This morning while driving the kids to school, I totally saw The Jerk (a.k.a. the abusive high school ex) riding his bicycle*. He went right by my car and I didn't even swerve to hit him once. That earns me some good karma, right?
*No, he is not stalking me. His grandmother lives close to the kids' school and he was just a few yards from her house when he pedaled by. I doubt he even saw us.
Showing posts with label Speaking Out. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Speaking Out. Show all posts
Friday, January 28, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Two Memes are Better Than One
I was going to do Crazy Texas Mommy's Wednesday Rambles like my friend Allie at Screwed Up Texan, but at 10 p.m., my nice warm bed (thanks to my friend the electric blanket) beckoned louder. I thought about going with my usual Thursday Thirteen stand-by instead, but I really wanted to do Wednesday Rambles. So, this list of ramblings will contain no more and no less than thirteen of the many random thoughts that have danced through my brain at some point this week. Maybe next week I will actually pick one and stick with it, but I wouldn't count on it:
- Today's blog post is brought to you by the fact that Grey's is a re-run. Also, tonight's Grey's is a re-run. Again!! Do. Not. Like.
- Tonight's dinner was brought to my family by the genius that is Ree, The Pioneer Woman. If she can inspire me to make good food, she can teach anyone. I can't recommend her recipes more. We had the grilled chicken and pineapple quesadillas-you know you were going to ask. We have also enjoyed her pizza recipes, the chicken cacciatore, and the chicken and dumplings. I really liked the blackberry cobbler (version #1) too.
- And the fact that I ate most of it over three days by myself is why I won't be making it again soon unless it it for someone else who will take it far away from me.
- One of my infamously deleted comments here referred to me as a "fat, lazy b*tch." I guess they got the fat part right. And I kind of wish that the "b" part was right too, because maybe then people would stop taking advantage of me. But as a working mom with 5 kids, I am definitely NOT lazy.
- The "lazy" part of that comment was what hurt me enough to delete it. The other two I can live with, sort of.
- My friend Chris made me promise not to delete anymore mean comments so she "can light them up like the 4th of July." Them=The commenter, though that one was Anonymous.
- I love Chris. She co-authored the 35th birthday post that appears on my sidebar. She also saved my life a few times. I wrote about one of them here. (Although I think I am actually combining the two in that flashback. It's funny, I remember detailed things from childhood through the present, but those two years are the only things that are hazy. Can we say PTSD?)
- I also love Lanie and her mom, Vickie. Lanie was the other author of the birthday post and the pictures were Vickie's. They let me live in her room with her from the time I graduated high school until I moved into the OU dorms, they too were trying to save me. Ultimately, it worked.
- While I lived there, I met this guy from Fort Ord who was home on leave and looked a lot like Charlie Sheen. He flirted with both of us until I made sure he knew I was 18 and Lanie was 16. He picked me and we went out a few times before he went back to California. I wasn't sure I would ever see him again. But...
- Seven years later, I married him. Chris was my Maid of Honor, Lanie caught the bouquet, Vickie altered the dress that I wore.
- I may have been short-changed in the mom department, but I have been blessed with some wonderful people in my life and I am grateful to have them.
- Of course this totally leaves out Wendy and her mom Mary Kay which just isn't right. They were just as important and just as instrumental in the whole 'save Melessa' project-Wendy just never had the opportunity to get in 'The Jerk's' face and make him run away like Chris did. But she totally would have. And Mary Kay did her fair share of letting me stay at their house too. (Edited to add:) And I can't sing their praises without singing Jen's too! I love you Jen, even if you did 'abandon' us for Wilburton and the love of your life. You came up with the 'blinky light revenge!' So let me reiterate: Me=Blessed
- I really didn't mean for this list to be so sappy and sentimental, but I'm not at all surprised that it did.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
It's October, Time for Speaking Out
I didn't even attempt this last year, but feel motivated to do so now. In addition to Breast Cancer Awareness (which I honored by participating in Race for the Cure, doing my monthly B.S.E., and scheduling a very long overdue Dr. appt. that will probably include 'mommy's first mammogram' given my age-oh goody!) October is also Domestice Violence Awareness month. I blog about this here and there, but when I write those words I often feel like I am more worried about impressing my reading audience than I am writing from my heart. So tonight, I'm going to try that instead. You see, this year has changed my perspective a lot from what it has been in years past. I hope I can share that eloquently and effectively with what I write here.
Any long-time reader of this blog will know that I am a domestic violence survivor. I am going to try and explain how that happened to me, how I escaped it, and what I had to do before I could truly recover from it. As it turns out, I wasn't the only victim-even though previous narratives have always been written that way:
When I was little, my parents felt like I wasn't very nice to my younger sister-born when I was five. So, they continually tried to put me in my place. My mom, in particular, relished this. She constantly told me how selfish I was, how mean, and how jealous. My younger sister Janet was dubbed her "sweet girl" and I was the "ice princess." I was 5! I didn't know what I was. But I didn't like myself very much by the time my next sister was born just before I turned 11. (I was very helpful with that new baby, and it was my younger sister's turn to get the ugly labels.)
Time went on, and mom made sure to point out to me how little I was developing compared to the other girls in my class. When all the friendship shifts of junior high came along, she made sure I understood the friends I lost were a direct result of my undesirable personality. It was also at about this time that she began oversharing WAY too much about what her life had been like as a teenager and later a college student. Apparently, she had a violent boyfriend at OU and I remember distinctly how she told me "You never know love until it has pushed you down a flight of stairs." It sounded insane to me even then, but I guess somewhere, somehow I internalized it.
I thought I was ugly, I thought I was underdeveloped, and I knew I was undesirable. The first time a boy noticed me, it was at a Rainbow/DeMolay dance; but he lived too far away for anything to come of it. The next one was a year ahead of me, but we were already tired of each other by the time school started. We were also friends with all the same people. It didn't make for a fun morning meet-up before the bell rang to start the day. We were a junior and a senior respectively, and I was glad he wasn't smart enough for Algebra 2; which was my first hour class. I started leaving our little morning huddle earlier and earlier each morning. And I guess that's how I met him. He was in my Algebra 2 class, he sat one seat up and one row over from me. My earlier arrivals allowed for just a bit more socializing time than other classes. We were both shy at first, but then one of my friends just had to see her boyfriend in Edmond. Her mom insisted that I go along, and after being the odd-gal out on the last date; desperation sunk in as Fall Break approached. Not wanting to be the 3rd wheel for four whole days of Edmond dates, I invited him along.
Even in the early days, he was aggressive. You wouldn't have thought it of him, had you seen him. On the surface we looked like the perfect pair, but underneath we never were. I was fairly innocent, he was not. He wanted to change me. I liked me the way I was. I had my best friend to back me up until he came between us. My other friends were younger, less threatening, and they stayed in the picture. He "needed" me, he said. He was lonely, tortured; my goodness could "save" him. In the end, I barely saved myself.
The relationship became physical before I was ready, I stayed with him to save face. I was in over my head and didn't know what to do. After all, he wanted and needed me when I thought no one else did. Without my best friend, I wasn't sure who else I could trust. My other friends were so young, I didn't want to scare them with how things really were. They thought we were happy. My mother always worried more about herself than her kids, and if she noticed I was miserable, it only made her happy. My Dad had finally gotten a job after his PhD and was busy building a career and paying off student loans. I didn't want to bother him. And if he really and truly "needed" me, who was I to leave him alone?
And sometimes...it wasn't bad to be with him. Sometimes he was funny. Sometimes we laughed. We saw good movies together. We read good books. We rode 4-wheelers. We dreamed about our futures. His home felt like one, mine didn't. His parents were sweet. His family was welcoming. He thought I was pretty when I thought no one ever would. He said I was sexy and I thought he was the only person in the world who noticed. And sometimes I wonder...if he hadn't pushed, if he hadn't coerced, if he hadn't said he was the only person in the world who would ever find me attractive, if he had let me have my own voice instead of a mirror of his, and if I hadn't lost my best friend and a lot of my trust in the world, maybe...but he did and I did and there was and is no changing it.
