I get my knickers in a twist sometimes. It is no wonder that I have landed in the hands of a mental health professional. After looking at the trip we took to the botanical gardens, I freaked out about my hair. I. FREAKED. OUT.

I mean, my hair! It was so BLAH. Not at all like a proper dark & divine fluttery creature. I came to the decision that I needed it to change, like immediately. So now? I am sporting this:

Pardon the schnozz.

It was with this new haircut that I arrived, at the physical therapist at 6:30 am. She, being entirely too energetic for such an ungodly hour, fluffed her hands into my hair, with a chirpy “Cute!”.

Then she proceeded to torture me. Good torture, with gentle hands and kind intent. She, poised above me as I lay, face down. She, digging her fingers and elbows into my very injured low back. In through my nose and out through my mouth I breathed in the smell of a studio, geared towards alleviating pain by causing more.

We joked as she did her work, my body giving in to her demands. I fought back tears, not brought from pain, but from memory. Memories of why and how I came to be in this place. Muscles remember. Sometimes better than we do. Sometimes they remember long past the expiration date. It is time for my muscles to forget, through this fresh soreness they gain a gateway to now.

Later in the day, my back still yelling in subtle protest, I sat on the familiar slate-blue leather of his couch. He looked at the total of my depression inventory.

27! Criminy!

“Criminy? What is this, 1940? That was a very vodeeodo, kind of word.”

He smiled at me, getting serious in the eyes.

You’re better than this. Seriously, you are. What is eating you?

I hugged the pillow to me and chose my words carefully. Joking, evading, obfuscating. He bought none of it. So I spilled, as I always do, yet managing dry eyes and some self deprecation.

So your options are, leave things the way they are and find a way to deal. Or, make the changes you want to make and let me help you change them. He is a part of your life, too Christine. You are missing a major opportunity to get what you need by not leaning on your guy.

I nodded, starting to feel choked up. So I just continued to nod.

Or you could just write this all off as the ramblings of an instigating shit head.

I laughed, out loud.

“So if in this process, I totally go batshit, do you make in hospital visits?”

Only if the walls are rubber and you don’t fling your shit at me.

“Check. No monkey behavior, and bouncy walls.”

You won’t go crazy by being human. You are letting him help you in a way that only he can. He loves you, Christine. I don’t know him but I know that. There is nothing in your head that will stop that. I mean really, I would know. You two have been through more than most people go through together. Stop being strong and just be. He will be there.

He will, The Boy, he always has been.

It’s apparently taken an instigating shit head, to make me realize that I don’t need to try to talk him out of being here. I deserve him. The best I can do for him, is to do the best I can for me.

Dad,

It appears I may not be handling you very well. For this, I apologize. For not being able to articulate all of this conflict in me, I apologize. For not being the daughter you dreamed I’d be, I apologize. For not making peace in a way you could accept, I apologize.

I do feel badly that we don’t speak. I do feel badly  that you don’t understand why. I know you don’t understand. I know it’s not artificial, this confusion. I know you really don’t get it.

I know. I know you love me, I know.

This is where the trouble sets in.

You love me in your way and it’s not enough. You love me in a way that is all about how that love can serve you. You love me in a way that is foreign to me. Foreign to most, if we aren’t picking bones.  You love me in a way that is secondary to your whims, secondary to your wants and does not serve me. It never has. As a kid, I was powerless to understand you, to assuage you and to escape you. As an adult, I am not.

As a child I could not explain my feelings to you, as an adult I am able. But, I haven’t. This isn’t fair to you. It isn’t fair to me.

I don’t blame you that I thought that love meant screaming and angry explosions and distance. I don’t blame you that I was scared of you. I don’t blame you that you made me feel like shit. I don’t blame you for how you made my sister and my brother feel. I don’t blame you for the things your genes have passed along to me. I don’t blame you for your feckless mother and her disregard for us.

You were a product of your upbringing. Of your experiences, of your illnesses. I realize that none of those things were my fault. But I also realize that to let those things continue effect me as a grown woman, would be my fault. I am stopping this, now.

This is so that you realize why we don’t speak.

You gambled your family away.

You have yet to admit that you have a problem.

You take constant and ruthless advantage of my brother’s kindness.

You ignore what your doctors say and do all of the things that please you.

You stood in my home and denigrated my mother.

You take no personal responsibility.

This is so you have no question as to why. This is so you have no flicker of hope that things will be swept under the rug, with us. Your time left in life is short and I am one thing you cannot fix. I am the one thing that will not bend for your comfort. I tried to forgive, I tried to make these things different between us, to no avail. Now you know that I am aware of your lies. Now you know why. There is no need to feel bad, no need to atone.

