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. . .

Prom Night

It has struck me, nearly every day, as I write this little blog of mine, "What would people think?" There are people out there, who know me to varying degrees, reading these words. Some know several of these stories I tell, some know the people involved, but no one - until now - knew them all. I feel like a clam, my shell smashed against jagged rock, exposing the flesh of me. Sometimes, I will write a line, attempting to censor and to be unfaithful to my truth because I see the faces of family and friends frowning. Wondering if I will expose them along with myself. Wondering if situations I have experienced, that have made me a better person, apply to them. I see disapproval, I see disappointment, I see disillusionment. Perhaps, in this infinite wheel of me feeling abnormal, seeking normality, discovering I am normal, experiencing tragedy, feeling abnormal, seeking normality - perhaps in this wheel I have discovered what put me here to begin with; the disapproval, the shame. But my ferocity of the independence leaping from my heart does not slow for such emotions and sometimes leads me to self inflicted wounds - like those I received on prom night.

It was senior year, and I was working hard. I had a job and I went to school and got good grades. For those of you who may not know, I like having control. I had a plan for my life, and there were no contingencies to fall back on. The 2 most important dates to me, as with many women, were my wedding and my prom. I had to have the perfect dress, the perfect shoes, the perfect hair, and I had someone handpicked to go with me.

We had been friends since freshman year. He liked to make me laugh. I didn't mind his braces, or glasses, or the way he teased me. We were fun together, and for some reason, I felt responsible for him. Always warning him to look both ways when crossing the street with me, chastising him for skipping class, asking him if he'd done his homework. He was my pet, and sometimes my pet was naughty. Once, while sitting in Spanish class together, he continually blew spit balls at me. I got really frustrated and kicked his chair - which got me, not him, sent to the dean's office. Although this was a blemish on my record, I forgave him - well, really, there was no forgiving, there was just moving on. So when the time for prom came, I knew he would want to be there with me; making me smile and laugh, and twirling me around in my beautiful gown. I couldn't wait.

About a month before the prom, I called him and asked him the big question - I know, how unconventional of me, it was my fierce sense of independence rearing its huge uncompromising head again. He said that he didn't have money to buy the tickets or rent a tuxedo and that he would have to see if he could get some from somewhere. In my mind, it was all very vague, but I never heard a no. I went on, going to department stores and buying a beautiful antique white off the shoulders gown. My mother bought me pearl and gold earrings, sequined slippers, a pearl choker, and I bought my prom ticket. Through all of this spending I envisioned him; holding my hand, kissing me for the first time, and staring at the stars together. So the day before prom, when I asked him if he bought his ticket and he said no, I was beyond dejected. It was my big day, maybe my only big day, and now he was ruining it. I offered to buy his ticket, but he wouldn't let me. I didn't care what it would look like; I just wanted him there beside me.

The night of the prom, there was no one home except one of my brothers. My mother never got to see how lovely I looked in my gown, with my princess curls and jewelry. A tear fell from my eye as I put on my choker.

A few of my girlfriends and I went to the prom together without dates. I watched as girls with their dates, spun around the dance floor, and kissed and hugged, and took photos. All of these beautiful people in this fancy country club, having the time of their lives, and I felt alone. More importantly, I missed him. I missed the good time I could have been having and tortured myself with visions of he and I doing the things the others were. I danced with my girlfriends and then sat alone in a corner until it was time for the cruise.

On the boat, I went out to the deck and stared at the stars, all by myself. One of my classmates came out and asked me why I looked so sad, and I told him it was because I was experiencing what should have been a wonderful time without the person I wanted to share it with. He gave me a pat on the shoulder and said he would dance with me. It was the highlight of my night.

Returning to the school for breakfast - this was a 10 hour prom - all of the teachers stopped me in the hall to tell me that I looked like a princess, and they asked where my date was. The question was like a thorn in my side. To end the horrible night/day, I went home to discover my brothers at school and my mother at work so I was locked out and had to go to my aunt’s house that lived about 20 blocks away in a big poofy gown with people pointing and watching.

