When I was a little girl and my parents were still married to each other, we would occasionally make the 13-hour-trip to visit our extended family. I liked visiting my Uncle John, the sheriff, or Aunt Shirley, in her lakefront house. My favorite, though, was Aunt Marilyn.
Aunt Marilyn's husband was Morey and their children were Michele and Michael. Aunt Marilyn was a nurse and Uncle Morey was a doctor. Michele and Michael ice skated and skiied, respectively. I loved the symmetry of their lives. Arriving at their cozy Vermont home seemed like a relief. We would hurry across the gravel driveway in the damp ink of night into their house. In the winter we would ride sleds down their sloping front yard and in the summer I was allowed to walk alone down the dirt road to fetch the mail. The angst that haunted my own life on Long Island was absent from their lives. I thought maybe it had to do with the clean air.
There was no television and we used to read or play board games or bang out "chopsticks" on the piano. I liked to just lie on the couch in the living room and look out the window at the evergreens. Or I would climb the ladder to the "crow's nest," a small loft above the kitchen, where my brother, who was the eldest, and Michael, who was the youngest before me, would sometimes set up Matchbox tracks or run the vibrating football game.
I was often in the way.
Once in a while we might play board games. I preferred Parcheesi because the rules were simple but one night it was decided that we would play Monopoly. I may have been seven years old at the time, and I could barely add, much less make strategic decisions about which properties to purchase. Before long I was broke. I was "out."
Before any window of choice opened in my juvenile brain, I hooked my fingertips under the board and flipped it. Maybe I was out, maybe I couldn't playing, but then neither would anyone else. A little dog, a little car, a little hat, a little ship, and pastel colored money: all airborne. Three other faces with round mouths stared at me. I remember feeling guilty and giggling the way a shamed child will, and tricking myself into believing that the game was salvageable.
Of course it wasn't.
My writing was featured recently at the Good Men Project and elephant journal. And in trying to meet editor's requests that I "clean up the ending a little bit," I realized that I'm still not done. I haven't exorcised all of my demons yet; my unhealthy coping techniques are still in my back pocket. I was thinking today about the sad, sick part of my personality: the part that needs supervision, that so quickly reverts to making hurtful choices, that can so quickly cause vast wreckage.If nothing else, I'd like to think I'm too old for this shit. But I'm not.
I think of Nic and Dave Sheff, a father and son who both published memoirs. Nic was a meth addict and Dave is his father. Nic relapsed after the publication of Tweak. He's in recovery now, and having what seems to be a successful life.
I wonder if I'm going to have a public relapse.
I think of recent questionable choices and actions, and I realize that I can't make a situation that's already bad any better by hurting myself. If I throw the Monopoly board, I'm going to head down a familiar road of shame and guilt. Causing additional destruction to things that are already damaged won't improve anything, least of all my relationship with myself. This may be obvious but it's a new idea for me. I hope that this time I am able to gracefully accept being out of the game. And I pray that I can keep my demons in check.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Monday, January 7, 2013
Good Men Project
I'm just one small voice out here in the dark (or living in your computer, whichever you choose). I'm not a reader of Jezebel and I certainly hope they don't find me and come to skewer me. Those women are serious.
I don't remember how I stumbled upon The Good Men Project. But I fell in love with it immediately. I'm easy like that but loyal as well. I admire the stated mission: "an effort to build and sustain a national discussion about being a good father, son, husband, partner, and worker in America today."
That word, discussion, seems to have been lost in the recent controversy. GMP has come under fire for two specific articles that were published: I'd Rather Risk Rape... & Nice Guys Commit Rape Too.
Since reading the articles, being peripherally aware of the attacks on GMP and on Tom M specifically, a few questions and points keep coming to mind.
I am, however, a writer. A sexual assault survivor. A wife (x3). A mother. A former prostitute. Female.
I was part of the vanguard of latchkey kids: my parents were the only divorced parents in my 2nd grade class (albeit with good reason: my father was a pedophile). Feminism was never discussed at my house because my mother was too busy trying to survive.
Nothing much was ever discussed.