Another year passed. I spent some time away that next summer. First in Tucson, then at my grandmother's. It gave me a bit of perspective, but I missed him. He had isolated me so successfully I wasn't sure how to function on my own anymore. Grandma gave me a biography of Ted Bundy (a little extreme), Anne only heard the details that I wanted her to hear and was happy for me. I was glad to see him when I got home. Once school started, I began to question things, but ultimately decided I would stay with him because I was no longer "good enough" for anyone else. One friend challanged my take on that, dared to see HE thought I was pretty, and that I was a better person than I realized, and then he died shortly thereafter. I took it as a sign. The first time he raised a hand to me, it was because I was crying over that friend's death. The guy was dead and he was still jealous. It was a long time before I cried again over anything.
The rest of that year was numb...a "break" in the relationship over the summer brought joy, but no closure. We were back together and living together by the time we were college Freshmen. But then...it happened. Another weekend fight, another beating, all pretty commonplace by then. Only now, my younger friends were starting to notice and he was starting to get sloppy at hiding things. One night he was angry, too angry to drive...so I thought. I took his keys, I threw them at the roof. They landed there. He pushed me. I fell. In my mom's eyes, I "knew love." But all I knew that night was that my arm might be broken. And there was nothing to love about that at all. My mom was needed at the ER for insurance papers...she knew what was up and seemed OK with it, but the Dr. on duty didn't, and neither did Chris who drove us there. And slowly but surely over the next month, neither did I. And I wanted it no more.
In my moments alone I thought 'no more.' As I went about my day I breathed 'no more.' And on nights spent more often in my dorm room than at ihis place, my bedtime prayer was 'no more.' And as the days passed, I gained courage. I stopped thinking it, stopped breathing it, stopped praying it; and started saying it out loud. I started living my life out loud and out of his shadow. And so finally, just before Christmas and just over two years after that fateful Fall break; it was over. It wouldn't really be over for many years, and in some ways it will never be over. But he and I? We were over. Finding direction was hard, finding my own voice was harder; but I've never looked back at the end of things with regret-except that the end didn't come sooner. I am peaceful with the situation and hope that one day, I'll truly be at peace.
Author's Note: That used to be the end of the story, but in the last year, a new chapter has been written. After the big break-up, he and I have gone on the live in the same town. Big by population number, but still very small in who knows who. We've had contact on and off, mostly off by my choice. He saw that I had married, I saw that he had lost his great-grandmother. I sent flowers on my married-for-a-year-with-a-new-baby-budget, and the terse 'thank you' from his grandmother convinced me it was OK to be done with even that kind of correspondence. Eventually he married and I hoped it was for the best. It wasn't. Then, his dad died. His marriage failed, and one of the few mutual friends we had left suggested that maybe a few kind words from me might help him. Me? Help him? Why? And then I saw the big picture. I have spent years speaking out about the damage domestic violence did to me without ever once seeing him as human enough to be suffering for what he had done. She pointed out that as someone who had received some pretty big forgiveness herself, just maybe I could pay it forward. And she was right. And so, I did. I put off reaching out to him until I knew for sure that his wife had moved out, and then I knew that I just had to say something, to do something; I had no reason to be kind, but my heart was broken for him anyway. I knew what it was like to be forgiven, and to be forgiven for something bad; and I realized that I owed him the same. He responded and we corresponded briefly. I think we are both at peace now. At least I hope he is, and I know that I am.
I do, I have, and I always will speak out against domestic violence. But what I have realized in the last year is that the victims are not the only ones who hurt. Most of the time, the perpetrator does too. I'm not saying everyone who suffers from this type of abuse should run out and embrace his or her abuser, but they should forgive them and, if possible, let them know they are forgiven. In my case, it went a long way in fixing two of us. In any case, it will always be good for the one who offers the forgiveness. And that's what I have to say about domestic violence this year.
Any long-time reader of this blog will know that I am a domestic violence survivor. I am going to try and explain how that happened to me, how I escaped it, and what I had to do before I could truly recover from it. As it turns out, I wasn't the only victim-even though previous narratives have always been written that way:
When I was little, my parents felt like I wasn't very nice to my younger sister-born when I was five. So, they continually tried to put me in my place. My mom, in particular, relished this. She constantly told me how selfish I was, how mean, and how jealous. My younger sister Janet was dubbed her "sweet girl" and I was the "ice princess." I was 5! I didn't know what I was. But I didn't like myself very much by the time my next sister was born just before I turned 11. (I was very helpful with that new baby, and it was my younger sister's turn to get the ugly labels.)
Time went on, and mom made sure to point out to me how little I was developing compared to the other girls in my class. When all the friendship shifts of junior high came along, she made sure I understood the friends I lost were a direct result of my undesirable personality. It was also at about this time that she began oversharing WAY too much about what her life had been like as a teenager and later a college student. Apparently, she had a violent boyfriend at OU and I remember distinctly how she told me "You never know love until it has pushed you down a flight of stairs." It sounded insane to me even then, but I guess somewhere, somehow I internalized it.
I thought I was ugly, I thought I was underdeveloped, and I knew I was undesirable. The first time a boy noticed me, it was at a Rainbow/DeMolay dance; but he lived too far away for anything to come of it. The next one was a year ahead of me, but we were already tired of each other by the time school started. We were also friends with all the same people. It didn't make for a fun morning meet-up before the bell rang to start the day. We were a junior and a senior respectively, and I was glad he wasn't smart enough for Algebra 2; which was my first hour class. I started leaving our little morning huddle earlier and earlier each morning. And I guess that's how I met him. He was in my Algebra 2 class, he sat one seat up and one row over from me. My earlier arrivals allowed for just a bit more socializing time than other classes. We were both shy at first, but then one of my friends just had to see her boyfriend in Edmond. Her mom insisted that I go along, and after being the odd-gal out on the last date; desperation sunk in as Fall Break approached. Not wanting to be the 3rd wheel for four whole days of Edmond dates, I invited him along.
Even in the early days, he was aggressive. You wouldn't have thought it of him, had you seen him. On the surface we looked like the perfect pair, but underneath we never were. I was fairly innocent, he was not. He wanted to change me. I liked me the way I was. I had my best friend to back me up until he came between us. My other friends were younger, less threatening, and they stayed in the picture. He "needed" me, he said. He was lonely, tortured; my goodness could "save" him. In the end, I barely saved myself.
The relationship became physical before I was ready, I stayed with him to save face. I was in over my head and didn't know what to do. After all, he wanted and needed me when I thought no one else did. Without my best friend, I wasn't sure who else I could trust. My other friends were so young, I didn't want to scare them with how things really were. They thought we were happy. My mother always worried more about herself than her kids, and if she noticed I was miserable, it only made her happy. My Dad had finally gotten a job after his PhD and was busy building a career and paying off student loans. I didn't want to bother him. And if he really and truly "needed" me, who was I to leave him alone?
And sometimes...it wasn't bad to be with him. Sometimes he was funny. Sometimes we laughed. We saw good movies together. We read good books. We rode 4-wheelers. We dreamed about our futures. His home felt like one, mine didn't. His parents were sweet. His family was welcoming. He thought I was pretty when I thought no one ever would. He said I was sexy and I thought he was the only person in the world who noticed. And sometimes I wonder...if he hadn't pushed, if he hadn't coerced, if he hadn't said he was the only person in the world who would ever find me attractive, if he had let me have my own voice instead of a mirror of his, and if I hadn't lost my best friend and a lot of my trust in the world, maybe...but he did and I did and there was and is no changing it.
Another year passed. I spent some time away that next summer. First in Tucson, then at my grandmother's. It gave me a bit of perspective, but I missed him. He had isolated me so successfully I wasn't sure how to function on my own anymore. Grandma gave me a biography of Ted Bundy (a little extreme), Anne only heard the details that I wanted her to hear and was happy for me. I was glad to see him when I got home. Once school started, I began to question things, but ultimately decided I would stay with him because I was no longer "good enough" for anyone else. One friend challanged my take on that, dared to see HE thought I was pretty, and that I was a better person than I realized, and then he died shortly thereafter. I took it as a sign. The first time he raised a hand to me, it was because I was crying over that friend's death. The guy was dead and he was still jealous. It was a long time before I cried again over anything.