You never wanted to be a  father. Now you don’t have to be.

Your daughter

Lemons

Originally uploaded by peonies and polaroids

And I don’t even get to make lemonade.

It’s no secret that I snatched The Boy directly from a very comfortable life and into “mild poverty”, when he was the tender age of 20.

I was 25. I can honestly say that at 20, he had his shit so very much more together than I did. His maturity was leaps and bounds over my own at that age. He had his finances in order, an exquisite vocabulary and a sweet baby face that whittled its way into my dreams more often than not.

He was very very sweet. He dealt with the most absurd 4th of July picnic you can imagine (think peacocks running across the table and a bird shitting onto our food from the trees above) and my father talking to him for hours about fiber optic cable.

He held my hand and kissed me while we watched fireworks sparkle above us. It became our anniversary. I digress.

He showed up on my doorstep, two months ahead of schedule, having driven all night to get to me. My little doorstep, with my tiny front yard, in the middle of the ghetto. He appeared and kissed me again. He was ready to start our life together. I had to work, and I left him alone in my 450 square foot apartment. He slept.

We had to go retrieve his things. He was in college, living at home. His parents were on vacation….and there is the rub.

I cannot begin to tell you the guilt I felt as we drove endless hours to get to his house, in a stupid 86 Ford Bronco with a kill switch problem. We had to stop for gas every 100 miles or so. It would lurch at slow speeds. It smelled like ass. It was borrowed from my boss and it was HUGE. Every lurch, every weird noise, every gas stop I wanted to ask him if he was sure.

Are you sure?

Are you?

His parent’s house, huge and beautiful in a gated community seemed somehow besmirched by my presence in this giant truck. The clock was counting down on our time to remove him from this place.

I could see his heart tearing, and it killed me.

We packed quickly, he quit his job (another tear in his heart) and piled everything into that damned Bronco. The radio played Madonna’s “Music”, but…

It refused to start.

Crap.

We were strapped for cash as it was and decided instead of getting it fixed we would get a moving truck and tow the thing back to my house. We did, we got in turned it on and the radio played Madonna’s “Music”.

It wouldn’t fit on the trailer.

Craap.

We drove around in the moving truck, me trying to fight off mild hysteria, he trying to fight off mild anger. The radio played Madonna’s “Music”. I started crying.

Craaap.

We found a mechanic, who fixed the truck fairly cheaply and quickly. We returned the house, exhausted and smelly. I waited for him in another room as he composed his farewell to his parents. On the TV, Madonna’s “Music” played. I listened to him cry.

Craaaap.

He emerged, teary, with a bag slung over his shoulder. “Let’s just go.” I nodded, unsure I would be able to say anything around the lump in my throat. We started on the drive down to San Diego, the ancient radio playing the omniscient Madonna song. We both laughed and sang it together. In mocking, teary, new voices. New in the blending with eachother, new with the life we were just starting to make.

On this moving day, it was more than items of clothing and small bits of furniture that we carried from one place to the next. It was the beginning of our lives, forever entwined together. The moving of hearts and the moving from boy to man, from girl to woman. From one to two.

With him, I remain moved.

I hadn’t wanted to share this, but I think this is not a phenomena that is unique to me. I want people to understand all of the pieces that are the puzzle of a survivor of sexual assault. This is one of those pieces.

photo courtesy of Peonies and Polaroids

I sat, indian style on the couch, shoes kicked off. I piled every available pillow around me and tucked my toes into the bends of my knees. Noticeably nervous. Visually guarded. Trying to be relaxed.

He, of course, took notice of everything.

Including the scraping of my thumbnails, against each other. My version of chewing my nails. Scrape scrape scrape. Flakes of polish chipping off. A layer coming naked in the middle of the room. Exposing me in tiny pieces.

You’re scared. That isn’t necessary here, you know. This is your safe haven.

I looked at him and rolled my eyes, hugging the pillows closer to me.

“Yeah, I know. Safe as thieves. This is just. This is the one thing I’ve never talked about.”

Think of me as the voice in your head. In a tall dude’s body. Angel on your shoulder, who cusses.

Which is exactly the kind of angel I would want on my shoulder. I looked out the window, wondering if my face was pained enough to change the climate. If somehow my internal storm had its own pressure system. If the environment would respond to me, somehow reversing the 6 kingdoms of life. It didn’t.

“Ok, just try not to think I am freak.” I caught his eye and he shook his head.

Christine, you know better th-

I put my hand up to stop him.

“I know.” I took a breath and met his eyes, full bore. Every ounce of fear sparked and burned in me, bonfire of the vanities. “When I was raped, I was scared. I was in so much pain, I was so afraid I wasn’t going to live.”

