Back From Camping

I haven't written in a while. Things have been rather hectic. My husband, baby, and I went camping. The weather was wickedly hot, hitting over 100 well before noon each day. There was a freshwater spring to swim in, which helped some, but it was a rough trip overall. My husband had a cold/upper respiratory infection thingy, and we ended up going home early. Since we don't have a car at the moment, the logistics both of getting there and of getting back were complicated, and we ended up leaving all our clothes for a friend of ours to bring back to our neck of the woods, which means I don't have my swimsuit here, so I can't go to the pool right now.

We have a few options. Options #1. I can try to lure said friend here by making a batch of the ice cream flavor of his choice. #2. I can take 2 train rides with Baby, and then drag the smaller bag back with me on same 2 trains and hope that the smaller bag contains at least one bathing suit, my goggles, and my swim cap (I don't want our friend going through our bag - there's underwear and stuff in there - I mean, he's not a perv, but I don't feel comfortable asking someone to go through a bag which contains much of our dirty laundry looking for a bathing suit for me.) #3. Husband can hitch a ride to friend's with his boss after work, and then take 2 trains back home. He can probably manage to get both bags back home if he goes on his own.

Currently, I'm working with the ice cream lure idea.

The other possibility is to use this as an opportunity to buy a new bathing suit, new goggles, and a new swim cap. (the pool I go to requires a swim cap for women - it's not a speed thing, it's a being allowed in the pool thing.)

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In other news, Friday, I took another pregnancy test, and it was negative. I've been taking Metformin, which is what I did last time I got pregnant, and it worked then, so I guess I'll wait a while longer before I go back to a gyno. It's not like we're really specifically trying so much. Next month, we're going to an amusement park for the day, and I really hope I'll get to go on the roller coasters - I won't be able to do that if I'm pregnant.
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I think I'll save the other stuff for a separate post, because there's more stuff that needs to be written, but it doesn't go with this.

Paint

I haven't written in a while for a number of reasons. Mostly because I don't write here when my husband's around. My husband likes to remind me that he's not meant to be my therapist, and as such, he doesn't need to hear what I went through in all its grueling detail...

I'm trying to decide where to go next. Sometimes, something's screaming to get out, but right now, a few voices are competing for the top of my mind...

A few nights ago, I had this thought. When my baby was born, I realized that we needed to repaint the nursery because there were garish designs of cartoon characters on the walls. My husband painted three layers over the designs. I asked him the other night whether we could strip off the paint, and whether the cartoon characters would still be there. Of course, he said it was possible. So I think. If we strip off the woman I've become - the mother, the wife, the writer, the friend - I'm still what I was under that. I'm still a scared girl with her shoes missing. I'm still the person whose life spun so out of control that she can't even name all of her sexual partners, and isn't even sure she'd recognize all of them by face.

So how do you strip those layers away?
I don't want them anymore.

PS Aunt Flo showed up.

Swimming

Today, I went swimming. I do that about three times a week. The pool was less crowded than usual, but since they clean the pool once a week - on Sundays, it was filthy. Basically, there are all these white fluffy things floating in the pool. It didn't take me long to realize that they're mucus. What was harder was suppressing my gag reflex... EWWW. I'm the type of person who finds wiping a baby's nose harder than wiping their rear.

Speaking of babies, I'm pretty much sure I'm not pregnant this cycle, though Aunt Flo is still MIA. I don't know why I was so sure that I was pregnant, but whatever. If Aunt Flo ever shows up, then there's another cycle to work with. If not, I think I'll get my doctor to put me on metformin. It worked last time, so I'm hoping it'll work this time.

Baby is so sweet. We had lunch with my mom, and she was just giggling and smiling the whole time... except when she tried to eat my cell-phone. Then she was just very intent on the task at hand.

Back to swimming, while I was swimming, I was in this whole bizarre fantasy about my high school English teacher. He was this British guy, not particularly attractive. Once I accidentally ripped a poster that was on the wall, so he asked me to stay after class and tape it back together for him. I held the sides while he taped it together. Somehow, for me, that moment was intimate. It's bizarre, but I guess it was the closeness, or the look on his face, or maybe the fact that at some points during the year, he talked to me after class, and somehow I felt like he understood me more than other people. At any rate, I still fantasize about him. I don't get it. Back then, I would have said he was the one I was least likely to fantasize about.