The rest of that year was numb...a "break" in the relationship over the summer brought joy, but no closure. We were back together and living together by the time we were college Freshmen. But then...it happened. Another weekend fight, another beating, all pretty commonplace by then. Only now, my younger friends were starting to notice and he was starting to get sloppy at hiding things. One night he was angry, too angry to drive...so I thought. I took his keys, I threw them at the roof. They landed there. He pushed me. I fell. In my mom's eyes, I "knew love." But all I knew that night was that my arm might be broken. And there was nothing to love about that at all. My mom was needed at the ER for insurance papers...she knew what was up and seemed OK with it, but the Dr. on duty didn't, and neither did Chris who drove us there. And slowly but surely over the next month, neither did I. And I wanted it no more.
In my moments alone I thought 'no more.' As I went about my day I breathed 'no more.' And on nights spent more often in my dorm room than at ihis place, my bedtime prayer was 'no more.' And as the days passed, I gained courage. I stopped thinking it, stopped breathing it, stopped praying it; and started saying it out loud. I started living my life out loud and out of his shadow. And so finally, just before Christmas and just over two years after that fateful Fall break; it was over. It wouldn't really be over for many years, and in some ways it will never be over. But he and I? We were over. Finding direction was hard, finding my own voice was harder; but I've never looked back at the end of things with regret-except that the end didn't come sooner. I am peaceful with the situation and hope that one day, I'll truly be at peace.
Author's Note: That used to be the end of the story, but in the last year, a new chapter has been written. After the big break-up, he and I have gone on the live in the same town. Big by population number, but still very small in who knows who. We've had contact on and off, mostly off by my choice. He saw that I had married, I saw that he had lost his great-grandmother. I sent flowers on my married-for-a-year-with-a-new-baby-budget, and the terse 'thank you' from his grandmother convinced me it was OK to be done with even that kind of correspondence. Eventually he married and I hoped it was for the best. It wasn't. Then, his dad died. His marriage failed, and one of the few mutual friends we had left suggested that maybe a few kind words from me might help him. Me? Help him? Why? And then I saw the big picture. I have spent years speaking out about the damage domestic violence did to me without ever once seeing him as human enough to be suffering for what he had done. She pointed out that as someone who had received some pretty big forgiveness herself, just maybe I could pay it forward. And she was right. And so, I did. I put off reaching out to him until I knew for sure that his wife had moved out, and then I knew that I just had to say something, to do something; I had no reason to be kind, but my heart was broken for him anyway. I knew what it was like to be forgiven, and to be forgiven for something bad; and I realized that I owed him the same. He responded and we corresponded briefly. I think we are both at peace now. At least I hope he is, and I know that I am.
I do, I have, and I always will speak out against domestic violence. But what I have realized in the last year is that the victims are not the only ones who hurt. Most of the time, the perpetrator does too. I'm not saying everyone who suffers from this type of abuse should run out and embrace his or her abuser, but they should forgive them and, if possible, let them know they are forgiven. In my case, it went a long way in fixing two of us. In any case, it will always be good for the one who offers the forgiveness. And that's what I have to say about domestic violence this year.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Week In Review
Reading-
Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert-
I really wanted to read this book and I was also really hesitant about it. Most of my friends loved it, one of my friends (whose literary savvy I practically revere) did not. I knew if I loved it, then I wouldn't be as cool as she is. And the verdict is...I'm not as cool as she is. This book came to me at a perfect time, it really spoke to a lot of what I'm going through right now, AND it gave me this food for thought:
"People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that's holding you back, the person who brings it to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah! Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave. And thank God for it."
~Richard from Texas (a genius in my opinion)
Had I read this even a week earlier than when "someone" (named Deborah) slipped it into my mailbox, I'm not sure I would have taken from it what I did. As it is, I have discovered yet another piece of cheap therapy in my life. And thank God for this too. In short, for me it lived up to the hype and was worth the time I spent reading it. It's all that more precious because it came from a good friend who is moving away soon. (And yes, I'm a disappointment and a literary sell-out, but the epiphany I had this week after reading this is worth being called that.)
Watching-
Baby Borrowers-
I'm hooked on this show, I can't help myself. I am annoyed by some of the parents who I feel put their kids up to behaving as badly as possible and then being as condescending to the teen 'parents' as possible when they pick their kids up; but there were only a couple of them who were like that. I was proud of the slumber party hosts, they did a great job. And I feel for the skateboarding kid, poor guy. Can't wait to see next week with the teenagers...that ought to be interesting.
Sex and the City reruns-
While I still think I relate to Charlotte better than the other characters, this week's episodes showed me I have a little bit in common with Carrie too. AND I like Aidan better now that I've seen their early relationship. (And I like him better with hair!)
In My Netflix Queue-
Waitress-
I LOVED this movie, but watching it almost gave me an anxiety attack. It turns out that I have a little bit of PTSD when it comes to exposure to domestic violence. Whether it's in a book, on my TV screen, or even someone close to me grabbing my arm a little too hard with no bad intent whatsoever. I spent most of the movie with my heart racing because I was always so scared of what that husband was going to do-compound that with the fact that I remembered all too well how Adrienne Shelley (the writer/director/producer/actress) was killed before she ever saw the movie released and it made for one very jumpy and emotional me by the time the credits roll. You know, we leave our abusers behind, we move very far ahead with our lives; but we never do fully escape the effects of domestic violence, do we? I really thought I had until I watched this. I still recommend it, though.
(Again, big epiphany week for me, even though I'm not Catholic.)
Extracurricular Activities-
Gotta Sing/Gotta Dance/Acting Class recitals-
Natalie finished up her last summer camp on Friday. She was awesome in both shows. Then, we went to a birthday party with some kids she goes to school with, and she completely clammed up and hid in a corner. All of this not less than 24 hours after performing in front of everyone with no fear at all. The kids at school seem to have an effect on her that I don't like and that I find scary. It really makes me want to home school sometimes...Any suggestions?
Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert-
I really wanted to read this book and I was also really hesitant about it. Most of my friends loved it, one of my friends (whose literary savvy I practically revere) did not. I knew if I loved it, then I wouldn't be as cool as she is. And the verdict is...I'm not as cool as she is. This book came to me at a perfect time, it really spoke to a lot of what I'm going through right now, AND it gave me this food for thought:
"People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that's holding you back, the person who brings it to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah! Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave. And thank God for it."
~Richard from Texas (a genius in my opinion)
Had I read this even a week earlier than when "someone" (named Deborah) slipped it into my mailbox, I'm not sure I would have taken from it what I did. As it is, I have discovered yet another piece of cheap therapy in my life. And thank God for this too. In short, for me it lived up to the hype and was worth the time I spent reading it. It's all that more precious because it came from a good friend who is moving away soon. (And yes, I'm a disappointment and a literary sell-out, but the epiphany I had this week after reading this is worth being called that.)
Watching-
Baby Borrowers-
I'm hooked on this show, I can't help myself. I am annoyed by some of the parents who I feel put their kids up to behaving as badly as possible and then being as condescending to the teen 'parents' as possible when they pick their kids up; but there were only a couple of them who were like that. I was proud of the slumber party hosts, they did a great job. And I feel for the skateboarding kid, poor guy. Can't wait to see next week with the teenagers...that ought to be interesting.
Sex and the City reruns-
While I still think I relate to Charlotte better than the other characters, this week's episodes showed me I have a little bit in common with Carrie too. AND I like Aidan better now that I've seen their early relationship. (And I like him better with hair!)
