Possibilities and Reflections

You said, “There’s this place right behind the library and close to the cafeteria-the place with the statue. Do you remember the statue?”


Do I remember the statue? Of course I remember the statue. I stood beside it, with you. I remember so much about this day. The sun hung brightly over us, enveloping us in its light. It was only April, but in central Florida this already constitutes a high of 90 and air you’d swear you could swim through. I felt sweaty and gross, but you looked at me as if I was beautiful. And I felt it. You told me about the statue being in commemoration of one of the professors you had introduced me to, and I stood amazed, taking it in. A smile crossed your lips and you let me in on the secret: the statue had been there for years. It had nothing to do with the professor who bore its likeness. I glared at you playfully and we laughed. I loved the way our laughter mixed together and bounced off of the walls of the buildings that surrounded the perfect circle in which we existed at that moment.

But, for reasons I can’t explain, the thing I remember most about this day, the weekend as a whole; is the smells. The grass that we walked on, freshly cut. The interior of my car upon turning on the air after it sat in the sun all day. Your room. The wind. The faint smell of smoke in the hotel room that was designated to be non-smoking. My shampoo mixed with your soap, lingering in the bathroom. The gummy worms and sweet tea, breakfast of champions. The body spray you liked me to wear. I remember them each differently, but with one unique commonality. They reeked of possibility. In them each lay newness and this sense that anything could happen- and did.

It’s been a long time since that day. We’ve come a long way- grown and shifted in ways we might not have imagined then. There are times when the wind blows just so across my face or the sun skims across my shoulders in a certain way- I can close my eyes and be right back there. In that circle made of buildings and filled with laughter.

But, now- in this moment- you’re still waiting for my answer. I know I’ll never be able to fully express it the way I feel it, so I simply hold the phone closer to my ear and say, “Remember…? How could I forget?”

Stray



By: Elizabeth Alexander


On the beach, close to sunset, a dog runs
toward us fast, agitated, perhaps feral,
scrounging for anything he can eat.
We pull the children close and let him pass.


Is there such a thing as a stray child? Simon asks.
Like if a mother had a child from her body
but then decided she wanted to be a different child’s mother,
what would happen to that first child?


The dog finds a satisfying scrap and calms.
The boys break free and leap from rock to rock.
I was a stray man before I met your mother,
you say, but they have run on and cannot hear you.



How fast they run on, past the dark pool
your voice makes, our arms which hold them back.
I was a stray man before I met you,
you say. This time you are speaking to me.

    I adore this poem by Elizabeth Alexander. The first time I stumbled across it, I must have read it two or three times- one right after another. I was (and am) enamored by its deep, passionate message delivered in such a simplistic way. There aren't a lot of words- not a great deal of stanzas. Just pure emotion. It's one of those poems that paints a mental image like no other. I can close my eyes and see it all play out in my head...it's lovely.

     I must admit, as far as what I want in a relationship, it's a bit of a stretch. The poem is built around the analogy of the husband being much like the feral dog: fierce, perceivably dangerous, running, searching, scared, lost. That is, until he meets his wife to be. "I was a stray man before I met you," he says to her. And it's so romantic, such a riveting ideology. Every woman wants to that to someone- the person who draws you back from the edge. The person who saves you, or helps you realize how much life if worth living. To have your presence be the sheer force behind all of this- well, it must be amazing, right? Amazingly stressful, I'd say. I don't want the pressure of being someone's constant source of happiness or to be the sole person they depend on to give life purpose. I've always said that I am not on a quest to find someone who "completes me" because to do so would be to imply that I'm not a whole person on my own. You have to know how to be a whole person on your own- to find happiness and a sense of purpose within yourself. I just want to find someone who loves me unconditionally for who I am now, as well as who I will become. I want someone who enhances my life- not someone to define it. I'm looking for someone who feels the same. I don't ever want my husband to say, "I love you so much because you make me who I am." No. I want him to say, "I love you so much because you make me want to be the best version of myself."

     I don't want that to take away from the sheer beauty of this poem. Because I do love it, and when I read it, I don't really get the feeling that he is saying, "All I am is dependent on you." I feel more that he is saying, "Everything I am now, I owe to you because you empowered me to be a better version of myself. You helped me understand my purpose." But, as I mentioned- it kind of goes without saying. When you truly love someone- sometimes the best things don't have to be spelled out.

Lucky...

