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13 years hold.... part 1

I found Mark to be the most tantalizing person I had ever met. Of course… I was 13 at the time so I am sure that role was not as difficult to fill then.

I met him at a park near my house. I used to go there on hot summer days on my bike. A new freedom from the house that had been reluctantly granted to me when I turned 12. Once I had started making friends in school it became a undesired side effect for my father and probably a much needed relief for my mother.

Even on the days my best friend was not able to make it out, I still continued the routine. I had not yet learned how important it was to be afraid as a woman out on her own.

Additionally, I had hit puberty at 11 years old. I was the new owner of the fully developed physical body of an 18-year-old without the properly developed brain to go along with it. Puppies and boys were still equally cute back then.

It was on one such isolated summer day alone at the park when I met him. Mark was not so young and looked like a soap opera star. Dressed in a wife-beater (look that up British friends) and kaki trousers. He has slicked back black hair with that one tantalizing piece that would hang just in front of his creamy brown eyes.

I was enchanted. He wasn’t alone. He came with two friends, one massive man/boy who must have been 6’6’ with long hair and the other who was tall but lanky, who skulked in the background constantly. I was ignorant and imagined it was because they did not care to be a part of their friends unending flirting.

Mark and I talked about everything around that park. He was sweet and flattering. Constant gentleman. A black car with heavily tinted windows and filled with people pulled up, Mark kissed my hand and made me promise to come back the next day.

Of course… I did. And I did. And I did.

For about three weeks we carried on like this. Always the gentleman. Like a man from the distant past in a Jane Austin film.

And then one day the car pulled up and I saw what was in the trunk. Guns. Tons of them. The trunk was closed, and Mark said his farewells. He could see I was anxious. He told me at that moment that he loved me. That I had to be his girl.  Just like that. I had to be his girl. I feigned a blush with a smile and promised to be there the next day.

I took off home and did not look back. I was terrified.  The magic was over, and fear had finally kicked in. But it was too little too late.

This is when 13 years of stalking, violence, and then rape began.

To be continued after my next few glasses of wine…. maybe

Some days I struggle...

At least I can say I have a muse. I want to write because speaking does not convey the feelings I have. I live life as an Elizabeth Bennett. Over analysing my own behaviour and decisions. I have had a cup of wine trying to build-up the liquid courage to write my next life story. I'm not sure why I need this because I do believe this goes out into the world without being read generally but it is for myself and for any future therapist.

It is also a way to share with those I love the things that haunt me the most, but have made me who I am today, without ever having to say it out loud.  Perhaps I missed the point of sharing intimacy. But there it is. My father, while drinking and throwing his hands about, always did call me over dramatic person. 

Random for today...

Might add to this but... simple post today because I can't bring myself to post the next life stories yet.

Sometimes I become an interpretive dancer when listening to music and washing my dishes.

Small things in nature can take my breath away and I cry, or get spontaneously passionate.

I wish I could kiss every person in the world at least once.

I watch people and imagine what it would be like to know them.

I crave more attention than I deserve but run from it when I get more than I can handle.

I feel whole when someone opens up to me about themselves.

I dance with my eyes closed letting the music lead me .

I think children are the best people on earth.

I am always afraid of someone thinking bad of me.

I hate that I care what people think.

Sometimes I run from things to avoid confronting the pain of hurting someone.

My self esteem is at war with itself.

I am confident and yet body dysmorphic all at one time.

The door...

It was a hot 100 degree (40 c) day in the middle of summer break. I was 9 years old and dressed in my favorite swimsuit.  My mother was in the farthest part of the back yard setting up a tent for us. My father hated the heat, and in defiance of the summer he would set the temperature in the house to a cool 65 degrees (18 c) .
The house and back yard sat on an acre of land that stretched out in a rectangular shape. This gave us an exceptionally large backyard for being so close to the city.
I had become a slightly mischievous 9 year old. My mother needed a pair of sizzors and sent me inside the house to get them. Now.... an average child might search for them in normal locations in the house, such as a junk drawer or kitchen block. Not me. I took this opportunity to take it upon myself to check in my older sisters bedroom for some sizzors.  I knew I was forbidden by my sister to ever step foot over the threshold into her sanctuary however.... these orders came from the mother herself. It was my chance at last...
Seizing upon the opportunity I opened her bedroom door and walked to the center of the room. I stood there spinning in a slow circle taking in every detail of my 16 year old sisters incredibly cool domain. 
Suddenly the door slammed open and my sister started screaming at me. I panicked and flew past her and down the stairs. She not follow me but I did not know that. I was certain she was in hot pursuit.  I dashed through the kitchen and toward the back door.
The back door.  Archaic and rusting, the latch had never worked quite right. One slight push on the door and it opened.  Normally quite useless.  Except for today.
I pressed on the glass door expecting it to open easily during my passionate escape.  It was latched shut. A combination of the temperature pressure on the old glass door and the force of my little body cause it to shatter as I dashed through it.
At this point my world went quiet. I remember it moving slowly as I fell through the door. I could see the glass falling around me like little shiney stars. I could see my mother running toward me from the back yard. Funny looking in slow motion. The world had gone completely silent except for the sounds of my breath. I remember thinking  "what is happening to me?" . The next moment my world caught up and I was in my mothers arms. She stood me on my feet and looked at me. Her first words were, "don't look at your arm" so... naturally.... I looked.
My arm had been cut to the bone and was hanging like a broken tree branch. It all happened so fast. My mother grabbed me and started putting pressure on my arm to slow the bleeding.  There was so much blood. Every inch of our kitchen was covered as my mother worked fast to stop the bleeding.  My sister cried and my older brother called 911. I watched it all from the floor in a blood loss shock. I had blood transfusions and over 300 stitches in my arm, wrist and face. My skin on my nose had been pealed down like an apple skin. Had I not hit the frame with my forehead I would have lost both eyes. I was so lucky. I was told I would not be able to do much with my arm. That I would have to give up gymnastics.  By the next year I was walking on my hands on the beach. Stubborn even then I suppose.  I carry with me the scars of that experience.  I developed a PTSD from the breaking glass sound. Loud bangs and breaking glass can cause me to lock into a fetal like position. Funny how our bodies protect us one moment and let it loose the next.