In My Netflix Queue-
Waitress-
I LOVED this movie, but watching it almost gave me an anxiety attack. It turns out that I have a little bit of PTSD when it comes to exposure to domestic violence. Whether it's in a book, on my TV screen, or even someone close to me grabbing my arm a little too hard with no bad intent whatsoever. I spent most of the movie with my heart racing because I was always so scared of what that husband was going to do-compound that with the fact that I remembered all too well how Adrienne Shelley (the writer/director/producer/actress) was killed before she ever saw the movie released and it made for one very jumpy and emotional me by the time the credits roll. You know, we leave our abusers behind, we move very far ahead with our lives; but we never do fully escape the effects of domestic violence, do we? I really thought I had until I watched this. I still recommend it, though.
(Again, big epiphany week for me, even though I'm not Catholic.)
Extracurricular Activities-
Gotta Sing/Gotta Dance/Acting Class recitals-
Natalie finished up her last summer camp on Friday. She was awesome in both shows. Then, we went to a birthday party with some kids she goes to school with, and she completely clammed up and hid in a corner. All of this not less than 24 hours after performing in front of everyone with no fear at all. The kids at school seem to have an effect on her that I don't like and that I find scary. It really makes me want to home school sometimes...Any suggestions?
Friday, May 04, 2007
Friday Flashback
First of all, I want to thank Sandra, Lanie, and Chris for guest-blogging this week. It was so fun to check Bloglines and see if my own blog had been updated along with everyone else's. I am touched by what Sandra had to say and I had no idea Lanie and Chris still had such an extensive photo collection. But I enjoyed seeing them again. I love that Lanie posted her infamous "catching the bouquet" picture. It's a classic. I do have one thing to say in my defense and that is that I'm 40 lbs. lighter than I was when that pic from Chris' wedding was taken. I still think I look pretty good for someone 3 weeks post-partum though and I'm glad it was part of the post. I mention this because losing that 40 lbs. wasn't easy and I take my credit for doing it wherever I can get it. If only I could lose the last 20, we'd be good...
My friend Jen M. mentioned that she likes to be included in blog posts and that's good because I had already been planning to write this one. I guess the April awareness post has brought back some memories for me that I usually keep buried. But, amongst the bad, I found a really funny one. Now that Jen is back in touch with us, it's that much more amusing. So, I think I will share it here and I hope it doesn't make anyone feel sorry for me because thinking back on it always makes me laugh.
Many of you who have read this blog for awhile know that I had a jerky boyfriend in high school who I continued to date through my first semester in college. What I don't make wildly public is the fact that I lived with him through most of those first few months at school, the dorm room my parents were paying for notwithstanding. By the end of our relationship, we pretty much co-existed through the week and fought all weekend long. This weekend was no exception. It started out well enough. The Jerk left for work (he delivered pizzas) and Chris came over to hang out with me. (I guess there were no Friday night dances.) We were having a good time playing Super Mario Brothers and listening to the radio when The Jerk showed up back home unexpectedly. Apparently, they didn't need as many drivers that night. That made him mad because he needed the money. It made me mad because I preferred him to work on Fridays so I could goof off with my girlfriends at the apartment. As he changed out of his work clothes, I must have gone in there and said something a sarcastic about the least he could have done was to bring home a pizza when the next thing I knew he lost it and began smacking the cr@p out of me. (As I mentioned, that was a weekly occurrence at this point.)
But this time, I was tired of it and started hitting back. I delivered a couple of girly hits and ran back into the living room where Chris was. He came in right behind me and I grabbed a 3 ft. plant stand behind me to defend myself. Dirt, plants, and flowers flew everywhere; but I didn't care. I began clubbing him with it. Then, he wrestled it out of my hands. Meanwhile, Chris was trying to intervene and calm things down. I saw him with the plant stand thinking something like "I sure didn't think THAT through very well, this is really gonna hurt..." But then, he must have realized that Chris was there because he tossed it aside and ran off. What we had all forgotten that Jen was planning to come over later. As Chris and I sat on the floor crying amidst all the dirt, broken pots, and mess; we suddenly heard Jen's sweet, cheery voice calling "Hey Guys!" and, surveying the damage but keeping that same lilting tone, she continued with a "What the hell happened here?" Her calm sweet voice amid all the chaos made us all laugh 'till we were crying in a good way as we gathered my stuff together so that I would be gone before The Jerk came back.
As we packed my stuff, there was a lot of accidental dropping, tearing, and otherwise damaging his property-but only with a little rip here, a little dirt there, or an 'accidental' toss of something into the trash. Nothing so obvious that it could be pointed out, nothing so harmless that he wouldn't notice and be annoyed. Chris and I were still pretty shaken up, so Jen was the instigator that night. Her final act of vengeance was when she went into his closet and hooked up the yellow blinking light off the parking barricade he had stolen so that it would, according to her, blink in his eyes all night and drive him nuts so he couldn't sleep. (It's not exactly boiling a bunny, but she was trying to get back at him.) We drove away from there laughing and even though most parts of my life with him were dreadful, that memory of sweet Jen the Avenger and her blinky light of doom always makes me laugh. I hope it's OK with her that I posted it here.
My friend Jen M. mentioned that she likes to be included in blog posts and that's good because I had already been planning to write this one. I guess the April awareness post has brought back some memories for me that I usually keep buried. But, amongst the bad, I found a really funny one. Now that Jen is back in touch with us, it's that much more amusing. So, I think I will share it here and I hope it doesn't make anyone feel sorry for me because thinking back on it always makes me laugh.
Many of you who have read this blog for awhile know that I had a jerky boyfriend in high school who I continued to date through my first semester in college. What I don't make wildly public is the fact that I lived with him through most of those first few months at school, the dorm room my parents were paying for notwithstanding. By the end of our relationship, we pretty much co-existed through the week and fought all weekend long. This weekend was no exception. It started out well enough. The Jerk left for work (he delivered pizzas) and Chris came over to hang out with me. (I guess there were no Friday night dances.) We were having a good time playing Super Mario Brothers and listening to the radio when The Jerk showed up back home unexpectedly. Apparently, they didn't need as many drivers that night. That made him mad because he needed the money. It made me mad because I preferred him to work on Fridays so I could goof off with my girlfriends at the apartment. As he changed out of his work clothes, I must have gone in there and said something a sarcastic about the least he could have done was to bring home a pizza when the next thing I knew he lost it and began smacking the cr@p out of me. (As I mentioned, that was a weekly occurrence at this point.)
But this time, I was tired of it and started hitting back. I delivered a couple of girly hits and ran back into the living room where Chris was. He came in right behind me and I grabbed a 3 ft. plant stand behind me to defend myself. Dirt, plants, and flowers flew everywhere; but I didn't care. I began clubbing him with it. Then, he wrestled it out of my hands. Meanwhile, Chris was trying to intervene and calm things down. I saw him with the plant stand thinking something like "I sure didn't think THAT through very well, this is really gonna hurt..." But then, he must have realized that Chris was there because he tossed it aside and ran off. What we had all forgotten that Jen was planning to come over later. As Chris and I sat on the floor crying amidst all the dirt, broken pots, and mess; we suddenly heard Jen's sweet, cheery voice calling "Hey Guys!" and, surveying the damage but keeping that same lilting tone, she continued with a "What the hell happened here?" Her calm sweet voice amid all the chaos made us all laugh 'till we were crying in a good way as we gathered my stuff together so that I would be gone before The Jerk came back.
As we packed my stuff, there was a lot of accidental dropping, tearing, and otherwise damaging his property-but only with a little rip here, a little dirt there, or an 'accidental' toss of something into the trash. Nothing so obvious that it could be pointed out, nothing so harmless that he wouldn't notice and be annoyed. Chris and I were still pretty shaken up, so Jen was the instigator that night. Her final act of vengeance was when she went into his closet and hooked up the yellow blinking light off the parking barricade he had stolen so that it would, according to her, blink in his eyes all night and drive him nuts so he couldn't sleep. (It's not exactly boiling a bunny, but she was trying to get back at him.) We drove away from there laughing and even though most parts of my life with him were dreadful, that memory of sweet Jen the Avenger and her blinky light of doom always makes me laugh. I hope it's OK with her that I posted it here.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Better Late Than Never
As April comes to a close, many of you may have noted several blogs promoting awareness of a few different topics. Two are near and dear to my heart. The first of these is autism. I remember once reading about it in one of those longer Reader Digest articles as a middle-school student. Back then, autism was portrayed as extremely rare. For any of you that have switched on a TV or picked up a magazine this month, it's apparent that autism it all too common and that we need to focus not only our financial efforts towards finding out more about its causes and treatment, but also our efforts at being compassionate when we see a mother, father, or sibling dealing with a child who seems too old or too big to be behaving in a manner we deem "inappropriate."