Being sexually abused, in any way, places you in a club no one wants to (or should be) a part of. I know. I’m a member. I was reminded, as if I could ever forget, recently when I picked up the autobiography of critically acclaimed author, Alice Sebold. She was beaten and brutally, brutally raped during her freshman year at Syracuse University. She tells the story in such a way that grips the reader and forces them to not only witness the hell she’s enduring, but to endure it with her. And you do. You can’t help it. I usually devour books in hours, days FLAT. But, not this one. Not because it was anything less than stunning, but because it was raw. And real. And I felt it. I felt it more than I had prepared myself for feeling it.


When you experience being sexually violated in such a manner at such a young age, you have no idea how to process that. No way. You deal with it the best way you can. For years, I felt that the coping mechanisms implemented by my four year old self, my eight year old self, my fourteen year old self, my eighteen year old self, my twenty-four year old self- that they were all just weird rituals I held myself to because I knew no better. I thought they made me weird. It wasn’t enough that I felt damaged in the most immeasurable way, I also felt I wasn’t even normal in my own ability to be damaged. But, reading Alice’s story, hearing her words- her own misgivings and nightmares…well, it let me know I wasn’t.

I have vivid memories of playing in the yard one afternoon maybe about six months after the incident, which is weird in and of itself, as I wouldn’t venture out of the house alone. I remember imagining him coming to get me again. I remember saying, No! No! You can’t hurt me anymore. You can’t hurt me anymore. And I ran around my yard saying this- whispering it really- to myself. And I thought, even then, how strange this was of me. Why would I wish that on myself again. While reading about Alice’s own battles of wishing her rapist upon her again, I realized it was all about asserting some form of control. Control that has been ripped from your grasp, leaving you reeling.

But, the difference in Alice’s imagination and my own, is that mine came true. He did appear that day, walking down the road towards me. And suddenly any control I had tried to summon was gone. Vanished into the humid air along with the heated breaths escaping my mouth in my attempt to get to my front door. I knew if I could just get there, I would be okay. I reached for the knob, but it was locked. I panicked even more. I began to beat my small fists against the door, screaming. I screamed with everything I had. My childish mind didn’t allow the thought to run to the back door, for now, this was my only escape. My sister and a friend were inside and heard me beating on the door. Truth be told, I could be a dramatic child, and my sister had no idea of what had happened to me during the months prior. She thought I was just being bratty and refused to let me in, taunting me. I remember seeing her face and thinking she, this time, would be the one to save me or let me die. In my little brain, that was it: live or die, right then. My mother, having discovered what was going on, pushed them aside and let me in. I rushed to her arms, and I shook. I screamed and I cried and I shook. I don’t remember how long it took for her to calm me down. But, I do remember the way my sister looked at me when my mother explained to her what had happened. I remember the way she hugged me and told me she was sorry. I remember the anger and sadness that dwelled together behind her eyes, and I knew she had never meant to hurt me.

I hurt along with Alice as she constantly worried where she would next see his face. I lived that worry every day for sixteen years. My mother and father decided it was best not to press charges, as not only were we very close with the rest of his family (most of which never knew about it), but I couldn’t even talk about it without breaking down into a heaving, sobbing, mess. It would be my word against his. A child. It was futile, they agreed. He was a part of my life- a nightmare in the flesh only one hundred yards or so away from my own house. I watched him come and go as he pleased. I watched him drink until he couldn’t stand. I watched him laugh and attempt to talk to me. My father had sworn he would never be allowed on our property again, but slowly, I watched him walk right back into my life.

He eventually did come back on our property. He helped my father build a shed. He had a beer in my backyard. He tried to make small talk with me, and I found myself making the effort to do the same. I wanted so badly to just be who I was before. I thought, maybe, if I was a good girl and I could talk about things like school and why I didn’t like Muscatine grapes with the man who had pushed his fingers so far into my small body that I couldn’t go to the bathroom for weeks without my mother holding my hand- that maybe, just maybe I could be who I used to be. Maybe we could all just forget about it. But, it’s never that easy.

I read along as Alice destroyed her body with drugs and booze in the attempt to “destroy” her feelings. She hated her body. So did I. Part of me, I know, still does. It is a fact that most sexual abuse victims either dramatically gain weight or lose weight to alter their body. I did. Unconsciously, I truly believe, initially. Everyone used to tell me what a “pretty little girl” I was- that I would, they were sure, turn into a beautiful young woman. He, himself, nicknamed me his Princess. I thought if I could just be unpretty, then I couldn’t get hurt. He couldn’t hurt me again. It worked- kind of. People never remarked what a pretty young woman I was. I was “smart”, “kind”, “sweet”. These adjectives, though well meaning, became words I still resent to be associated with. But, as I was pointedly told by a member of my family a few years back, being overweight won’t stop someone from hurting you. There are all kinds of sickos out there that like your type. It doesn’t mean you won’t get hurt. Why, thank you for that dose of reality. It had never dawned on me.