The following week, when I saw the boy who stood me up for the prom, I was angry. I didn't want to see him or speak to him, but we shared classes together. All of my anger turned to fear, when he told me that after graduation he was enlisting in the army. He was my pet, and he might get hurt. He was my responsibility. I was frightened the way a mother might be frightened for a child, but there was something different. There was a feeling that was making me sweaty when I was around him - sweaty and a nervous - during those last few weeks of High School.

He wrote me letters when he was in basic training and when he graduated; he came back for a visit. I was in disbelief, the boy that left had become a man. We went on a date, walking around and talking about our dreams. We held hands and sung in the streets. It was winter, and the air was crisp, but we felt so warm. When he took me home, we lingered at the train station, neither of us quite knowing how to say goodbye. Finally, I closed my eyes and presented my lips for a kiss, but just then his train came - he popped up, said goodbye and got on it. That was almost 10 years ago.

Almost 10 years with no writing, or phone calls, not knowing where each other was. 10 years of me thinking about him, always seeing him with a little family on some military base somewhere. 10 years of me saying his name, of Google searches, of musing on what might have been. Then one day, through MySpace, I saw him and emailed him. We were married a year and a half later; I wore my prom dress.

I hope none of you mind that I ended on such a happy note, I will do better. . .

Tomorrow, A Mother and Daughter. . .

The Mask

I've spent much time in writing this blog, thinking about the person I was, the person I am, and the person I want to be. When I read sixtyfivewhatnow, I often wonder how I will choose to spend the latter years of my life. I have done so much, been through whirlwinds; how will I face my future? I think it is the wise thing to wonder and plan, I think it is the normal thing to do. I remember when I was younger, I thought I could live life as a chameleon, being what people wanted (see: Big Bad Wolf); but truly it was more than that, I wore a mask.

It seemed so harmless at first. It began with little things to help me fit in. I had grown up a tom-boy; it was a natural progression as I have no sisters and many brothers. I climbed trees, I wrestled, I belched. So, as I got older, I began to realize that I wasn't like other girls, and in my entrance into adulthood I decided to ease my way into femininity - to be normal. I started with weekly manicures. I sat for hours while a woman in a dust mask filed my nails, glued on tips, and polished them to perfection. I hated it; it was expensive, I couldn't move the entire time, and they were hard to type with. But I got compliments, and I liked those. Then I began working out twice a day for five days a week. The changes in my body were incredible. The men at work became drooling dogs, and I was happy about that.

Things escalated from there; there were hair pieces, spa treatments, and costly makeup. Then there were the clothes. The corsets, and flirty suits, and skin tight dresses. But it could not have been complete without the attitude, the body language, the belief that I was better and held some kind of power over men that I never actually used. I was constantly at odds with myself and the person I genuinely was inside was losing ground every day. I felt cold inside; the men I dated were pawns in my game to see how far I could get them to go for me. How could I get them to prove their devotion? How could I boost my own ego while lowering theirs?

I recognize now that in a way, my treatment of men at that time was really an attempt at getting revenge against my father. But in that moment, I only knew that I derived pleasure from it.

One particular person I met was unexpectedly sweet and real with me despite being an award winning director of commercials. He didn't treat me like property, but like a person; not like a goddess, but like a mortal. At first, this meant nothing to me; everything he knew about me was a lie - he never knew my real name or where I lived or who my family was. I never cared for him - he was just a way for me to spend my time; watching him spend money on me was a sport. It was all manufactured; from my feelings for him down to my false finger nails. It was all a trap for my own amusement.

One day, as I was sitting on his couch, he got down on his knees. He told me how much he loved me, and that he would always love me no matter what - no matter what secrets I was hiding from him, no matter who I really was inside, no matter what I wore or looked like. Something inside me cracked. He had gotten through. He was the only one to realize it was all a false front. He was the only one who actually wanted the real me.