My friend Christy's son Caleb struggles with autism, and she has devoted this month to discussing autism awareness. Through her blog I've followed her progress with him first in getting a diagnosis, and learning to effectively deal with him and help him to become the best Caleb that he can be. Having said that, I was incredibly impressed with how well she handled him on a visit here a few years ago before we knew there was anything more going on with him than just being two years-old. She has always done her best as a mom, and now she has the help she needs to become even better. She has posted frequently about autism throughout the month, and has spent the month taking donations for autism awareness. Today is the last day to donate for April.
My second cause of the month is sexual abuse awareness. I apologize to Christy for posting this so late, but I had planned on mentioning both topics, and I think this post comes at the end of the month because I wasn't ready to address this. As I've mentioned here before, I am a survivor of sexual abuse. The boyfriend who perpetrated the abuse I'm sure would not see it that way, but I certainly did. I've blogged about the experience before, and don't feel the need to go into the details gain. Just know that one simple act of abuse on his part haunted me for years. Ultimately, I think I've become a stronger person and put it all behind me, but it has taken a long time and I can't count the number of friendships and other romantic involvements that suffered as a result of both my inability to trust afterwards, and frankly my inability for the first several years to be honest with myself and others about what happened. While our daughters can recover from things like this, I think it's better that they don't experience them at all. Obviously, we can't protect our children or even ourselves from everything; but we can make them and ourselves aware. I was not assaulted by a random stranger, but by a boy I thought I liked and who my parents trusted to be alone with me.
Some of the things I tell the Young Women at church and am slowly slipping into conversations with my oldest daughter are that their beliefs and choices about their sexuality are THEIRS and no one else's and that anyone who would mock or undermine their personal feelings is not someone they can trust. I've told them to enjoy "happily ever after" in Cinderella and other movies like it, but not to expect it for themselves. Things don't turn out happily without daily effort on our part to make the right choices and deal with the consequences of the wrong ones. I encourage them to date in groups, not to date anyone exclusively, and to remember that there are certain things in life that don't come with do-overs. And when I hear comments like Natalie's about love turning bad guys good, I am quick to point out that life isn't like TV as much as some would like us to think that it is. But no matter what we say, no matter how hard we try to teach our daughters to make good choices; my bottom line is that my girls also know I love them NO MATTER WHAT. I stayed with that jerk for two years after the initial assault, not out of love or enjoyment; but shame and obligation. I thought that marrying him was my only way to make things right with God because I didn't ever feel that I had an adult to confide in who would have told me differently. (Though in my defense, that is what my own mother would have said-of course, I knew she was crazy even then.)
So, talk to your girls. Keep it age appropriate, but talk to them early and often. I didn't realize I was doing as well as I had until Natalie and I started chatting last Saturday and she rolled her eyes and said "I've heard this before..." Good. I'm glad she feels that way. Love your daughters so much that they can't help but love themselves, and let them know you love them in a way that makes them believe that they can tell you anything. I'm not sure that will do away with every instance of sexual abuse, but it sure couldn't hurt. For more on this topic, I also refer you to my friend and fellow-blogger Angela Giles Klocke who also speaks out against abuse of all kinds. Earlier this year, I was privilaged to read her early draft of "When I Was 13," which will be published as a book later this summer.
We will get back to lighter subjects and birthday fun for the rest of the week. I promise...
My friend Christy's son Caleb struggles with autism, and she has devoted this month to discussing autism awareness. Through her blog I've followed her progress with him first in getting a diagnosis, and learning to effectively deal with him and help him to become the best Caleb that he can be. Having said that, I was incredibly impressed with how well she handled him on a visit here a few years ago before we knew there was anything more going on with him than just being two years-old. She has always done her best as a mom, and now she has the help she needs to become even better. She has posted frequently about autism throughout the month, and has spent the month taking donations for autism awareness. Today is the last day to donate for April.
My second cause of the month is sexual abuse awareness. I apologize to Christy for posting this so late, but I had planned on mentioning both topics, and I think this post comes at the end of the month because I wasn't ready to address this. As I've mentioned here before, I am a survivor of sexual abuse. The boyfriend who perpetrated the abuse I'm sure would not see it that way, but I certainly did. I've blogged about the experience before, and don't feel the need to go into the details gain. Just know that one simple act of abuse on his part haunted me for years. Ultimately, I think I've become a stronger person and put it all behind me, but it has taken a long time and I can't count the number of friendships and other romantic involvements that suffered as a result of both my inability to trust afterwards, and frankly my inability for the first several years to be honest with myself and others about what happened. While our daughters can recover from things like this, I think it's better that they don't experience them at all. Obviously, we can't protect our children or even ourselves from everything; but we can make them and ourselves aware. I was not assaulted by a random stranger, but by a boy I thought I liked and who my parents trusted to be alone with me.
Some of the things I tell the Young Women at church and am slowly slipping into conversations with my oldest daughter are that their beliefs and choices about their sexuality are THEIRS and no one else's and that anyone who would mock or undermine their personal feelings is not someone they can trust. I've told them to enjoy "happily ever after" in Cinderella and other movies like it, but not to expect it for themselves. Things don't turn out happily without daily effort on our part to make the right choices and deal with the consequences of the wrong ones. I encourage them to date in groups, not to date anyone exclusively, and to remember that there are certain things in life that don't come with do-overs. And when I hear comments like Natalie's about love turning bad guys good, I am quick to point out that life isn't like TV as much as some would like us to think that it is. But no matter what we say, no matter how hard we try to teach our daughters to make good choices; my bottom line is that my girls also know I love them NO MATTER WHAT. I stayed with that jerk for two years after the initial assault, not out of love or enjoyment; but shame and obligation. I thought that marrying him was my only way to make things right with God because I didn't ever feel that I had an adult to confide in who would have told me differently. (Though in my defense, that is what my own mother would have said-of course, I knew she was crazy even then.)
So, talk to your girls. Keep it age appropriate, but talk to them early and often. I didn't realize I was doing as well as I had until Natalie and I started chatting last Saturday and she rolled her eyes and said "I've heard this before..." Good. I'm glad she feels that way. Love your daughters so much that they can't help but love themselves, and let them know you love them in a way that makes them believe that they can tell you anything. I'm not sure that will do away with every instance of sexual abuse, but it sure couldn't hurt. For more on this topic, I also refer you to my friend and fellow-blogger Angela Giles Klocke who also speaks out against abuse of all kinds. Earlier this year, I was privilaged to read her early draft of "When I Was 13," which will be published as a book later this summer.
We will get back to lighter subjects and birthday fun for the rest of the week. I promise...
Friday, April 06, 2007
Friday Flashback
I've mentioned a few times here that I was once in an abusive relationship. Since April is abuse awareness month, I will likely write a post dedicated to that sometime later this month when I don't have so many looming deadlines. But for today, I wanted to remember something happy. Yesterday, on the drive home from work my iPod pulled up a song that, for some reason, it doesn't seem to shuffle very often; "Somebody" by Depeche Mode. I still remember the first time I heard the song.
It was November of 1991. The Jerk and I had been broken up for almost a year, but anyone who has been in an abusive relationship can tell you that recovering takes a long time. (And you are never the same person, but that's a post for another time.) When we finally split up, I felt like I'd lost every slightly sentimental or idealisitic notion I had ever believed about romantic love. It wasn't that I couldn't still flirt or that I didn't enjoy dating, but the "I love you's" I said to The Jerk had mostly been said out of desire for self-preservation. Any actual feeling behind the words was long-gone, if it had ever even been there in the first place. I wasn't sure that I would ever again be able to say "I love you" to someone and mean it. And that made me sad because I had a wonderfully sweet boyfriend at the time. We had a lot of fun together and he made me laugh, but I resisted anything that too closely resembled intimacy of ANY kind because I feared that if we got close enough that he loved me, I wouldn't be able love him back. I was trying very hard to keep things at arms-length. And I'm sure it frustrated him.