But I learned me-ism; personal strength; resilience and independence. And I learned that when I had achieved something, anything, the best use of that growth was to turn around and extend a helping hand to the person behind me.
Since reading the articles, being peripherally aware of the attacks on GMP and on Tom M specifically, a few questions and points keep coming to mind.
- a discussion usually has more than one point of view, does it not? GMP uses a lot of different writers and claims to be a place for discussion, not dissemination of one specific viewpoint.
- is there no place where we can appreciate Anonymous's honesty: he provides a very clear window into today's rape culture. In fact, for me, his article illuminated rape culture very clearly.
- are we each to be judged by our worst actions? if someone is brave enough to hold up their absolute worst moment and say, "Here, this is what I did," in an effort to build conversation, to increase understanding and communication, is s/he guaranteed to be slaughtered in the court of public opinion?
- at what point did feminism become about bringing anyone down? if the only way I can help to lift myself and my sisters is by pulling someone else down, I'll pass. Maybe I'm incredibly naive, but I believe that there is room for all of us to be better together, regardless of gender.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
When I was 20, I worked for a public interest research group in New York, earnestly advocating for clean drinking water. I'm not sure how we accomplished anything: my part was going door-to-door, educating people and requesting donations. The minimum we were required to collect was $100 per night. Our team was made up of college students, an older man named Frank with horn-rimmed glasses and greasy hair, a thick lesbian named Daphne and a skinny kid with a big nose and greasy skin. I slept with most of them. We did something called "cross-training," where we could elect to go to another part of the country and work for their local PIRG and our travel and housing would be provided. I was sent to Virginia Beach and slept with a several people there, as well.
At that time in my life, everything was essentially an avenue towards sex.
At the beginning of our daily shift, we would ride together to previously scouted neighborhoods and be dropped off for a few hours. With territory map in hand, we'd begin knocking on doors at about 3pm and finish by 8pm. On paydays, we'd cash our checks and descend on Richard's house. Richard, and three of his friends, had moved to New York from Georgia and to me it seemed very glamorous and grown-up: four independent adults renting a whole house together. I was camping on my mother's couch at the time.
We would buy lots of alcohol and dance in the unfurnished living room. more than once the evenings ended in bed: Stuart, the bi-sexual blond college student from the wealthy family, George, the slender gay man, Richard, and myself. It's more than 20 years ago now but I still remember how lovely all those hands and mouths felt on me.
Abu, an Indian college student who wore tie-dyed t-shirts, joined our work team and our payday parties and he seemed to like me. This was entirely baffling and made me not like him at all. But we went out to dinner together and when he invited me to go see the Dead, I was more than willing. I hadn't been to a show, ever, although I pretended I had. I was, after all, a hippie activist.
The day of the concert bloomed sunny and temperate and Abu drove us to Giants stadium. I was amazed at all the people in the parking lot. While we were standing in line waiting to enter, I found a $20 bill on the pavement. It was that kind of beautiful day.
Our seats were nosebleeders, of course: our assigned section was something like XYZ600. Instead we rushed among the crowd of people thronging up against the walls, peering over at the floor section below. I could see that plywood had been laid out to protect the football field, and that was covered with blue tarps. Everyone was looking over the wall, leaning out, but no one was jumping down. I only glanced quickly before climbing over. It was a long fall. I jumped directly into the arms of a security guard.
He twisted my arm up behind my back and steered me towards the exit.
"Do you have a ticket?" he asked. I didn't want to answer him: I didn't want him to be sent up to that distant seat.
I said, "Please, I'll do anything." I meant it, of course. I knew if he said "OK," I'd have to follow through with a blowjob in some dirty, half-concealed corner. I didn't want to be ejected from the stadium, have to wait in the parking lot for Abu, miss the show...
"Do you have you ticket?" he repeated.
"Anything, I'll do anything, anything you want." I was trying to twist my head over my shoulder so I could see this man, who seemed so huge, who was hurrying me along with my arm snug up against my own spine. I thought if I could just make eye contact, he would know I was serious.
"Do you have a ticket?"