I cringed and cried along with Alice as she experienced her own sexuality after the rape, wondering if she was truly broken. If the sadness and pain, though not physical, would ever really go away. When do the flashbacks stop? We train ourselves to focus on different things. I thank God that my journey was drastically different from hers, here. I was cared for, understood, held with patience. She was not so fortunate, but I knew the path she was training herself to walk. Private moments are never really yours again. Not for a while, at least. You still feel enslaved- owned by the person who stole your innocence.

Unlike Alice, who fought bravely and with a passion I have yet to see in any other human to place her violator behind bars, I never got that luxury. When I was 20 years old, he went missing and was later found to be drowned after falling into a pond while inebriated. My initial reaction was FREEDOM. I had never felt so free, not in a very long time. Then, I felt guilty. I was raised in the church, and I felt I was being sinful to engage in such delight in another’s passing. I felt like a horrible person for celebrating his death. I did not go to his funeral. I grieved for his family and for his mother mainly, who had been like a second grandmother to me. She had lost her son, the second of which she had had to bury in her lifetime. I knew it was hard for her. But, I had to dismiss myself when she stated to the preacher that, I know he hurt a lot of people, but I don’t think he ever hurt anyone as much as he hurt himself. That was a lie to me. I would never share in that sentiment. He chose to drink and drive behind the wheel of a car that killed his wife and nearly killed his young son. He chose to do drugs and ruin what brain cells had remained. He chose to live the life he lead. I did not choose for him to put his hands up my shorts. I did not choose for him to clasp his hand over my mouth. I did not choose for him to violently, aggressively assault me as I screamed. I did not choose for him to whisper vulgar things in my ear, his temper flaring and showing in his actions as I whimpered: I want my mommy. No. I didn’t choose for him to do any of those things. I certainly did not choose to be a twenty five year old woman, who still shudders when I hear a voice familiar to his, or I smell the brand of cigarette that he used to smoke. So, I win. I hurt more. If you want to call that winning.

Looking back, I have so many unanswered questions. I am hesitant to be angry with my parents. They loved me more than enough and neither children nor life comes with a manual. They were just doing what they thought was best for me. But, still- my heart burns and my throat tightens a little when I ask why. Why? Why did they let him come back into my life? Why did they make it seem like it was okay for him to just be there in the only place I felt safe? Why did I have to pretend to be grown up about it? To keep being told that even if I did run into him, I was older and he couldn’t hurt me anymore? Did they not realize this made absolutely no sense? That every time I saw him, it mattered not whether I was 4 or twenty- that the fear was paralyzing? I’m most hesitant to ask what kind of parents expose their child to that. Because I know how it makes them seem. But, they loved me. More than I have ever been loved by anyone. And I love them, immensely.

In all honesty…I am resentful. I’m resentful that I have to figure out, after all this time, how to live my live despite this. How to pull in the reins and not let it control me unconsciously or otherwise. I resent that there are times when I feel the only person I will every truly attract is a pervert like he was. And I most resent the fact that when I found someone who did, and was not, he haunted me still. I resent that I felt the need to play nice, to destroy my body, to be a “good girl” in order to ever be worth anything or anyone. I haven’t really, truly cried about this for a long time. It hurts, but I mask the hurt with other pain. But, as I sit here reliving this through her experiences, I cry. I don’t just cry- I sob, I weep, I feel it…all over again. Am I resentful? I’m so resentful. But, I’m trying to move past that.

Alice, I know you’re not reading this. You probably never will. But, I have to say: Thank You. Thank you so much for not only your book, but for the courage to live the truth you so boldly wrote about. Thank you for helping me realize I am not alone. I am not weird in my ability to be damaged. And that I will not always be damaged. It means more than you could ever know.

The Couple

They sit in the little, black, four door sedan. The fingers on one of his hands fiercely drumming the steering wheel, the other entangled in conversation with hers, resting on the console. He’s singing a song, his thumb tracing tiny circles on the tender part of her hand- the soft tissue between the area that forms the “L”. Her head bobs back and forth, gently to the music. Coldplay. I can see her mouthing the words, but that’s all. It’s the kind of mumbling you do when you don’t know all the words, but you love the song anyway. She breaks her grip from his, pumping the window lower with both hands and Chris Martin’s voice suddenly becomes louder beside me, but not obnoxiously so. She pulls two cigarettes from the pocket of her cut-off, blue jean shorts, places both of them, simultaneously, between her lips and inhales while holding a lighter to the end of each. Talent. She extends her arm in an unspoken invitation to him to take one, before placing her feet against the dashboard.