That November weekend brought with it an unexpected snow storm. My friends and I about froze to death working concessions that morning at Owen Stadium (and it still was Owen Stadium back then) and all we could talk about was whether or not the roads would be clear enough for that night's dance. After the game, I returned to the DG house and told my roommate that our evening plans were still up in the air. She reminded me that she was from Colorado and that as long as there was no ice, she would be happy to do the driving. They didn't cancel the dance, and I called up to the lodge to let my boyfriend know that a) we were coming and b) S was driving instead of me so we would be safe. He was busy and I left a message with one of the other boys. I remember being slightly disappointed and also relieved because it occurred to me as I dialed the phone that I wanted to end the conversation with the words "I love you" as I hung up. And yet, I still didn't really know if I could feel that way. The last thing I wanted to do was lead him on.
But, having talked to someone else, I dodged that bullet once again and we all piled into S's car. Since it was her car, we listened to her music and she was going through a Depeche Mode phase. I had heard the first three songs on the album several times driving around campus with her, but driving to the city took a little longer and we were going fairly slowly too. So we got to the last song on the tape (yes, I said tape as in cassette) and it was "Somebody". The first time I listened to it, I thought I could literally feel my heart melting just a little bit. As soon as it finished, we all wanted her to rewind it so we could hear it again. I think we did that about three times and as I listened to the words I remembered what I had once thought a romantic relationship could be before The Jerk came along and shattered all my illusions. And for the first time since that break-up, I realized that maybe I did still have it in me to love again or maybe to fall in love for the first time. I knew that I could love somebody. And that's what I remember every time I hear that song.
It was November of 1991. The Jerk and I had been broken up for almost a year, but anyone who has been in an abusive relationship can tell you that recovering takes a long time. (And you are never the same person, but that's a post for another time.) When we finally split up, I felt like I'd lost every slightly sentimental or idealisitic notion I had ever believed about romantic love. It wasn't that I couldn't still flirt or that I didn't enjoy dating, but the "I love you's" I said to The Jerk had mostly been said out of desire for self-preservation. Any actual feeling behind the words was long-gone, if it had ever even been there in the first place. I wasn't sure that I would ever again be able to say "I love you" to someone and mean it. And that made me sad because I had a wonderfully sweet boyfriend at the time. We had a lot of fun together and he made me laugh, but I resisted anything that too closely resembled intimacy of ANY kind because I feared that if we got close enough that he loved me, I wouldn't be able love him back. I was trying very hard to keep things at arms-length. And I'm sure it frustrated him.
That November weekend brought with it an unexpected snow storm. My friends and I about froze to death working concessions that morning at Owen Stadium (and it still was Owen Stadium back then) and all we could talk about was whether or not the roads would be clear enough for that night's dance. After the game, I returned to the DG house and told my roommate that our evening plans were still up in the air. She reminded me that she was from Colorado and that as long as there was no ice, she would be happy to do the driving. They didn't cancel the dance, and I called up to the lodge to let my boyfriend know that a) we were coming and b) S was driving instead of me so we would be safe. He was busy and I left a message with one of the other boys. I remember being slightly disappointed and also relieved because it occurred to me as I dialed the phone that I wanted to end the conversation with the words "I love you" as I hung up. And yet, I still didn't really know if I could feel that way. The last thing I wanted to do was lead him on.
But, having talked to someone else, I dodged that bullet once again and we all piled into S's car. Since it was her car, we listened to her music and she was going through a Depeche Mode phase. I had heard the first three songs on the album several times driving around campus with her, but driving to the city took a little longer and we were going fairly slowly too. So we got to the last song on the tape (yes, I said tape as in cassette) and it was "Somebody". The first time I listened to it, I thought I could literally feel my heart melting just a little bit. As soon as it finished, we all wanted her to rewind it so we could hear it again. I think we did that about three times and as I listened to the words I remembered what I had once thought a romantic relationship could be before The Jerk came along and shattered all my illusions. And for the first time since that break-up, I realized that maybe I did still have it in me to love again or maybe to fall in love for the first time. I knew that I could love somebody. And that's what I remember every time I hear that song.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
"Will You Stop Touching Me!"
If that last blog post could talk, that's what it would say to me. Since I first hit 'publish post' I've edited the text twice three times and changed my link once. I thought it prudent to discuss my background a bit since one of the biggest secrets about domestic violence seems to be that it affects all demographics. Then, I decided to link to Angela's "I Will Speak Out" website (where she was kind enough to link to the aforementioned post-thank you!) instead of her regular blog. I think I'm done tweaking it now, so feel free to go back and read (or re-read) it at your convenience.
I'm going to start dinner while the kids watch the second Eloise DVD. They saw the first one yesterday. Hopefully, they will feel up to reviewing them later tonight. Did I mention I got them for free just for advertising them here? It made me feel like a real writer, and it made the girls pretty darn happy too.
I'm going to start dinner while the kids watch the second Eloise DVD. They saw the first one yesterday. Hopefully, they will feel up to reviewing them later tonight. Did I mention I got them for free just for advertising them here? It made me feel like a real writer, and it made the girls pretty darn happy too.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
I Will Speak Out Too
As many of you know, October is National Domestic Violence Awareness month. I am a domestic violence survivor. As my mother is quick to point out, I was never married to my abuser and, not being a big guy, I never suffered any real physical damage as a result of him slapping me around. In her opinion, I haven't "suffered" as much as "real" battered wives or been hurt to the extent that other girls have and should, therefore, keep my mouth shut. It shouldn't come as any surprise to those of you who know me that I am in complete disagreement with her. While I am certainly grateful to have never married the guy, never had children with him, and never been hospitalized by him; I certainly understand the fear and anguish that an abusive realtionship kindles in the mind and heart. I know what it's like to be more afraid of leaving than staying. And I know what it's like to finally walk out that door for the last time. I used that "well, it could be worse" excuse myself and probably stuck it out for 6 more miserable months because of it. That's a bad game to play and while I'm a little nervous speaking out along with amazing women like Angela Giles Klocke, I think she would agree that to whatever extent our experiences vary; we have all been victims and we can all be survivors. And so, for the first time on this blog; I will speak out too:
"He taught me everything: how to dress, how to walk, how to apply make-up and wear my hair; how to behave, how to return love -- his way. Over the years, he became my father, husband, and very nearly God ..."
-Priscilla Presley
I first read these words in 1987 after I spent who knows how many hours worth of babysitting money on a copy of Elvis and Me, little knowing I would fall into the same trap myself just a year later. And I didn't even have the excuse of being a star-struck little girl of 14 to fall back on either. A naive 16 year-old, maybe, but not 14 anymore and certainly not over someone with the status of Elvis Presley.
I met Jerk Boy in my Algebra 2 class my junior year in high school. I wasn't initially all that interested, but he seemed to like me a lot; and that was new for a the nerdy little bookworm that I was. I agreed to go out with him because I didn't want to hurt his feelings and because I was tired of flying solo when I had to accompany my friend Susan to Edmond to meet up with HER boyfriend. (You try sitting sitting next to them at the movies and see how cool you feel without a date.) There wasn't a lot of chemistry between us and we definitely had different goals in life. But, high school is a time for dating and having fun-or so I thought. The next thing I knew, he had control of my life: who I spent time with, where I went, what I thought, and what I wanted out of life. He took advantage of my normally kind and generous nature in so many ways that I no longer knew myself by the time we finally ended it. He made me feel like a used-up and worthless human being that no one else would want by the time I was 18.