"Yes, but..." We were near the long exit hallway now. I was trying to think of how I would find Abu after the show, if I was sent to our seats. Where the hell had we parked? Please, please, please, was all I could think. Perhaps I was saying it out loud.
The security guard let go of me. I spun around him and bolted away and met the smiling faces of my fellow Deadheads, the ones who'd watched the end of journey, my near-expulsion and then redemption. I ran back towards the place where I'd jumped over and found Abu. He told me about all the people who'd been able to get onto the floor while I'd distracted the guard.
I didn't think about what could have happened, what almost happened, what I'd invited to happen. I was a happy hippie girl, a peripheral student of zen. I danced. But sometimes I remember the girl I was, and wonder about what she was so willing to give away.
At that time in my life, everything was essentially an avenue towards sex.
At the beginning of our daily shift, we would ride together to previously scouted neighborhoods and be dropped off for a few hours. With territory map in hand, we'd begin knocking on doors at about 3pm and finish by 8pm. On paydays, we'd cash our checks and descend on Richard's house. Richard, and three of his friends, had moved to New York from Georgia and to me it seemed very glamorous and grown-up: four independent adults renting a whole house together. I was camping on my mother's couch at the time.
We would buy lots of alcohol and dance in the unfurnished living room. more than once the evenings ended in bed: Stuart, the bi-sexual blond college student from the wealthy family, George, the slender gay man, Richard, and myself. It's more than 20 years ago now but I still remember how lovely all those hands and mouths felt on me.
Abu, an Indian college student who wore tie-dyed t-shirts, joined our work team and our payday parties and he seemed to like me. This was entirely baffling and made me not like him at all. But we went out to dinner together and when he invited me to go see the Dead, I was more than willing. I hadn't been to a show, ever, although I pretended I had. I was, after all, a hippie activist.
The day of the concert bloomed sunny and temperate and Abu drove us to Giants stadium. I was amazed at all the people in the parking lot. While we were standing in line waiting to enter, I found a $20 bill on the pavement. It was that kind of beautiful day.
Our seats were nosebleeders, of course: our assigned section was something like XYZ600. Instead we rushed among the crowd of people thronging up against the walls, peering over at the floor section below. I could see that plywood had been laid out to protect the football field, and that was covered with blue tarps. Everyone was looking over the wall, leaning out, but no one was jumping down. I only glanced quickly before climbing over. It was a long fall. I jumped directly into the arms of a security guard.
He twisted my arm up behind my back and steered me towards the exit.
"Do you have a ticket?" he asked. I didn't want to answer him: I didn't want him to be sent up to that distant seat.
I said, "Please, I'll do anything." I meant it, of course. I knew if he said "OK," I'd have to follow through with a blowjob in some dirty, half-concealed corner. I didn't want to be ejected from the stadium, have to wait in the parking lot for Abu, miss the show...
"Do you have you ticket?" he repeated.
"Anything, I'll do anything, anything you want." I was trying to twist my head over my shoulder so I could see this man, who seemed so huge, who was hurrying me along with my arm snug up against my own spine. I thought if I could just make eye contact, he would know I was serious.
"Do you have a ticket?"
"Yes, but..." We were near the long exit hallway now. I was trying to think of how I would find Abu after the show, if I was sent to our seats. Where the hell had we parked? Please, please, please, was all I could think. Perhaps I was saying it out loud.
The security guard let go of me. I spun around him and bolted away and met the smiling faces of my fellow Deadheads, the ones who'd watched the end of journey, my near-expulsion and then redemption. I ran back towards the place where I'd jumped over and found Abu. He told me about all the people who'd been able to get onto the floor while I'd distracted the guard.
I didn't think about what could have happened, what almost happened, what I'd invited to happen. I was a happy hippie girl, a peripheral student of zen. I danced. But sometimes I remember the girl I was, and wonder about what she was so willing to give away.
Monday, December 31, 2012
2012 was a pretty good year...Of course, I continue to wrestle with the grief and guilt of my mistakes and most particularly my son being gone.
But I kept a list of the good things in 2012 (thanks, OCD!) and here are some of them:
being included in the anthology! working with David...articles accepted...journalling class proposal accepted...going to Kripalu...JourneyDance & dance in general.