Back in high school, there were two male teachers I thought about a lot. One, I thought was the sweetest man alive. He could play guitar, and he had this sweet singing voice, and he used to sing at assemblies sometimes. Oh gosh, what I wouldn't have given for a hug from Dr. Johnny. Just thinking about him makes me all soft on the inside, even though I know that he never really thought much about me.

I guess it started on our freshie weekend (I went to a semi-posh private school for high school). There was this senior chick who came to wake us up and none of the girls got up and she got upset so she went to Dr. Johnny and Dr. Lamm and told them that we didn't want to wake up. So the two of them came to our floor of the hotel and started singing and shouting and stuff. It was so funny. I got up, no doubt with bed-hair and all that, and I said "we may be awake now, but we're going back to sleep." and Dr. Johnny said to me "Good morning, Miss Catherine, you look exceptionally beautiful today." Having the self-esteem of roadkill, it was basically love for me. And then the guitar. Nothing and I mean NOTHING is as hot as a guy who can play guitar.

And I don't mean guitar hero. I mean classic guitar, or better yet, twelve string. I mean soft sweet songs like "Cat's in the Cradle" and "Country Roads" and sitting around a campfire. I wish my husband would play guitar. We have a friend who plays pretty well, and I'm about ready to jump his bones every time I see him take out the guitar. Not a good thing.

Okay, here's the real problem. Why the hell am I fantasizing about every man on Earth EXCEPT my husband?! I love him. I mean it. He's made all my dreams come true. He's made my family accept me. He's given me a beautiful home and a gorgeous baby. He even accepts Doggie, although he isn't overly fond of dogs. So why can't I want him as much as I want every damned man that's out of reach?!

He's kind. He's gentle. He has a nice singing voice. He plays piano. He's attractive. He's strong. He has a variety of different talents, most of which impress me. He brings home a good salary. He's even muscular and not too hairy. I wish my body would just respond to him the way it did when we were first together. I want to have passion with him, and I just don't. I don't want to think about other men. I don't want to be this girl.

Oh the Embarassment!

I had a cleaner come in to clean up my house today. He's a post high school kid who's taking some time out to earn some cash before he starts college and life and all that. Nice kid.

I just looked at my night stand. In the pile of hair bands that he arranged neatly there, there's a used Nuva Ring. I feel really guilty... Jeez. That was in my... you know. and he put it into the pile... oh boy! That'll teach me to put trash in the trash - it's been sitting there like 6 weeks... oops.

Oh, and today's pregnancy test was negative. Aunt Flo must be on her way. How exciting.

Dual Personality

Somewhere out there, there are people who see me every day. They know me. I mean, really. They know I love Dexter, Scrubs, NCIS, CSI: Miami. They know I have a dog that barks too much and jumps too much. They know that I'm a writer and that I love to sing, but I can't hit all the notes.

Some of them know that I had some bad experiences. A lot of them know that I was promiscuous before I met my husband. Almost all of them know that I take medications for depression. Some know that it's bipolar with more downswings than upswings. Some know that I have issues with rage.

But none of them understand how my mind makes me live in some of those dark places.

Maybe maybe some of them could handle it if I told them about the rape, but most would blame me for getting myself into the situation, or wouldn't understand why I didn't press charges.

I was alone, more alone than I can explain. I was living alone in what basically amounted to a construction area. My boyfriend had dumped me. He was one of those guys who you just can't get enough of. I was insanely in love with him. But he dumped me. And I was alone. Doggie (not a very original name for a dog, I admit) had just showed up in my life, and Doggie was pretty much all I had. I was in college, but I hated classes. I had lost a semester the previous year because of my depression, so I was retaking courses I had no interest in.

And then D.S. showed up. He was a neighbor. He was single. He was older than I was, and he had a dog. He was smooth enough to fool me. I was twenty, but in some ways, I was as naive as I'd been at ten. He started by 'helping me' with the dog. He let our dogs play together, and he told me how he knew all about dog training (later on, I found out exactly how much he knew about dog training when he slammed his dog against a brick wall).

He sat on the hammock, which was pretty much the only thing that made the yard look inhabited. There wasn't even grass yet. (Like I said, it was basically a construction site. There were three people living on the street at that point).

I don't know how he made it happen. He said he could teach me, and I wanted to show that I was an adult. I said, "like what?" and then I kissed him.

We kissed for a while, and then he told me we could go to his place. We went there, and right away, he pushed me into his bed, but I figured I was dressed so that was ok.

Then his hands were on my breasts and I told him I wasn't ready. He told me not to be a baby. He asked me if I'd done it before. I didn't lie. I had. He told me that it's not a big deal. It could be our secret. We'd be friends. He'd take care of me.

