CAN MILDRED COME OUT TO PLAY?

I haven't been feeling well for the last few days and in one of my "spleeny" (it's a Maine word meaning whiny) rants to a friend of mine about an old boyfriend, I had a lightbulb moment. No, it was more like a holy shit moment.  All of a sudden all the stupid, wasted, self-destructive relationships I've had made sense. It didn't make me feel any better, but at least it made me see why I had taken the path I had taken. 

Being sexually abused as a child severely fractured me and distorted my image of what relationships should be like. I grew up pretty clueless. And since my abuse went unchecked and like many sexual abuse victims I kept it hid. I buried it and blamed myself for it happening. I never felt like I deserved to be loved. I truly felt unworthy of having anything good or wholesome in my life. It's sad for any child to grow up feeling like that. At the time I didn't have the foresight to see the direction that was going to take me and no one seemed to want to enlighten me. As I got older, I did drugs to numb me and then I became promiscuous, but strangely enough I never connected the dots. I always gravitated to men who wouldn't love me like I needed to be loved or deserved to be loved. I lived a self-fulfilling prophecy to prove my unworthiness. If any good guys paid me any attention, I passed them by like they had the plague. I just wasn't interested in what they were selling. I found nice guys boring and sedate. What I thought I needed was something that was going to set my hair on fire and make me teeter on the edge of insanity. What a waste of time and energy that was! I should have gone with the dude offering the house and the white picket fence instead!

I have spent a lifetime proving to myself that I'm not worth anything. I'm not worth loving. I'm not worth having a decent relationship with because I believed I'm not a decent human being. That really makes me sad that I have done that to myself, but what makes me sadder is that the people who love me...my family never have questioned why I have done this to myself. Or why no therapist has ever questioned it? Why hasn't anyone simply said STOP IT? Just stop it and try something different because your way isn't working? Now, I'm afraid I don't know how to start over and do things differently. I don't know how to feel differently or be different. I know I should. I know anyone who has put themselves in timeout for 17 years has a HUGE problem, but here I sit. It's safe! No one can hurt me. I'm isolated!

Recently, I started to do the online dating thing, but only to find out that 95% of the people on the site aren't even who they say they are. The other 5% may be the nicest people in the world, but for one reason or another just don't appeal to me. Let's face it! We all have preferences. So for now I put that great idea on hold! I'm not going to say my time has passed because I don't have a crystal ball and I can't see into the future.  But I do know I am a bonafide freak magnet and until I can figure out how to curb that and how to trust my own choices in what appeals to me then I need to stay in time out for a while longer. 

ME TOO! PART TWO

I'd like to thank Brett Michael Kavanaugh for inadvertently tearing through my rather tough scar tissue and causing some ugly wounds to reopen. I remember a time when I couldn't be in a room if there was something on TV about sexual assault or molestation or if the topic happened to come up in a group of people I instantly became invisible in fear I'd be asked to contribute something to the conversation. God forbid, if someone made a tasteless joke about the subject...I'd die a hundred silent deaths without anyone knowing I was in pain. I think it's common for people with any deep wound to eventually learn how to skillfully mask any visible pain they have.

So here I sit wide awake in the middle of the night alone with my thoughts recounting my episodes of sexual abuse. That's not a good thing for anyone to do, but as the old saying goes "you can run, but you can't hide." Do you remember how I once wrote that I'm an emotional cutter? I guess this is one of those times. So consider this an invitation to stroll down memory lane with me as I cut away and have an emotional blood bath.

Before I get started, I'd like to make a few comments regarding Judge Kavanaugh. The first comment is that everyone is innocent until proven guilty. He knows that better than anyone. The second is that it's far too common for people in power or people who lead a privileged life to abuse their power or their status in life. The last thing I'd like to say is that I hope justice is served in this instance and I hope if Judge Kavanaugh did what he's being accused of doing that he does the honorable thing and helps his accuser, Christine Blasey Ford end her years of torment. If you're guilty, admit it, make a sincere heartfelt apology to Professor Ford without any justifications or excuses (oh, but I was young and drunk...as if that makes anything okay) and step down immediately!