I believe that 2013 will be a good year as well, even better, full of growth, new learning, and positive stuff!
Stick around, I'll be posting on a weekly basis here.
Thanks, much good love & Happy New Year!
But I kept a list of the good things in 2012 (thanks, OCD!) and here are some of them:
being included in the anthology! working with David...articles accepted...journalling class proposal accepted...going to Kripalu...JourneyDance & dance in general.
I believe that 2013 will be a good year as well, even better, full of growth, new learning, and positive stuff!
Stick around, I'll be posting on a weekly basis here.
Thanks, much good love & Happy New Year!
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Living in My Body
I used to joke with my kids, rubbing my belly and saying, "This was your first home!" It went along with the way I parented: attachment parenting before it was popular, co-sleeping and extended breastfeeding. (I made some epic mistakes, too, but that's another post.)
I wanted what every parent wants: more for my kids than I had. The disconnect between my brain and my body began before I can remember and I'm still trying to knit the two together, like a lopsided Tim Burton character.
Trauma will do that to a person. In addition to my early sexual distresses, my sister and mother were having their own food and body image issues. When puberty made its awkward arrival, my role models were assuring me that thin thighs were the most valuable currency. Anorexia, bulimia, heroin addiction and sex work were my spectral sisters.
After my daughter was born, I exercised maniacally. I was keeping up my end of a deal I'd struck with my then-husband: if I lost weight, he'd quit drinking. It was also a result of nothing else to do besides parenting my daughter, as well as a manifestation of my depression. I biked ten miles every day, walked four miles daily, and lifted weights and practiced yoga. We were vegans without even realizing it as a result of a tiny food budget. I learned only that I enjoy movement, and that fruit is my favorite breakfast. It occurred to me that food might not be the enemy.
My new body annoyed the hell out of my mother.
People said surprising things to me, like, "If you get any thinner, we'll be able to see through you." I was startled by and grateful to the men in vehicles who honked and whistled.
It was a vague fear, and not the expected joy, that settled on me when I noticed my finally-thin-thighs. I felt...vulnerable and anxious. I couldn't put any cohesive thoughts together then: I only increased my exercise. Anything to expend the nervous reactive energy.
I struggled with mongamy--you can read about that here.
When my cheating escalated to a career as an escort, suddenly I had the money, time and justification for self-care. I delighted in having my nails done, my toenails attended to, and all the waxing at the refuge of the salon. The tanning bed was my sanctuary. Running five miles a day was required, because I had to look good for my WORK. My body and my appearance were something to control. My body was my tool and I operated it from the command of my brain.
The fact that I often cried when I ran remained a mystery to me.
When I left everything---ran away from my marriage and my home---I took my body with me. Then I found myself hiding in hallways at my new, "straight" job, gasping back inexplicable sobs. Suicide became my favorite fantasy, the one I fondled the most. When I reached out for help, a team of amazing therapists came to my rescue.
A lot of the healing happened in offices, sitting in chairs, talking, using my brain.
I wanted to move again. I wanted the grueling punishment of running in the dark and rain and snow. This was not recommended. I was growing uncomfortable in my softening body and disturbed to watch my muscle tone melting away.
No running. Dance.
I am clumsy and I don't like group exercise. But instead of shame, I was able to laugh when I misstepped or couldn't keep up.
I attended a workshop at Kripalu with Toni Bergins and Adam Sutton, on scholarship. I cried and I hid and I slept. I moved a little bit on a floating dance floor. I watched other people move.
I began attending Nia dance classes. I drew in my journal.
In February, I will go to Montreal and become certified as a Bellyfit instructor. Dance has landed me squarely in my body and does not allow the escape that running does. Dance has given me the fibers to begin to connect my mind to my body.
The world does not, to me, seem like a safe place. I was unable to name this constant, low-grade discomfort until I recently observed my daughter, now 22, and how easily she moves through life. For her, the world is a safe and manageable place. Her body is her own safe haven.
Baby steps.