Some might question whether my background or upbringing made me more susceptible to falling into such a relationship. For the most part, I don't think so. My parent were middle-class, college educated, and still married (a rarity even in 'my' generation). While my mother could make a saint re-think his views on "love thy neighbor as thyself," my Dad has never raised a hand to her in their almost 35 years of marriage. (Maybe he should be a saint.) I was a gifted and talented honors student who enjoyed school. As I mentioned, I may have been a little nerdy, but I was surrounded by a crowd of equally nerdy friends and I didn't feel like a high school outcast. It wasn't an ordeal for me to get up and go each morning. In fact, I thrived there. Or at least I did until he came along. I will admit that I always suffered from low self-esteem and that my mother seemed to foster that in me on purpose. In addition, my father was somewhat of a micro-manager. My mother has never had her own driver's license and my dad would still be driving me, my sisters, and our kids around town if he had his way. Having a boyfriend with his own car was alluring as was being with someone who loved me to the point of obsession when I still didn't know what there was to love about me. Of course, I know now that wasn't love at all, but it was heady stuff to the insecure 16 year-old that I was back then.
I've already detailed exactly how I got in over my head where he was concerned, the physical, sexual, and emotional abuse that permeated every minute of my last two years of high school; and I don't feel like re-visiting it at the moment. All I want to say here is that because of him, I never attended a high school football game, a Homecoming dance, or really got to enjoy my junior or senior proms. Being part of his world meant we did what he wanted, when he wanted, and HOW he wanted. And if you dared disagree, if you ventured even a snarky comment...well, let's just say you were VERY sorry. (And can you possibly imagine ME without a snarky comment on the tip of my tongue?) He did his best to beat my sense of humor out of me, to create space and distrust between me and my friends, to make me forget who I was and become his version of the 'ideal' woman. While his '98 pound weakling' status ensured his abuse never did too much physical damage, his attempts to 'change' me very nearly killed me.
Unlike many other stories like these, mine has a happy ending. I did keep most of my friends, and the good ones stuck patiently by; just waiting for the moment when I was ready to leave. I am grateful to them every day for that and glad I still have most of them in my life. Lanie, Wendy, and Chris helped me find my smile, John and Daniel helped me reclaim my sense of humor (such as it is), and Anne and her family were waiting with open arms to welcome me 'home.' I was never a battered wife or mother as my younger sister was, and I'm afraid I wasn't always as patient or accomodating with her while I waited for her to catch a clue as my friends were with me. Even so, she managed to break the cycle and find her happy ending too. She has been blessed with four beautiful girls and I have my three. She and I both grow a little more fearful for them with each birthday. Although, so far, so good for all seven of them.
If I could say anything to those beautiful little girls or to the older ones I've been called to teach at church, if I could convince them of anything; I think I would tell them that anyone who claims to love them "so much I can't stand to share you with anyone else" is a liar. That person only loves himself. Someone who "needs sex to help (his) self-esteem" doesn't care one bit about yours. Someone who hits you "because you're such a bitch" has far more character flaws than you ever will, and even if you can be a bitch, and even if the fight is your fault, and even if you did "start it;" it is NEVER, EVER okay for him to lay as much as a finger on you. And if he tells you you're "too good" for him, you are. And if he tells you no one else will ever love you as much as he will, he's wrong and he doesn't love you either. He's just confused "love" with "control," and no one should be the 'boss of you,' but you. And if you do find yourself in over your head-get help, get away, get out, and find your own happy ending. If I could find mine, anyone can.
"He taught me everything: how to dress, how to walk, how to apply make-up and wear my hair; how to behave, how to return love -- his way. Over the years, he became my father, husband, and very nearly God ..."
-Priscilla Presley
I first read these words in 1987 after I spent who knows how many hours worth of babysitting money on a copy of Elvis and Me, little knowing I would fall into the same trap myself just a year later. And I didn't even have the excuse of being a star-struck little girl of 14 to fall back on either. A naive 16 year-old, maybe, but not 14 anymore and certainly not over someone with the status of Elvis Presley.
I met Jerk Boy in my Algebra 2 class my junior year in high school. I wasn't initially all that interested, but he seemed to like me a lot; and that was new for a the nerdy little bookworm that I was. I agreed to go out with him because I didn't want to hurt his feelings and because I was tired of flying solo when I had to accompany my friend Susan to Edmond to meet up with HER boyfriend. (You try sitting sitting next to them at the movies and see how cool you feel without a date.) There wasn't a lot of chemistry between us and we definitely had different goals in life. But, high school is a time for dating and having fun-or so I thought. The next thing I knew, he had control of my life: who I spent time with, where I went, what I thought, and what I wanted out of life. He took advantage of my normally kind and generous nature in so many ways that I no longer knew myself by the time we finally ended it. He made me feel like a used-up and worthless human being that no one else would want by the time I was 18.
Some might question whether my background or upbringing made me more susceptible to falling into such a relationship. For the most part, I don't think so. My parent were middle-class, college educated, and still married (a rarity even in 'my' generation). While my mother could make a saint re-think his views on "love thy neighbor as thyself," my Dad has never raised a hand to her in their almost 35 years of marriage. (Maybe he should be a saint.) I was a gifted and talented honors student who enjoyed school. As I mentioned, I may have been a little nerdy, but I was surrounded by a crowd of equally nerdy friends and I didn't feel like a high school outcast. It wasn't an ordeal for me to get up and go each morning. In fact, I thrived there. Or at least I did until he came along. I will admit that I always suffered from low self-esteem and that my mother seemed to foster that in me on purpose. In addition, my father was somewhat of a micro-manager. My mother has never had her own driver's license and my dad would still be driving me, my sisters, and our kids around town if he had his way. Having a boyfriend with his own car was alluring as was being with someone who loved me to the point of obsession when I still didn't know what there was to love about me. Of course, I know now that wasn't love at all, but it was heady stuff to the insecure 16 year-old that I was back then.
I've already detailed exactly how I got in over my head where he was concerned, the physical, sexual, and emotional abuse that permeated every minute of my last two years of high school; and I don't feel like re-visiting it at the moment. All I want to say here is that because of him, I never attended a high school football game, a Homecoming dance, or really got to enjoy my junior or senior proms. Being part of his world meant we did what he wanted, when he wanted, and HOW he wanted. And if you dared disagree, if you ventured even a snarky comment...well, let's just say you were VERY sorry. (And can you possibly imagine ME without a snarky comment on the tip of my tongue?) He did his best to beat my sense of humor out of me, to create space and distrust between me and my friends, to make me forget who I was and become his version of the 'ideal' woman. While his '98 pound weakling' status ensured his abuse never did too much physical damage, his attempts to 'change' me very nearly killed me.
Unlike many other stories like these, mine has a happy ending. I did keep most of my friends, and the good ones stuck patiently by; just waiting for the moment when I was ready to leave. I am grateful to them every day for that and glad I still have most of them in my life. Lanie, Wendy, and Chris helped me find my smile, John and Daniel helped me reclaim my sense of humor (such as it is), and Anne and her family were waiting with open arms to welcome me 'home.' I was never a battered wife or mother as my younger sister was, and I'm afraid I wasn't always as patient or accomodating with her while I waited for her to catch a clue as my friends were with me. Even so, she managed to break the cycle and find her happy ending too. She has been blessed with four beautiful girls and I have my three. She and I both grow a little more fearful for them with each birthday. Although, so far, so good for all seven of them.
If I could say anything to those beautiful little girls or to the older ones I've been called to teach at church, if I could convince them of anything; I think I would tell them that anyone who claims to love them "so much I can't stand to share you with anyone else" is a liar. That person only loves himself. Someone who "needs sex to help (his) self-esteem" doesn't care one bit about yours. Someone who hits you "because you're such a bitch" has far more character flaws than you ever will, and even if you can be a bitch, and even if the fight is your fault, and even if you did "start it;" it is NEVER, EVER okay for him to lay as much as a finger on you. And if he tells you you're "too good" for him, you are. And if he tells you no one else will ever love you as much as he will, he's wrong and he doesn't love you either. He's just confused "love" with "control," and no one should be the 'boss of you,' but you. And if you do find yourself in over your head-get help, get away, get out, and find your own happy ending. If I could find mine, anyone can.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
"'Cause It's What Jesus Would Freakin' Do"*
*Best quote ever from Grey's Anatomy and I couldn't resist using it.