Like so many other women I, too have a story. Mine isn't unique, but it's mine to tell. It's mine to remember and it's mine to deal with in the way that works best for me. When I was just a child I was repeatedly molested. This went on for several years. I could write a dissertation or more on this alone, but I won't for many reasons. Regardless of what my molester tells himself or others, he knows the truth and so do I. He permanently altered my life and helped me form some twisted thought processes and behaviors. For that, I want to thank him! [Please pardon my Maine sarcasm...it's just a lovely little defense mechanism I have.]

My next experience was getting my bare bottom spanked by the good Preacher I Like Young Bare Butts and for what? I didn't memorize some Bible verses! The holy man of God, the good Pastor may have enjoyed the experience immensely, but I didn't. I can definitely say he helped sour my views on organized religion and God in general. For that, I want to thank him! I have no belief in God at all. 

When I was in Junior High School/Middle School I had stayed after school to watch some wrestling matches. It was already dark as I made my way home carefully watching each step I took because the sidewalks were slippery from the snow and ice. You see, I wasn't smart enough to wear boots so the price I paid for being "cool" was that I walked like a drunken sailor on my way home hoping I wouldn't fall.  As I approached my house, I passed a nondescript man bundled up in dark winter clothing walking in the opposite direction. Before I knew it, he had turned around and pushed me into the snowbank and quickly ran his hand up under my dress and grabbed my crotch. I was stunned and the only thing I could do was to yell at him to "get the fuck off me" as I pushed him as hard as I could to get him off me. As Mr. Let's Grab A Young Pussy went running away up the street, I gathered my composure and made my way inside my house. I never said a word to anyone about what had just happened several yards from my front door, but I never went without boots again in the winter. For that, I want to thank him!

The next thing that happened on my chronological list of scars was a year or two later when the guy who I had a mega crush on got a little carried away one evening while we were all high at my house started tickling me. He got a little rough and carried away with what he was doing. It took a few people to pull him off me. Yes, I wanted his attention, but not like that. My close friend and partner in crime, Joyce and I talked about it afterwards because she knew I was really upset. We both came to the conclusion that he hadn't meant to hurt me. We were both high and things just got way out of hand. Maybe that was true...maybe it wasn't, but thank you, Jimmy Crane for teaching me a valuable lesson. 

Next, came Mr. I'll Make You Wicked Hot who decided while having me tied up for some sexual brouhaha that burning my breast with a lit cigarette was a what needed to be done in order to get him off. That little adventure not only caused me emotional trauma, but it caused immense physical pain as well along with a nice well-placed scar now long since healed and faded, but still quite visible to anyone looking at my breasts. Thank goodness, these days that scar is only visible to me as a reminder of what a fool I was at times. For that, I want to thank him.

When I was in my early 30's I became the first female member of a volunteer fire department in Gulf County Florida. One evening during our weekly training session, the assistant chief, Bobby Pliar sent everyone off to do various jobs and had me stay behind to show me how to change the oil in one of the fire trucks and how to man the pump on one of the trucks. As he begun showing me all of these things, he motioned for me to come over to where he was and when I did, he grabbed my breasts. I usually have a quick comeback for everything but I was so stunned and absolutely speechless I just didn't know what to say. All I did was stand there and look at him while he had both my breasts in his hands. It took me a few days to tell my significant other who was also on the fire department. He was furious and was the type of person who believed in revenge, but revenge wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want it broadcasted it because I knew I'd get a"I told you so" from all the people who didn't feel it was a woman's place to be on a fire department. That was small town good ol' boy thinking for you at its finest! After thinking it through, I felt my worth as a fire fighter was much less than his worth because not only was he assistant chief, but he was a EMT as well. I did get an apology from Bobby, but shortly after that I quit the fire depatment. My heart was no longer in it. For that episode, I want to thank him!

During my 40's, I had a few incidents of men who felt because they bought me dinner that I needed to repay the favor with a blow job or a hand job guided rudely and forcefully by them and strongly deferred by me. Nothing says "hell no" quite like someone trying to force you to perform sexual acts in a parked car or in a movie theatre while they lean back and digest their dinner. Needless to say, I never accepted a second date with any of these men. It always puzzled me why anyone would assume sex was repayment for the cash they dropped on dinner. What I really want to know is do I really look like an after dinner mint? For that, I want to thank them.