I wanted him to use a condom, but he said he didn't have any, so he'd just withdraw. I wasn't sure, but he kept telling me that this is how it works when you're an adult, so I was kinda okay with it. He withdrew like he said, and I asked if I could spend the night. He said no, and that he had to be up early in the morning.

In the morning, I rang his doorbell early. I knew he was home. His car was in the driveway. He didn't come to the door. Later, I bought condoms, and I left a pack in his mailbox, wrapped as a gift. He didn't respond to me. I waited for him, but I didn't see when he left or came back.

I went to his house the next day, when I knew he was home. The condoms were gone from the mailbox. I rang the bell again and again. I felt cheated.

He called me later and yelled at me that I was bugging him. I started crying on the phone, and he said what basically amounted to "will you be good now?" to which I said yes, and then he told me to come over. When I got there, the door was unlocked, and he was in the shower. I went in there, and he started yelling at me. He made me lean over the sink, and he sodomized me. I cried, but I didn't try to stop him. Then he made me get into the shower with him, and he penetrated me as I leaned on the wall. He told me to tell him that I loved him, that I needed him. And then he yelled at me more.

Then he told me to get dressed and get out.

Another time, he told me he wanted to make up with me. He pushed me to have sex with him again. I didn't know anything. I just knew that I wanted to stop hurting, and he kept promising he'd make things ok for me.

You see. I couldn't go to the police. Sure I feel raped, but legally, he didn't rape me. I went to his house willingly. I didn't scream. I didn't fight back. I wasn't under threat. There was no time when he physically prevented me from leaving.

I'm sure that if anyone out there reads this, they'll think I was a total idiot for going up there to begin with. I think it too. But I did. And he used my stupidity to hurt me.

Quick Update

Big Sister had a baby boy today.
I went to the hospital to see them. He is adorable.

I took a pregnancy test yesterday, and it was negative. I think I might have tested too early, though. I'll try again on Monday, and see if the results are still negative. If so, then I guess I can expect Aunt Flo soon.

Shoes on the Windowsill

I lived in the next house for just a year, the year I was in kindergarten. I have a lot of memories from that place. The most striking is a pair of black patent leather shoes sitting on a windowsill.

I asked a brother for a cup of apple juice, and he said that he'd give me apple juice, but afterwards, I'd need to play a game with him.

We went to a room that no one used, and he put a mat down on the floor. And then he said we were going to play a dare game.

"I dare you to take off your shoes" he said. I took off my shoes, and put them neatly on the windowsill.

He dared me until we were both down to underwear.

"I dare you to put all your clothes back on." I said, and he laughed.
"It doesn't work that way." He took off his underwear, and told me to take off mine. He made me lie on his belly. I guess that was when he realized that I was too little or that it was wrong. He told me to put my clothes back on. He told me not to tell anyone.

Two weeks later, I hadn't found my shoes. My mom went to the room to look for something, and I went with her. She saw the mat on the floor and asked me what we'd done. At first, I didn't answer. And then I saw my shoes on the windowsill.

I don't remember what I told her. I don't remember anything more about it. I mostly repressed that part. Somehow, telling was worse than experiencing. My mom claims she checked me for signs of damage. I don't remember it. I don't remember anything changing. My mom said she told my siblings. I don't remember that. She says that he wasn't allowed to be alone with me for years. I don't remember that either. I remember the feel of his skin, the look of his penis, but I don't remember anyone ever telling me it wasn't ok to talk about it. I don't remember any change in anyone's behavior. It felt like it was just covered up.

He never touched me again.

When I was eight or nine, my grandfather came to visit me, and he brought me a book about sexual abuse. I said "oh, yeah, I know about that. Brother did that to me." My grandfather left right after that. I guess he didn't know what to say.

A little while later, there was a school assignment to write about something you wish hadn't happened or something like that. I wrote about my experience. Kids treated me pretty weird after that. The principal called in my parents to talk about it. Everyone said I was okay, and I never got treatment then either.

I know that what I went through wasn't horrible, but I also know that it marked me as a victim. In Stephen King's "Salem's Lot," one character describes that he's marked by a vampire, and it's only a matter of time before other vampires feed on him. (I think I got that right, feel free to correct if you've read it more recently than I have.) I was marked then. In school, kids teased me, and at one point, I was in a school in a bad area and I got beaten up a few times.

In high school, a guidance counselor told me that I walk around looking like a victim. I don't think I managed to change that look until I was 26.