I can’t help but think of the marked differences between them. Him, in his plaid button down, khaki shorts, and hair groomed to perfection with just the right amount of gel to maintain his masculine stature yet tip-toeing on the edge of metro-sexual. He looks like he’s just stepped out of the fresh pages of a J-Crew catalogue. She, on the other hand doesn’t really fit into anything. Bare feet, accentuated by bright blue toes tap against the dashboard. Her shorts, bearing holes with various patterns of material peeking through are accented by a flowy, floral print top. She wears a belt over the shirt, the buckle forming the shape of a skull. It seems she’s fond of bracelets. Both arms are nearly covered from wrist to elbow with them- all kinds. Some plastic, some look home-made, others are thick and have words etched on them. Words I can’t read. They dance up and down her arm and she twists the tendrils of her long, brown hair.

By this time, it appears the light is stuck. We’ve been sitting here for a while. It didn’t seem to be an issue at first, but now…I guess wherever they’re going, it’s suddenly of greater importance that they get there. Soon. Or maybe they’re just tired of wasting their gas.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck is taking so long? We’ve been sitting here for ten minutes!

She’s right. Coldplay, The Weepies, Vampire Weekend. Three songs. We’ve been sitting here for the duration of three songs, so roughly, ten minutes.

I don’t know, but this is ridiculous. Where are the fucking police when you need them? God- I hate small towns. For this very reason. We don’t have to deal with this shit at home.

Home. I wonder where home is for them. Obviously somewhere far removed from the inconveniences of rural life. Maybe they got off the interstate too early and found themselves in the middle of a real life Mayberry. Maybe their GPS lead them through Here on their way to There based on their instructions to find the quickest route. Her phone rings.

Hey- yeah, we got off to get gas, and the GPS changed and said there was a shorter way, and now we are stuck in some goddamn hick town because apparently Billy Bob or Bubba-Joe one doesn’t know how to fix a fucking STOP LIGHT. I swear to GOD, I’m taking this bitch back to the store. It’s defective. But, yeah- we’re on our way. It’ll probably be late tonight before we get in. I’ll call ya and let ya know.

She hangs up the phone. They are separate beings now. No touching, no singing to the music. But, they are together in their anger and frustration. He pecks at his own phone, mumbling something about having to iron his suit at three in the morning, hoping the place has an ironing board. She doesn’t care. She is so beyond caring at this point, it’s so clear to see. It’s as evident on her face as the tattoos are on her bare shoulder and feet.

A familiar song starts to play forth from the stereo in their car, but somehow- it just doesn’t fit. Suddenly and inexplicably it fills the air around them and they start to laugh. Hysterically. She reaches over to turn it up and soon the only thing audible is the voice of Miley Cyrus, screeching out from the speakers. They laugh some more.

What in the hell is this doing on your iPod? She says, playfully punching his arm.

Don’t hate! It’s catchy. Everybody likes this song! He’s a little embarrassed, but hides it well.

No- everyone most definitely does NOT like this song.

They both sing along now. And they both know all of the words. He gets out of the car.

Chinese fire-drill!!! He screams.

She follows and as they round the car, he catches her, her squeels of excitement filtering the space. He pulls her in close from the waist and picks her up, kissing her there in the middle of a town they did not know and a moment they did not foresee happening, but one they’re making the best of. I notice a small tattoo on his left hand- the one I hadn’t been able to see before. It said simply “live”. She reaches up and pulls his face closer and I see the same word on her own left hand. In the same spot- the same section his thumb had traced earlier. I realize it’s more than just a word to them. It’s a belief. It’s these similarities that tie them together, and in some situations differences can seem more noticeable to the naked eye, but they serve their purpose too.

I imagine them going back to their lives in the city, whatever city that may be. I picture them walking down sidewalks, hand in hand. Eating brunch at a little Jewish pastry shop. Reading books on a blanket in the park. Cooking dinner in a tiny apartment. Sleeping, each knowing that the other loves them for who they are already as well as whoever they are yet to become.

The light changes now. They’ve returned to their designated seats in the car, and are now driving away. Moving on to make memories I can only imagine. And maybe I should be offended at their scoffing of my home, the place I grew up. The place I make memories. But, I’m not- I can’t. They’re just people, like me. Just different people from different places, all of us having lives to be lived.

Once

I had a story once. A long time ago when life was fresh and unscathed from the numerous things that have since left me with this unbounded, unprecedented feeling of being damaged. I’ve often looked back in an attempt to gauge where, exactly I tripped. Where did I make a misstep so seemingly small in the moment that has left me in a free-fall ever since--searching for a lifeline that had, over time, ceased to exist? When? Where? Why? How? These are questions that plague me.