If I want to be comfortable in the world, I need to start at my foundation. I need to feel secure in my first home, my body. I need to understand that my body is not be a tool to used for others' approval and enjoyment. It's my own.
That's a new idea for me.
I wanted what every parent wants: more for my kids than I had. The disconnect between my brain and my body began before I can remember and I'm still trying to knit the two together, like a lopsided Tim Burton character.
Trauma will do that to a person. In addition to my early sexual distresses, my sister and mother were having their own food and body image issues. When puberty made its awkward arrival, my role models were assuring me that thin thighs were the most valuable currency. Anorexia, bulimia, heroin addiction and sex work were my spectral sisters.
After my daughter was born, I exercised maniacally. I was keeping up my end of a deal I'd struck with my then-husband: if I lost weight, he'd quit drinking. It was also a result of nothing else to do besides parenting my daughter, as well as a manifestation of my depression. I biked ten miles every day, walked four miles daily, and lifted weights and practiced yoga. We were vegans without even realizing it as a result of a tiny food budget. I learned only that I enjoy movement, and that fruit is my favorite breakfast. It occurred to me that food might not be the enemy.
My new body annoyed the hell out of my mother.
People said surprising things to me, like, "If you get any thinner, we'll be able to see through you." I was startled by and grateful to the men in vehicles who honked and whistled.
It was a vague fear, and not the expected joy, that settled on me when I noticed my finally-thin-thighs. I felt...vulnerable and anxious. I couldn't put any cohesive thoughts together then: I only increased my exercise. Anything to expend the nervous reactive energy.
I struggled with mongamy--you can read about that here.
When my cheating escalated to a career as an escort, suddenly I had the money, time and justification for self-care. I delighted in having my nails done, my toenails attended to, and all the waxing at the refuge of the salon. The tanning bed was my sanctuary. Running five miles a day was required, because I had to look good for my WORK. My body and my appearance were something to control. My body was my tool and I operated it from the command of my brain.
The fact that I often cried when I ran remained a mystery to me.
When I left everything---ran away from my marriage and my home---I took my body with me. Then I found myself hiding in hallways at my new, "straight" job, gasping back inexplicable sobs. Suicide became my favorite fantasy, the one I fondled the most. When I reached out for help, a team of amazing therapists came to my rescue.
A lot of the healing happened in offices, sitting in chairs, talking, using my brain.
I wanted to move again. I wanted the grueling punishment of running in the dark and rain and snow. This was not recommended. I was growing uncomfortable in my softening body and disturbed to watch my muscle tone melting away.
No running. Dance.
I am clumsy and I don't like group exercise. But instead of shame, I was able to laugh when I misstepped or couldn't keep up.
I attended a workshop at Kripalu with Toni Bergins and Adam Sutton, on scholarship. I cried and I hid and I slept. I moved a little bit on a floating dance floor. I watched other people move.
I began attending Nia dance classes. I drew in my journal.
In February, I will go to Montreal and become certified as a Bellyfit instructor. Dance has landed me squarely in my body and does not allow the escape that running does. Dance has given me the fibers to begin to connect my mind to my body.
The world does not, to me, seem like a safe place. I was unable to name this constant, low-grade discomfort until I recently observed my daughter, now 22, and how easily she moves through life. For her, the world is a safe and manageable place. Her body is her own safe haven.
Baby steps.
If I want to be comfortable in the world, I need to start at my foundation. I need to feel secure in my first home, my body. I need to understand that my body is not be a tool to used for others' approval and enjoyment. It's my own.
That's a new idea for me.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Grief
I fell off my path when I listened to my fear instead of my own heart. I was surprised by the urgent loneliness that day when I could smell the dying leaves. I wanted so badly to believe that I was finally healed, finally whole, and then there was John, touching the small of my back as we walked into the gallery. His fingertips ignited a passion I'd forgotten existed.
Every week, though, I sat in Lori's office, terrified and crying. Something wasn't right. And every week she said so kindly, "This is your own distress talking." And I wanted so much to believe her and her sparkling eyes. But then of course it happened: I met the real girlfriend in the driveway. I was stunned. This shabby, downcast girl? Over me?
