be here? I was surrounded by crying babies, children running up and down the aisles. Elderly men leaning against worn canes hacking up phlegm. Breastfeeding mothers who didn't speak English. I looked around and I saw no one like me. I was an anomaly, a well-educated person that was single with no children, applying for state aid.

When it was my turn to speak to the social worker, she went over my finances. Because I had money in the bank, I would not get a dime from the state. I explained that it was only enough to pay my rent, and I was told to come back when my account was empty. In the meantime, I got a one-time allotment of food stamps, and I was sent to a job training center. I couldn't understand why I was being treated this way. Wouldn't it cost the state more money to put me in a homeless shelter, give me aid, and food stamps, then to just help me maintain my living status? I couldn't comprehend it and it made me feel so defeated and down-trodden. That's when I became an enemy of the state.

At the job training center, there were only a handful of people who had college degrees. When my counselor looked at my resume, he asked me why I was there. I said I couldn't find work; he frowned, and pointed me to a chair. I sat for hours listening to tips on interview skills and how to dress for success - it was all old hack for me, but I stayed and listened anyway, intently.

Some days we would just sit quietly, while others had their resumes reviewed. I kept attending the sessions, because although the social worker told me I would not receive any funds, I was trying to appeal that, and the classes were mandatory if I wanted aid.

The final decision on my case was that I would not receive aid. I stopped attending classes and waited for my eviction notice. It was a grim time. I had no place to go and no one to turn to. I was alone. 5 days before my housing court hearing regarding my eviction, I received a call from a headhunter who wanted to set up an interview for me the next day. I pressed my best suit and put on a happy face - telling myself I was valuable and an asset, reviewing all of my experience in my head and remembering the winning attitude I once had.

A few days later, I found out I got the job.

Tomorrow, Miscellaneous Wrong-Doing. . .

Right and Wrong

Yesterday we spoke about the difference between right and wrong - it was mentioned briefly. I knew, from a very young age, about right and wrong. I didn't have a name for it, but I knew that sometimes I did things that made my palms sweat and heart beat faster; sometimes I did things I wished I could take back, not because my mother would punish me - but because I knew inside that what I had done was inherently wrong for me. When I did something wrong, I felt that, somehow, I had faltered off my path of destiny. Somehow, I had missed an opportunity to be my best self. These are grandiose ideas, and most certainly, I could have never articulated them this way when I was four or five, but I did grasp the general concept. I did understand the difference between right and wrong, just as I had understood normality.

This will be brief, for, although there is gray area in discussing moral dilemmas, for the moment, I am only concerned with the un-obtuse - with the clear picture of rightness, justice, goodness; and the flip side, wrongness, injustice, badness.

A prime example of this was when I was attending High School and working at a music chain store. In walked this blue-eyed, blond-haired Adonis. He was wearing leather pants and a leather jacket with no shirt. Looking at him made my mouth water, so when he handed me his phone number after I helped him pick out a CD, I was floating on cloud nine.

We only got to speak when I babysat for my neighbor. He was able to call me there and I was able to call him from there. After a few days of this, he convinced me to cut class to see him. I agreed, I agreed despite the WRONGNESS I felt in my heart because I had feelings, feelings that were powerful. My cheeks would flush bright red, my breasts felt tender and wanted touching, and my privates would be silky moist when I spoke to him. Even though by brain's intention of seeing him was not necessarily to have sex - it was, in fact, what my body wanted.

I remember that day; I put on makeup, wore my best jeans and blouse, and the night before I shaved my crotch :) I cut in the middle of the school day with a friend. I told her what I planned to do and she shared some tips and tricks with me about pleasing men. After our chat, I hopped on a train and made a bee-line for the Adonis’s house.

On the train, my palms were sweating - I dismissed it as nervousness. My heart was racing, I explained it to myself - I was excited. My head felt light and woozy, I thought, "Maybe I didn't eat enough." If I was interested in what my spirit was saying about the situation I would have known that I was embarking on a journey to wrong-town.

When I got off the train and walked to his building I tried to think of something cool to say when he opened the door. I walked up the 2 flights to his door, and I put up my hand to knock. Before I knocked, I heard the CD playing that he bought from me, I heard him boing, and I heard what sounded like another woman's voice. I immediately turned around, went down the stairs, and called him from across the street.

He was furious. He wanted to know where I was, I told him I was across the street, and he started yelling at me from out the window. I felt so embarrassed and ashamed, I had no recourse but to hurry back to the train station and go home. When I got home, my neighbor told me he called her and cursed me out to her. He said I was nothing but a little girl - and he was right - I was. I was a little girl who decided to listen to her most base emotions - not those screaming at me to get laid, but the ones even deeper, even more primeval, those telling me that what I was about to do - was wrong.

Tomorrow, Enemy Of The State. . .