I had a parachute once. Not so long ago when I thought I was figuring things out. When I began to think of myself as less damaged and more of a beautiful disaster. I had wonderful friends, an amazing family, a life I was so content in living. I was learning. I was growing. I was changing. But, I wasn’t moving on. I wasn’t truly believing the lovely ideologies I was writing about- at least not for myself. All of that wonderlust was for other people. I was different. I was trying really, really hard to believe otherwise. But, in my heart, I was still unworthy.

I had this guy once. Just a little while ago. We spoke in the wee hours of the morning as the world – our world- slept around us. I fancied his laugh. He complimented my accent. We splashed in the ocean. He wet my dress. He kissed me when I least expected it. He held me close. He chased my fears. He let me in to see he wasn’t perfect- he had fears of his own. I learned to trust and he disassembled walls I never knew I’d built. He saw in me things I never saw within myself. He made me question. He made me think. He challenged me. He didn’t just accept my excuses and feed me lines to placate my senses. He never asked me to be anything I wasn’t already, just to always be the best version of me. I loved him. But, he was damaged too, and sometimes despite love…things just don’t work out.

I had a heart once- a whole one. The timeframe comes and goes. It varies depending on the day, the hour, the moment you ask me. Yet, the catalyst of it all remains undetermined. Yes, I miss him. Yes, it’s killing me. But, there’s so much more that predates him. I could never be the best version of me if I didn’t know who I was in the first place. I couldn’t do what made me happy if I was only ever doing what I thought I was supposed to do. I could never believe I was not damaged if I was merely relying on affirmation of this from others, putting all of my self-worth in their hands-all of it- with nothing left for myself.

I knew who I was once. At I time I don’t remember, but feel it to be true. I had an identity all my own and a heart that knew no meaning of broken. I believed life was limited only by the boundaries I put on myself. I danced, I sang, I skipped, I laughed, I ran, I was zany, I wore what I wanted, and I never cared what anyone else said. When did I stumble? Where did I fall? Why didn’t I pull the chord? How do I learn to fly? When? Where? Why? How? These are questions that plague my life.

The Plastic Bag Diaries

I saw a plastic bag. It was floating in the wind. And I remembered that part in American Beauty where she films the movie about the plastic bag and she says it’s one of the most beautiful things she’s ever seen. I’m driving down the road and I fight the urge to pull over and linger there for a while. I don’t. But, still it meanders in the back of my mind. All day- as I sift through paperwork and peck at my keyboard like a well trained chicken performing desk work rather than off tempo renditions of “Old McDonald” and “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”


I can see it moving aimlessly. Its motions vary- sometimes it’s soothing and calm as it climbs up in the air, sighing as it draws the mouths of smiley faces on its way to the ground, but never settling completely. Other times, it skips jovially about on the pavement- a tap dance of sorts. I try my best to avoid running it over, more out of my longing to let it dance uninterrupted rather than the still-small voice of my mother in the back of my mind.

Never run over a plastic bag. It could get stuck under your car and melt to your engine.

Or muffler. Or exhaust. Or some other hot piece of metal down there. I only ever half listened to the statement anyhow.

As it disappeared underneath the body of my car, I held my breath. I looked in my rearview window, but saw nothing.

Oh, man. I killed it. It’s probably melting at this very moment.

My heart was breaking as it was melting. And maybe it seems silly to anyone else- getting so upset about a stupid plastic bag. But, it wasn’t just a bag. It was life. It was my life. So much of me existed in the journey that bag was taking. Floating aimlessly about with no sense of direction, just taking life as it came- every core of your existence relying on the next gust of wind or a car coming along to either thrust you in a new direction or put you out of your misery. It all seems so romantic. Quite lovely and mysterious. And maybe that’s a wonderful life for a bag. Or a hipster. Or a college student backpacking through Europe. But, not for me.

Just then, I saw an object emerge sharply from the back of my car. It moved in a squiggle towards the sky- an upside down question mark. It wasn’t dead. It hadn’t melted. It just took a little longer to get where it was going. Is it where it intended to be? Who knows? It’s a bag, so I’m guessing it had to pre-existing notions of exact location. But, there was the positive. There was the idea that would make the moment worth remembering- worth writing about. Sometimes it’s okay to be a little lost. It’s okay to not be 100% sure where you are, as long as you have some idea of where you’re going. Maybe you’ll get there when you planned. Maybe you won’t. But, I assure you, you will get there right on time. It won’t kill you. You will not melt. You’ll just be stronger.

As for me? I have to remind myself, too. So, don’t worry- if you’re lost, you aren’t alone.