He nodded and leaned forward.

“In the middle of all the it, I shut my brain off. I was trying not to think of what was happening to me, and then my body took over.Then it happened.”

His eyes narrowed, looking slightly confused. He shrugged slightly.

“I had an orgasm.”

I waited for his face to change, for some kind of revulsion. Some kind of admonishment. His face stayed smooth, yet his eyes changed. Sympathy.

I stopped looking at him and buried my face in the pillow.

That’s a biological response, not a logical one. Bio makes all the difference.

I snorted.

You weren’t enjoying yourself, it was just a matter of friction. It was just a matter of your body trying to make the best out of a horrible situation. Trying to alleviate the pain.

I listened to him talking, soothing voice saying the right words. They should soothe me. They should make me feel like I didn’t secretly want what happened to me. Secret even to myself. They should make me feel like I haven’t been trying to solve this particular mystery for 15 years. Why my body wanted pleasure in the middle of all that terror.

“Sometimes, it’s hard to let it all go and achieve the same end, you know? I just want it all to be very normal for me, to not have to try so hard. Sex has become about emotional connection to me and not necessarily about physical pleasure. I mean it feels nice, but sometimes I get so frustrated because I want to let go and I can’t.” There, I’d poured all my kibble into the bowl.

That’s not unique.

I fucking hate it when he says that to me, and he knows it. It’s become our joke. I look for something to throw and he pretends to duck.

This is a very common thing. It’s very normal for women to have this problem anyway, yours has a specific reason. But, there is no guarantee that if you hadn’t been raped that it would be any easier.

Logical. Why was I crying?

He tossed me the kleenex box. I dabbed my eyes and felt my contacts shift under the salty droplets. “I want something to come easy to me, pardon the pun.”

It was his turn to snort.

Things will get easier, you are impatient with yourself. From where I am sitting, you are progressing light speed. Can you talk to him about this?

“It hasn’t occurred to me to talk to him about this, it’s not his problem. I am responsible for my own pleasure, and he is attentive to me. This isn’t a matter of lacking something, it’s this thing in my head. When I have had them it’s been great. It would just be nice for it to be the rule and not the exception. I don’t want him feeling responsible for me.”

And how he feels isn’t your choice, it’s his.

That I am scared to let go because it is somehow a punishment is my choice. That I deserve not to feel good, because I am damaged goods is also my choice. Yet they are not rooted in accuracy, rather rooted in fear. How many years can fear build, before the tower becomes too tall to support its own weight?

Intimacy, physically isn’t hard for me. Associating it with pain, is. To let it go is just one more choice I have to make. Just one more thing I get to overcome. To transcend.

And it’s not unique. Damn.

Have you heard about this? Pretty cool, but for the total nervous-making.

The beautiful KC tagged me for a meme. But, as we all know I totally suck at responding to memes or awards. I am just really bad about it. So, in answer to her meme, I bring you this. My confession.

I am a cheeseball.

It’s true. I am a sucker for a love song. I am a sucker for a gothy, angsty love song. I am a sucker for a well written, orchestral love song. I am a sucker for a cute boy singing a love song. If you catch me at the wrong time of the month, you very well may find me getting slightly teary and verklempt over some poptart singing about love.

I am a cheeseball.

You can count on me to love dissonant chords, unresolved notes and something slightly pained in a love song. Something delicious and longing and well, slightly cheesy. Like this:

I mean, the name of the SONG is Lovesong, for pete’s sake

cheeseball lyric:
whenever i’m alone with you
you make me feel like i am free again
whenever i’m alone with you
you make me feel like i am clean again

lifehouse- You and Me. Look at the kid, he’s like…12 and makes me bawl. That’s a whole brick of velveeta, right there

cheeseball lyric:

cause it’s you and me and all of the people
with nothing to do
nothing to lose
and it’s you and me and all of the people
and I don’t know why
I can’t keep my eyes off of you

*sniffle*
This next one is my favorite love song. I can’t function when this song is on, and as she will attest, I secretly daydream of the romantic boombox moment.

cheeseball lyric:

in your eyes
the light the heat
in your eyes
I am complete

You. Complete. Me.

All hail the goth girls, in this next entry.

cheeseball lyric:

When you cried I’d wipe away all of your tears
When you’d scream I’d fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me

Now if you’ll pardon me, I must don my most beautiful white dress and climb a tree.

Rob Thomas. Sigh. Now, I refuse to call any of his lyrics cheesy. He is a HELL of a writer.

plus I think he’s really cute. Shut up.