The long night

Backing up a bit in this story. When I was six years old I developed a cough. A pretty nasty cough that my mother became concerned about. I went to doctor after doctor for it. They kept sending my mother home with antibiotics and telling her it would clear up. One night I could not sleep because my coughing was so bad. I remember being scared because I could not seem to catch my breath between coughs. I walked into my mothers room and she woke up asking me what was wrong.  I could not answer her through the coughing.  She took me into the livingroom and tried to calm me down.  I remember she was in her nightgown and phoning the doctor looking down at me on the sofa. I remember her yelling into the phone before glancing at me. The look she gave me was frightening.  She dropped the phone and grabbed me. She rushed out the door and threw me in the car. Luckily we lived quite near a local hospital.  She pulled up into the ambulance lane. A man came to her car to yell at her because she was not supposed to be there, but stopped as he looked at me in the back seat. The man pulled me from my mother's car and rushed me into the hospital.  They tell me my face had started to turn blue. I spent the next 2 and a half months in the hospital.  I had pneumonia and asthma.  One of my lungs had collapsed and I had been dying. My mother and the paramedic saved my life that night. I wish I knew who he was so I could say thank you. So if you see a paramedic.... say thank you for those of us who couldn't.
I apologize for any grammar or spelling mistakes on this post. I am writing it on my phone on a train. Please forgive them if they are there.

This is a dark, possibly triggering post. You have been warned. Me Too...

When I was 7 my parents would tease me. They would tell everyone that I had “never met a stranger”. That everyone I met was instantly my best friend or a part of my family. This might be why it was so easy for him to get close to me.

 There were six of us in a three-bedroom rat trap of a house. We loved it. My baby brother and I shared a bedroom. Though we lived in a tight space, we had people over often. My parents were not a happy couple but they were sociable.

They had a childhood friend you see. They had known him so long that he was made Godfather to my oldest brother. Whenever he got himself into trouble he would come to our house and stay, crashing in the living room. He played board games with us and called himself uncle. We felt close to him and got excited to see him when he came over. He was the coolest adult in the world.

One night when I lay asleep in the bed beside my four year old brother, he crept into my room. I was groggy but I remember seeing the silhouette of him in the doorway of my dark room. I could hear the party going on in the living room as distant mumblings and music. He came to my bed side and picked me up. He lay down on the floor with me on top of him. I was confused and scared. I could hear my parents’ voices coming from the other room. He whispered he loved me over and over. His breath smelled  like beer and marijuana. He undid his jeans and pressed me against him, forcing my hand on his penis. He was uncircumcised. He rocked me against him. I was petrified and confused. Then all of a sudden my father appeared in the doorway. Relief washed over me. I remember the feeling. He asked them man what he thought he was doing in the room. He jumped up from the floor and set me back in the bed. He told my father that I had been awake when he passed and that we were playing airplane. If you do not know what that is, look it up. My father looked at me. I was still in shock and terrified. My father was an angry man. He often had bouts of rage that scared me. I was certain he would have one now. But he did not. He followed the man out of my room. He was drunk and stoned you see. I am sure he did not want to believe what some part of him had to be screaming. So I was left there in my room. Confused. The person I thought would protect me against everything walked away. My world caved in around me. The next day I waited at the end of the driveway with my older siblings for the bus to school. My father came out to leave for work and spoke briefly to us. I expected him to be mad for some reason. When he was not I thought that maybe it was something that was supposed to happen.

So it continued. The man got bolder and bolder. He would come into my room and carry me to the living room. In the morning my parents would find me on the floor with him and he would tell them I crawled up to him in the early morning hours. I was to afraid to say anything. This went on until just before my 9^th birthday. One night he was in my room with me. My brother was against the wall. I had faded my mind away to a happy place. My escape. A beautiful green grassy cliff with falling petals and a vast ocean crashing into the rocks. I went there always. As he penetrated me, I felt something happen. I felt like I became a lion. I let out the most carnal roar. I remember how loud it felt inside my head. Like a real lion. My eyes opened and he had flown back across the room, grabbed his belongings and mumbled something like, “if you did not want it you should have said so” or some such thing. I just stared out after him. He had never stopped before. I looked around for a lion in my room. Nothing. I still to this day do not know what it was. 

After that I avoided being home when he was there. I became defiant and locked the bedroom door when he came over. I never let him touch me again.