Now, I stay my ass at home and out of the line of fire! That may be the wrong thing to do, but it works for me. I'm sure many people wonder why I gave up on men and put myself in permanent time-out. All these things combined with a few relationships from hell made me see that a troglodyte's life is for me. Nothing in my cave will ever hurt me except maybe the cave itself...

*reposted from 9/19/2018

ME TOO! PART ONE

You see it time and time again. Some woman, any woman, maybe even some woman you may know personally experiences any sort of sexual assault and as soon as she gets the courage to speak out about her experience, she's immediately confronted with opposition instead of support. Sexual assault/abuse comes in many forms (anything from some unwanted groping to being raped) and every form of sexual abuse/assault causes permanent scars. These scars aren't visible. The scars a woman carries with her from sexual abuse have been hidden away, yet under close scrutiny those scars are worn with everything she thinks, she feels and she does. All one needs to do is open their eyes and see the pain.

I totally understand why it takes some women years to be able to speak about their experience. I understand the years of self-hatred and shame they bear. I understand the feeling of knowing how speaking out will open an ugly can of worms devouring maggots and once it's open, it can't ever be closed again. I understand the feeling of knowing how some people will think you have an over active imagine, you just want to cause trouble and of course, some people will do the worst thing possible. They'll pity you and try to keep you in the "victim" box. It's especially damaging to anyone who has managed to move past being a victim to be constantly stuffed back in that cold, dark box by everyone around them.

I understand being reluctant to say anything because once you say anything, a barrage of questions follow. How could something like that happen? Are you sure it happened that way? Why has it taken you so long to say something? Why didn't you just say no? Why don't you remember all the gory details? Being the center of attention is the last thing anyone who has been sexually assaulted wants.

I understand how people question how it's possible to forgive the person who assaulted you. Forgiveness has little to do with  the person who caused you pain. It has more to do with taking back your power and allowing yourself to heal. In order to do that forgiveness is required. That forgiveness includes forgiving yourself for being too weak to stop the assault or for putting yourself in harm's way. How many times do you hear "well, she asked for it?" No one asks to be sexually abused unless they're a masochist. For most, sexual abuse is a horrifying, crippling experience and it takes a lifetime to heal.

Imagine in some cases having someone you know and trust sexually assault you. Imagine not knowing who to tell or how to tell someone because you don't know if anyone will believe you. Imagine feeling conflicted about saying anything because you know if you say anything it will cause pain for the person who assaulted you. Why in hell should that matter? Trust me, it does matter, A twisted sense of loyalty can form to protect the person who assaulted you if you know and love that person, but along with a twisted sense of loyalty a permanent sense of dread forms as well. If someone who's supposed to love you would harm you in that way, then what is the rest of the world going to do to you? What are all those faceless nameless individuals who don't care about you going to do? You feel as long as you protect your abuser, you protect yourself as well.

Being constantly on guard takes its toll on a person. Sometimes the person lets that guard down and says "what the hell!" Some people become promiscuous as a way to deal with their pain. They see having sex as a way of being in control. So the more sex you have, the more control you have. Some people turn to drugs and/or alcohol to numb the pain. In the end, nothing works. The pain stays with you staring you in the face each and every day.

I understand that it's an ugly topic to discuss. People who have been subjected to sexual abuse would like nothing more than to keep that ugliness hidden away, but the longer it's hidden away, it festers and affects how you look at the world. It affects every relationship you have and often times, it prevents you from having a lasting relationship. Many people who go through this experience spend their entire life seeking something they just don't know how to have or where to find it.

* reposted from 9/18/18

AN EMOTIONAL CUTTER'S LIFE - PART I

My mother used to tell me that I was so shy when I was a little girl that I would cry if a stranger would look at me. I really can't imagine living a life where I felt like that, but lucky for me, I have no conscious memories of being that way or feeling that way. I eventually blossomed when I started school. I discovered I had a mouth. The gift of gab was magically bestowed upon me and I transformed into a storyteller and the class clown all rolled into one lanky-legged little girl. 