I refuse to call them cheeseball lyrics:

I am the white dove for a soldier
Ever marching as to war
I would give my life to save you
I stand guarding at your door
I give you all that I am

So now you know my horrible secret.

Still love me?

caffeine jacks with my sugar, more than sugar does

I should never eat cucumbers en masse. Just trust me on this one.

There are some things that I didn’t think were important to me, that totally are.

That fact bugs the shit out of me.

I have an artist’s eye and none of the skill

I want people to like me

I don’t know why I want people to like me

That fact also bugs me

I feel that the quality of my writing is slipping

all the while I am just trying to get a shitty first draft, down on paper

when I have panic attacks, it is like the world is hyperspeed

I don’t want The Boy to see me have one, ever

if I would just learn to love me, I could have all the things I want

those desperate things that keep moving just an inch out of my grasp

16 years of living with the same pain is too long

but I haven’t quite figured out how to get the fuck over it, already

I am struggling, and this is damned hard

fake it til you make it only works if the smile reaches your eyes, too

but most people don’t care enough to look you in the eye

It is getting really fucking hot.

I have cramps.

I love The Boy more than I thought was possible. So much it hurts. I always have, even when I was being completely idiotic.

I just want to fly

I had it all planned. There was a plan and I had it. It snuggled into my little brain like a warm, soft teddy bear, this idea. It was full of the promise of good feelings and yummy, stretchy body goodness. One slight flaw in the plan, it required me to be semi-coherent in the morning.

pssssh! For serious, your girl flutter? NOT a morning person. Not at 6 am when the alarm goes off and she is warm in her bed. Not when there is a snoring, adorable, mumbly boy in said bed and a little stuffed sheep. There is no way in HELL your girl is getting out of bed to do yoga with Rodney Yee.

I mean, unless Rodney showed up at her house…yeah no. Not even then. So my early morning yoga plans were thwarted by my sheer laziness. Way to be healthy, flutter.

So I was feeling slightly self flagellant on the way to work. No yoga, no swimming, no racquetball, no walks. Just low carb slim-fast and sugarfree drink fare staring up at me from my lunch bag. It looked unappetizing even through my darkest sunglasses.

The sky, however, stretched out before me in endless blue. Interrupted by the construction of a new overpass, which seemed garish against such a beautiful color. Like a perfectly beautiful girl with the wrong shade of lipstick.

For some reason, it made me want to cry. Not because there is construction, the demands of a growing state need to be attending to…but more because I viewed myself as that intrusive thing. All covered in scaffolding and jutting out of the sky, at an awkward angle. Truth is, I have been actively skirting a meltdown. Playing matador to an angry bull of past experience, present self doubt.

I don’t know, maybe I need to make a date with Rodney Yee, after all.

The women of my family are a gassy lot.

Sorry, it’s true.

While my mother was out to visit, we rekindled a long standing rivalry in Mexican Train. Since The Boy and I are not officially adults yet, we have no table big enough to carry such a game. So we played on the floor.

There was drinking (mild, people MILD) and a lot of laughing. Then it happened.

My mother farted.

This was no delicate affair, it was loud and effusive and…well…hysterical. We all started to laugh, my mom included. She stood up and bent over. And farted again. The Boy, not to be outdone, let one loose and raised his hand, victoriously.

“In solidarity!” he roared.

As my mother began to laugh, a series of machine gun farts belted out of her backside.

Powpow POW pow pow pow!!!

In an attempt to stop the onslaught she backed up towards the wall. All was lost. The Boy started laughing and snorted (which never happens). My brother hiccuped and I laughed, silent, tear streaming laughter.

She sat back down, farting again and continued to play the game.

The Boy looked at me incredulously and said.

“Oh my God, it is ALL. SO. CLEAR. NOW!”

You know someone who has lived the fear.

You know someone who fell into the wrong place, at the wrong time. Who was one who occupied one of the every two minutes. Every two minutes someone like the person you know, falls victim to sexual assault.

You know someone who is the 1 in 6, you know someone who cries for the men who are the 1 in 33.

You know someone who clung to life, wearing satin and sequins. You know someone whose life was altered. It happens, every two minutes.

In the time it takes you to read this, it will happen again.

But you know someone to whom it’s already happened.

You know someone who was too afraid to share it then, too afraid to fight the battle.

You know someone who almost succumbed.

You know someone who is not afraid to fight the battle now.

But moreso, there are more. There are more you do not know, but are just like the one you do. There are more that are afraid, more that have no way of getting help.

But we can help them. We can give them voice and comfort, we can give them hope and strength. We can give them medical and mental care. We can do that.

We can do that, because every two minutes, someone needs it.

We can, because care. We must because we all know someone.

Go here and give whatever you can. In honor of someone you know.