I've been uncharacteristically silent here about something that's been on my mind all week. Usually writing things down helps me sort them out, but I couldn't seem to form a coherent sentence about this. Chatting with friends and family during the week has helped, but I don't think I really got it all figured out until this morning. Not coincidentally, it's also the first time I've had more that 6 or 7 hours of sleep all week.
On Monday, I was sitting outside the kids' school waiting to pick up the kids. As is the norm, Dave showed up with Elisa and handed me the daily mail and newspaper. The mail was junk, so I opened the paper. There didn't seem to be any big news until I flipped to the obituary section and saw that Jerk Boyfriend's dad had died over the weekend. I've mentioned Jerk Boyfriend here before, and wrote about him extensively when I did my little autobiography back at the beginning of the year. I've already linked to it in several other posts, and since it is long and involved and most of you have already read it; I'll spare you this time (except to clarify to those of you who know the story that yes, I am indeed talking about THAT guy). I was shocked at the tears that welled up in my eyes. I haven't seen him or his family since 1996 and while I was very close to his mom back in the day, his dad and I didn't have much to talk about. Not that he wasn't a good guy, he was. (I'm not sure HOW Jerk Boy turned out the way he did, his parents were great!) But, he was your typical strong and silent-type Okie dad. Still, to die before you ever really got the chance to retire and enjoy your life seemed unfair. For his wife to lose her husband when her whole life was wrapped up in him and her boys broke my heart too. But what bothered me most was how sad I was for Jerk Boyfriend. It was all I could do not to try and reach out to him in some way, to call him, send a card, or hold him as he demanded me to do so frequently during our two-year and three month train wreck of a relationship. Wanting to comfort him, talk to him, or even be near him at all after he put me through so much kind of worried me. Here it is National Domestic Violence Month. Here I am mentally compiling a touching "I will speak out" post about how I survived the aforementioned train wreck and how I've rebuilt myself in the years since its welcome demise. And yet, here I am fighting the urge to call him or his mother or any of our mutual friends to tell him how sorry I am for him. Have I learned nothing after all these years? And yet, having had almost a week to think about it, I realize that the opposite is true.
I'll never forget a very chilling conversation Jerk Boy and I had not long after we started dating. In it, he warned me that being with him would "change" me. He said he would take me from the sweet and naive little church girl that I was into a woman "worthy" of his love. And for awhile, he succeeded at that. By the time we broke up, I was jaded, insecure, scared, and distrusting. I didn't think I would ever get back to who I once was. And yet, feeling sympathy for him in his time of crisis let's me know that I have found myself again. In fact, I may have even come full circle. As much as I hate to admit it, I initially dated him not out of any great spark of interest or chemistry between us, but out of compassion. He really seemed to earnestly like me back in the day, and I didn't want to let him down without first giving him a chance. As we all know now, I got in way over my head with that. But, I think my initial instinct to give him a chance when he asked me out was a good one. Compassion is one of those things Jesus came here to teach us. He didn't die for us because we "deserved" it, He did it because He loved us. Feeling a mixture of love and pity for someone who very nearly ruined my life tells me that I'm much more of the person I was before he came along than I ever thought I could be again. And it tells me I may actually be paying more attention in Sunday School than I realized. Don't worry, while my heart and prayers continue to go out to him and his family; I'm not stupid enough to contact him or to do anything that would give him the inclination to try and make me or my precious children any part of his life whatsoever. I guess I've come a long way after all.
I've been uncharacteristically silent here about something that's been on my mind all week. Usually writing things down helps me sort them out, but I couldn't seem to form a coherent sentence about this. Chatting with friends and family during the week has helped, but I don't think I really got it all figured out until this morning. Not coincidentally, it's also the first time I've had more that 6 or 7 hours of sleep all week.
On Monday, I was sitting outside the kids' school waiting to pick up the kids. As is the norm, Dave showed up with Elisa and handed me the daily mail and newspaper. The mail was junk, so I opened the paper. There didn't seem to be any big news until I flipped to the obituary section and saw that Jerk Boyfriend's dad had died over the weekend. I've mentioned Jerk Boyfriend here before, and wrote about him extensively when I did my little autobiography back at the beginning of the year. I've already linked to it in several other posts, and since it is long and involved and most of you have already read it; I'll spare you this time (except to clarify to those of you who know the story that yes, I am indeed talking about THAT guy). I was shocked at the tears that welled up in my eyes. I haven't seen him or his family since 1996 and while I was very close to his mom back in the day, his dad and I didn't have much to talk about. Not that he wasn't a good guy, he was. (I'm not sure HOW Jerk Boy turned out the way he did, his parents were great!) But, he was your typical strong and silent-type Okie dad. Still, to die before you ever really got the chance to retire and enjoy your life seemed unfair. For his wife to lose her husband when her whole life was wrapped up in him and her boys broke my heart too. But what bothered me most was how sad I was for Jerk Boyfriend. It was all I could do not to try and reach out to him in some way, to call him, send a card, or hold him as he demanded me to do so frequently during our two-year and three month train wreck of a relationship. Wanting to comfort him, talk to him, or even be near him at all after he put me through so much kind of worried me. Here it is National Domestic Violence Month. Here I am mentally compiling a touching "I will speak out" post about how I survived the aforementioned train wreck and how I've rebuilt myself in the years since its welcome demise. And yet, here I am fighting the urge to call him or his mother or any of our mutual friends to tell him how sorry I am for him. Have I learned nothing after all these years? And yet, having had almost a week to think about it, I realize that the opposite is true.
I'll never forget a very chilling conversation Jerk Boy and I had not long after we started dating. In it, he warned me that being with him would "change" me. He said he would take me from the sweet and naive little church girl that I was into a woman "worthy" of his love. And for awhile, he succeeded at that. By the time we broke up, I was jaded, insecure, scared, and distrusting. I didn't think I would ever get back to who I once was. And yet, feeling sympathy for him in his time of crisis let's me know that I have found myself again. In fact, I may have even come full circle. As much as I hate to admit it, I initially dated him not out of any great spark of interest or chemistry between us, but out of compassion. He really seemed to earnestly like me back in the day, and I didn't want to let him down without first giving him a chance. As we all know now, I got in way over my head with that. But, I think my initial instinct to give him a chance when he asked me out was a good one. Compassion is one of those things Jesus came here to teach us. He didn't die for us because we "deserved" it, He did it because He loved us. Feeling a mixture of love and pity for someone who very nearly ruined my life tells me that I'm much more of the person I was before he came along than I ever thought I could be again. And it tells me I may actually be paying more attention in Sunday School than I realized. Don't worry, while my heart and prayers continue to go out to him and his family; I'm not stupid enough to contact him or to do anything that would give him the inclination to try and make me or my precious children any part of his life whatsoever. I guess I've come a long way after all.
Monday, July 10, 2006
I Guess I'm Cured
I was flipping channels earlier tonight when I stopped at TCM and caught the middle of Oliver! For those of you who read February's autobiography, you may have noticed the amusing irony of Jerk Boyfriend's buddy bursting through my front door and dragging me out of the living room just before I indulged myself in yet another exhausted duet with Nancy in the favorite ballad of co-dependent women everywhere, "As Long As He Needs Me." I didn't get to sing it that day, and as an indirect result of that particular evening; I never had to sing it again. However, I'm a little leery of watching that part of the movie, as if somehow those lyrics will touch my heart in such a way as to lull me right back into my old co-dependent habits. Still, it's been a very long time, and I love watching old musicals. So, I put the remote down. The dreaded song came and while I certainly don't question the actress's singing ability or talent, that song does nothing for me anymore. In fact, my only reaction was to note the time as I watched it and realize that "Oh crap! I missed Pee-Wee's Playhouse on Adult Swim tonight because I was watching this!" And with that, it's official. I'm "co-dependent no more." (Though I guess between my love for Pee Wee's Playhouse and the fact that I watched Kevin Costner as Robin Hood last night, you could certainly question my taste in entertainment.)
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