After spending the rest of the day with him, I ran. I stopped taking his phone calls and I was relieved that he didn't really know where I lived. I wasn't ready to face the truth of who I was. I had become some beauty whore - some glamour monster - and although I knew it, I didn't want to give it up. I kept seeing him though, in my mind's eye, down on his knees, so sincerely professing his love for me, and a part of me grinned - this sadistic evil grin of satisfaction, thinking of how I must have broken him when I walked away.

But there was another side of me, the side that hated what I had done, the side that knew I couldn't keep up this act. The side who knew I had violated everything good and holy about my being - and that side was fighting hard to regain control.

A year later, after I returned to myself, I called him and invited him to dinner - my treat. We talked, we laughed, and I apologized. It was hard putting down that mask, but once it was off, I vowed to never wear it again.

Tomorrow, Prom Night. . .

The Accident

The comments I've been getting and the direct emails have all led me to one conclusion: There are people out there, who have been touched, and want to touch others - ease their pain and load. It's such a wonderful feeling to have that knowledge. It makes me smile to believe that this is part of normal everyday behavior. It gives me joy, that things as mundane as peanut butter, and work, and school, are not the only normal everyday activities. Loving, is also a part of that equation. Most have a natural love for their parents. Most would crumble upon seeing one of their parents in pain.

I was very standoffish from my family at one point in my life. No calls, no visits, just me working and going to school. It was mundane, and I was happy, because my life has always been filled with such drama. I wanted to have a bit of peace for once. I just wanted life to leave me alone.

It was Sunday, and I received a call in the middle of the day. My mother was in the hospital, she had been in a car accident 2 days ago. She had been in the hospital 2 whole days without any of her children knowing. I rushed there and found her in a bed. A rod through her right ankle used to hold up her leg, a seatbelt bruise across her chest, her teeth shattered, her femur broken in 3 places; but she was alive and she was awake. I couldn't hold myself together. It was torture watching her in pain and so banged up.

For the next few days my brothers and I were in and out of the hospital. One night around 2 o'clock in the morning she called me and said the doctors wanted to give her a blood transfusion, but she didn't want one - and if she had to have one she wanted blood from me or one of my brothers. I called my brothers and we rushed to the hospital. They wouldn't let us see her because it was so early in the morning. We were helpless, we stayed for an hour or so, and then we each went home. The next day I dragged myself to work. It was difficult managing my responsibilities there and trying to keep up with the needs (physical and emotional) of my mother. I drifted into a deep depression.

When my mother came out of the hospital, I couldn't be there for her. I was fighting myself to get out of bed in the morning. I was forcing myself to go outside. I went for days without using my voice, not talking to a soul. The longer I stayed in the depression, the worse I felt, because I knew my mother needed me and I wasn't there. I was in some sort of death spiral and I didn't know how to stop it. I had always been the strong one for my family; coordinating events, making sure people had what they needed, and now I was useless.

The accident took away my mother as I knew her, it took away my sense of my mother's immortality, it took away my ability to function for a while.

One day I awoke and decided to have an internal dialogue with God. I needed guidance and faith. I decided that I had to be stronger than my circumstances, no matter what they were. Little by little I began participating in life again, more so, I began spending time with my mother and supporting her in her recovery. I tried to invite her out whenever the mood struck me. We would have dinner, go to the movies, go for walks in the park. One day, she told me that the times I would call her for us to do something together were usually times when she was at her lowest. Times when her pain was so excruciating she didn't want to live, by then she had developed RSD ( Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome) as a result of the trauma from the car accident - RSD is a complicated reoccurring pain disease that is incurable.

It brought me joy to know that I could help her in that way. I knew she needed support emotionally; she was going in and out of the hospital since her accident due to pain. I thanked God that I could be there when she needed me despite the emotional distress I felt watching her deteriorate, because I knew that no matter what, we would have each other.

Tomorrow, Leaving Home