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. . .

Detour: A Friend Gone

Some days I feel as though I have more questions than answers. I suppose that there are times when everyone feels that way; how will I go on, what's next, who will stand with me when I'm weak, where can I go to escape this madness, why is this happening????? Sometimes we question ourselves. We question who we are. This leaves us vulnerable to the abrasive forces outside of us; wearing us down little by little until we either become secure in our own skin or break. My best friend came to such a decision in her life and I was causing the abrasions.

I remember my first day of High School. I met so many people; short, tall, black, white, etc. Each one I met with an open heart and mind; they were each my friend unless proven otherwise. I tried to figure out where I would be the most comfortable, which clique would suit me best. Because most of my classes were of the nerd variety, advanced english and science, I was immediately drawn to groups of studious kids. Kids who instead of going to the lunch, would prep the biology lab, kids who hung out in the counselors lounge, kids who used their spare time to do homework just assigned.

But there was another side to me besides the over-achiever, there was the artist - the poet. I chose to write for the school paper and magazine, and I wandered the halls writing poems in my notebook. I was still stifled by my emotions surrounding my father's abandonment, traumatized by the early separation from my mother, and highly protective of myself due to my mother's domestic violence experience. And so, there was a facade of a social butterfly that I wore like a mask, because it protected my softer insides from hurt. I wasn't sure if I could survive any more damage. Pouring out my feelings about my past, my present, and my future seemed to put me at ease, and although I was fearful of letting someone close enough to the real me to be able to hurt me, I was eager to find a kindred spirit.

Most of my friends at the time fit into a clique; nerds, jocks, metal heads, artsy kids. I liked to float from group to group, experiencing new things, expanding my limited horizon, creating an image of myself that encouraged people to believe I was cool. Then, one day I met her. She was a transfer student and shared a few classes with me. We began our friendship by sharing answers we had for homework and debating whose answer was more right. Slowly, I began sharing my poetry with her, and she began sharing her writing with me. I had finally found the person who I could be myself with. We visited each other’s homes; I remember lying across her bed and reading poetry to her. I remember sharing lunch near a pond in a park. I remember visiting the museum and discussing the modern art pieces. Once, on our way from the museum with a group of friends, we crossed through a park. I was wearing a blue lace dress and cute flats. We were laughing, and running, and talking; and suddenly, I decided to climb a tree. My best friend screamed at me to get down, and then broke into a laughing fit. I ripped my dress getting down :)

We continued that way all throughout High School. Sharing our most intimate secrets, the issues troubling our minds, and our hopes for the future; this was every day conversation - as if our words could somehow change things, as if they could combat our demons and make our dreams materialize. As we prepared for college, I felt closer than ever to her. I loved her like the sister I never had.

One day, my mother and I returned home from shopping, and she said I had mail. Looking at the envelope, I could tell it was from my best friend, I had no idea what it could be. I read the letter as I entered my home. It made me swoon; I ran to the bathroom with tears streaming down my eyes. I cried for almost an hour, rocking back and forth on the toilet with the door to the bathroom locked. When my mother knocked on the door, I could barely move my lips to tell her clearly that my best friend no longer wanted to be friends with me.

In her letter, she told me two things which shocked me: 1) She was a lesbian 2) She was in love with me. She didn't want to be friends anymore, because amid all of that laughing, and talking, and sharing, I apparently said something hateful about gays. I was devastated, had I really been intolerant at some point? Me, with all of the friends from so many different backgrounds? I hated myself. I didn't care that she was a lesbian, I didn't care that she was in love with me, all I wanted was my friend. I wanted to be able to talk to my friend. She was all I had in the world that was so like me. She was my crutch against the outside, and I loved her, but now, she was gone.

I learned about the weight of words then. I learned to measure them carefully.

Tomorrow, the Mask. . .