Driving home, I took a deep breath. "Fuck it, never mind, whatever, doesn't matter." But I knew I was lying and I let myself cry. All night, all day, for weeks. Another rupture. Proof that I couldn't fucking get it right, no matter how calm and measured and careful I was.
And when I was lying there, raw and aching in my apartment, certain that I was and would always be fat-old-ugly-alone, David moved in for the kill. The man who sounded, when he spoke, as if he was gargling his own phlegm. His lopsided house reeked of animal urine but he showed it off proudly and his dirty children made my skin crawl. The night he wanted us to stay for dinner, I wanted to go home instead and cut my own toenails down to the bleeding quick.
But again, I was weak, stupid, and so willing to give others what they want and ignore my own voice. These dominoes have tumbled thanks to my own hand and now I live without my son in a town that is not my own.
I think of them together--the twin mistakes of JohnandDavid--and an ulcer of wrath opens slow as an eye. But I know that the blind knot of rage is looking for me.
There is so much fury and grief and still, again, as always, it is tied to my father. Can't any fucking thing be separate from him? I just want to get over this nonsense and get on with my life. But. But. I have to give the grief its voice. It's the gag that causes these unplanned eruptions that threaten to sweep me away.
My joy and success are separate from him. I have succeeded in many ways despite him, not because of him. I must stop believing that I owe him any debt of gratitude.
My feelings, my life, are not nonsense.
I must let the grief wash through me. I'm still trying to be "cool" and "good" and move right on to forgiveness but the sorrow and rage boil underneath.
It's so much easier and more convenient to blame myself and be angry at myself. I can flay myself open as much as I like with no one to stop me. But it's misplaced. Yes, maybe he was victimized too. Yes, maybe his brain truly has blocked access to the memory of what he did--but he still did it. He made the choice that broke me.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Women for Women
Yesterday I went to a women's yoga fundraiser retreat. This retreat is the brainchild of Pauline Gardner, a glowing diminutive dynamo, for the benefit of Women for Women International. I am blessed to be able to help support a sister in need and blessed to live here, in Vermont, in the United States, where I do not have to worry about war & bloodshed in my neighborhood, where my challenges are not as great as those faced by many women half a world away.
My pink yoga mat was sandwiched between between Basha, a beautiful dancing maiden from Brooklyn, and Edina, a radiant organic woman who I've been friendly with before. I was glad to have a chance to reconnect with her.
We received bindis from Basha & lit candles; together, led by dear Pauline, we did chakra yoga, we meditated,--at least the others did, I promptly fell asleep; we learned & executed the Five Tibetian Rites, We received citrine stones and Goddess cards and each of us selected a crystal bracelet. So many goodies, and a treat bag at the end, as well! Facial & foot massages. Delicious luncheon (as usual, I ate as if I'd never been fed before and never would be again, and my belly ached).
I observed with lovingkindness as one woman revealed her emergence from a challenging time: I was her, at this very event two years ago. I know how very hard it can be to speak your truth out loud to a room full of strangers. It requires a brave heart.
On the way home afterwards, I drove through a rainstorm. On the other side: a thick chunk of rainbow.
It was a good day to be alive.
My pink yoga mat was sandwiched between between Basha, a beautiful dancing maiden from Brooklyn, and Edina, a radiant organic woman who I've been friendly with before. I was glad to have a chance to reconnect with her.
We received bindis from Basha & lit candles; together, led by dear Pauline, we did chakra yoga, we meditated,--at least the others did, I promptly fell asleep; we learned & executed the Five Tibetian Rites, We received citrine stones and Goddess cards and each of us selected a crystal bracelet. So many goodies, and a treat bag at the end, as well! Facial & foot massages. Delicious luncheon (as usual, I ate as if I'd never been fed before and never would be again, and my belly ached).
I observed with lovingkindness as one woman revealed her emergence from a challenging time: I was her, at this very event two years ago. I know how very hard it can be to speak your truth out loud to a room full of strangers. It requires a brave heart.
On the way home afterwards, I drove through a rainstorm. On the other side: a thick chunk of rainbow.
It was a good day to be alive.
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