My safe place growing up was never at "home."  My safe place was in an imaginary world I had created in my bedroom where I could transport myself to other realms and be other people or things. It was easy! I'd just open the door to my pink wooden closet on wheels, carefully push the buttons I had drawn on the inside of the wooden door, climb inside the closet, shut the door and transport myself somewhere else. Then, instantly off I'd go on my merry way. It was like reading a book, but only better until my mother would holler for me or at me...and out of the pink closet on wheels I would come. Blasted back to reality with a thud, I would jump out of the closet with a half-glazed look on my face. Undoubtedly, I had done something wrong...yet again! I would sigh and trudge my way downstairs to find out what I had done wrong this time and suffer the consequences.

I can't say I really know what love is because it's not something I've ever received in abundance. That's not being said from a place of self-pity, but it's a statement of fact pure and simple. My childhood was no better or worse than many girls or boys who grow up in alcoholic families. I struggled from having a distorted self-image that continually convinced me how ugly I was coupled with the negativity that was always shouting at me telling me I wasn't worthy of being loved. I was awkward. I felt stupid and I just wanted to be one of those pretty girls. My self-image was reinforced by how I was treated by my family. My mother never took me under her wing and molded me into a "girlie girl."  Isn't that what a mother should do with her only daughter? For Christ sake, my daughter is a princess. She's beautiful in every way and has always been since the day she was born. When I was growing up, my mother wouldn't dream of leaving the house unless she was dressed to the nines. Me? Not so much! I was the rebel. Go figure! I became a hippie. No make-up. No frills. I was tall and skinny. A pair of jeans and bare feet were great in my eyes. I always told people I had natural beauty and didn't need anything to enhance myself. Some people actually bought that bullshit! Now, I jokingly tell them it's a handicap to be beautiful. I think perhaps, that may be the truth.

I've always wondered what it would feel like to be able to look in the mirror and like what you see or at least be okay with what you see. I've never been okay with what I see. Don't get me wrong...I'm not saying I'm completely fugly, but what I see and what other people see are two entirely different things. AND then there's the matter of what's on the inside. OMG! That shit is scary! That's the kind of shit that makes people nutty. "We" have to keep that shit in a locked drawer NEVER to see the light of day. 

One of the worst things my mother ever did to me was when she got it in her head how darling I would look with a Twiggy haircut and she made me get my hair cut like that. I was 11. Puberty hadn't quite hit yet.  I already was shaped like a boy.  What she did gave me the kiss of death. It was horrible and I had absolutely no say in the matter. I was so traumatized. It was truly awful. I know! I know! Suck it up! Right? But when you're young stuff like that matters. Stuff like not being listened to matters. Not having anyone to talk to matters. Looking like a boy when you're a girl MATTERS. I wanted to be cute and I wasn't. If my mother had been kind, she would have featured her tall daughter as a model and made her feel beautiful instead of awkward and homely. She should have slapped some make-up on me and enhanced some of my features and then turned my face towards the mirror and told me that I'm beautiful. That never happened and I often wonder why she never attempted to let me know I wasn't ugly. Did she not know how I felt? Couldn't she see it?  All the while this minor bullshit and pre-teen angst was happening, I was struggling dealing with sexual abuse. So I suffered in silence. The ugly duckling waiting to become a swan suffered in silence. It was my self-imposed prison for which the sentence was indefinite.

This was in a time when NO ONE talked about stuff like that. Yes, sexual abuse happened back then. It's always happened and unfortunately, will continue to happen. On some level, I instinctively knew I needed to just keep it to myself and "protect" the person. So, I sacrificed myself to protect someone else who didn't deserve protection or my loyalty. But why did I do that? If this makes any sense...although I feared and hated what the person was doing to me and yes, I also hated that person, but on the other hand, I also loved that person. I was just a child and I was torn.  My loyalties were torn. I was so confused.  I didn't have anyone to talk to and even if I did, what exactly do you say? How do you slip something like that into a conversation when you don't really understand what's happening or why it's happening. OMG! That child inside me still cries at times! Sometimes, I lay awake at night and I get flashes of old memories and feelings. That little girl still lives and she has lived a war-torn life. The battle scars may not be visible to the naked eye, but they do exist. When I look in the mirror I see the scars. When I look in the mirror I feel the scars and when I close my eyes I feel the fear.