When Adolescent Women Attack

Like so many--so many--other people, I was mortified by the news that a young girl, an overweight, emotionally troubled, 13 year old named Megan Meier, committed suicide after a hot "boy" (and a few others) talked smack about her on MySpace. The horrible thing was that her tormentor-in-chief was an adult woman, the mother of Ms Meier’s former friend, who posed as a cute 16 year old named “Josh Evans” on MySpace. “Josh” lead Ms Meier on, and then told her--abruptly--that she wasn't worth being friends with. She was a “slut,” she was not a good friend, and, allegedly, the world would be better off without her. A few hours later, the 13 year old was found in her closet with a belt around her neck. She died the next day, just short of her 14th birthday. There is much more to the story than my feeble synopsis, but I won’t go into further details here--Lord knows, the story’s been told and retold numerous times over the past week. If you want those details, you can read:

The story that broke the news. You'll note that the reporter’s paper decided not to publish the adult woman’s name. Others, however, didn’t mind doing so.

Bluemerle discovered the name of the woman who originated the MySpace page and promptly “outed” her--home and business address included. Since then, someone has decided to do the same to Bluemerle’s author (fair enough). Then there's Jezebel. And Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts. And the forum at HitsUSA.

"Josh Evans" herself, the other girl’s mother, filed a report about the Meier episode on 25 November, 2006. The report includes her admission of setting up the MySpace profile. You can read the police report on The Smoking Gun. Oddly, even when the conversation between Megan and “Josh” became sexual (as the report asserts), the adult woman chose to continue the communication.

There are a few thousand other sites that relate the story and readers’ outrage, but I’d like to draw your attention to Leonard Pitts’ poignant editorial titled “If You’re Looking for a Good Laugh, a Real Sidesplitter, Read On.”

Many folks have posted the other family's personal information online. I don’t agree with this tactic; I do think that the woman should be held accountable--an adult deliberately winding a child up and then devastating her to the point of suicide? It’s all so lamentable. And cruel.

Now that the public is vocalizing its response (an outrage that, at times, borders on hysteria), the other family's supporters have come out with their own ‘blogs to try and refocus the debate onto Ms Meier in an attmept to justify the mother's actions. I won’t publish links to those here. If you’re interested, you can Google “Megan had it coming” etc.

My thoughts are with Megan Meier’s family, and with Megan--a girl who didn’t have the opportunity to move beyond adolescent turbulance and discover, well, herself.

Cambridge Girls? Meet the Sex Industry. . . .

Last night I wrote of my initial foray into the world of "exotic dancing" (a euphemism I always found rather silly. I stripped. I didn't "dance exotically." I bumped, ground, and did suggestive things with a pole; I don't consider these things exotic). Well, hot after posting that entry, I discovered a month old (10/10/07) article from the UK's Daily Telegraph about some of Cambridge University's young women:

Some female students are working as call girls and lapdancers, while several
hundred students or former students are said to be signed up to a single
escort agency.

One student is reported to have been a £50-an-hour prostitute in the city who slept with between 40 and 50 men in a two month period during her first year at the prestigous university.

She told a university newspaper she had met other students doing the same.

There's something telling about the cost of a university education when even young women who attend one of the world's most prestigious, hallowed insitutions turn to the sex trade in order to make ends meet. When I began, however, I was the only college student on the circuit who also danced. At the time, I felt like a walking urban legend: we all hear about the girl who strips her way through college, but how many of us know her? Anyways, just a news item to share.

Aspergers Quiz

While digging around trying to learn more about Asperger's, I found this quiz. My results:

Your Aspie score: 174 of 200
Your neurotypical (non-autistic) score: 40 of 200
You are very likely an Aspie

Funny. Of course, this is, in no way, a diagnosis. Quizzes like this are too general and are too open to manipulation by the test taker (e.g., if you have an idea of what the "right" response is, you click it). But it is a yardstick of sorts--I know I'm not way off base by exploring the possiblity that I have AS.

I've been trying to work today, but I can't focus. It seems as though every time I settle into my subject, a firetruck or police car goes screaming past my window with all sirens blazing. It's a lovely fall day, though. So when I get distracted (too often), I just drink my coffee and look out the window at the vari-colored trees. Nice. Especially with my iPod's 13 hour jazz playlist on in the background (hardly necessary information, butt here you go). It's a Robert Frost kind of day.

We decided not to travel to see me family for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year. I need to spend that time working. Neither of us wants to engage in the family drama and all the free floating anxiety that accompanies any holiday 'do. We can't afford--emotionally or financially--a Christmas away from our place. So here we'll sit in our pajamas watching bad television. Bliss.

From Library to Adult "Bookstore"

I had a hard time holding down jobs as a teenager. I was a dedicated worker…I did whatever was asked, and I did it to the best of my ability. But I was a bit too “off” for my coworkers and, often, my employers. Loud and abrasive when I wasn’t being peculiar and stand-offish.

I had one temp job in high school that was arranged through the school district--one of those programs for low-income youth. I was placed in the local public library, which I absolutely loved. I worked for two women, both incredibly kind to me. One of them gave me a ticket to see Carmen at the local opera house (I love opera. My first experience of it was seeing Faust on a field trip with the “gifted” class). I only worked there three months (it was temp after all); they gave me a set of a necklace and stud earrings shaped like a unicorn when I left. I loved them, and I loved working at the library (I was left alone to get on with my work in a quiet place).

My second job was temp as well; I worked for a blustery insurance agent who terrified me. He didn’t do anything to scare me deliberately, he was just …blustery. I seldom saw him, though (I came in after school and he’d have cleared off for the day).

I was fired from my third and fourth jobs; once for continual lateness (although I’d told them right off the bat that my transport between school and work would cause me to be ten minutes late on weekdays). I was let go from the following job for stealing. I have no idea how that came about, but it had something to do with a missing role of dimes ($5.00). Someone decided it was me wot did it. So out I went. I’m not surprised, really. I wasn’t a companionable coworker, I was a tad strange with my introversion and extreme attention to details.

I was fairly depressed after this second firing, and a bit scared about trying to get another job. My resume wouldn't be too appealing to a potential employer. I was 18 at this point, and just beginning college. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my future.

One day I was reading the classifieds in the paper and saw an ad for dancers. So I went to the business that was hiring (on the slightly seedier side of town) and requested an application of a man who sat behind a massive, u-shaped desk (but with right angles).

I filled out the application, showed him my identification card, and he hired me (no interview; I actually expected one. Hah!)

The desk manager pointed me towards some lingerie the place sold and told me to choose something; he said I would pay for it out of my “tips.” I picked out a short, soft, magenta tunic/slip that wasn’t too revealing. I was unsure about what I was doing--that is, I didn't quite realize what I was embarking on. That didn't stop me.

The man at the desk told me to come back at 5:00 pm to begin my shift. That was that.

It’s so odd to think back; when I initially went in to apply, I didn’t think I had a “real” chance, I thought of myself as unattractive in face and figure. I thought the desk man would shoo me right back out the door. However, as I was to learn, no matter how unattractive you might think you are, you can get hired by a strip joint.

No Memories Fluttered Out

I opened a book of poetry today, and a dried, red scab of a thing fell out. It was a rose petal that I’d stuck between the pages years ago; I don’t know why I placed it in the book.


I’ve been seeing a therapist regularly; well, for two weeks anyway. Two sessions. I’m unsure about her; she seems kind enough, but it all seems so awkward. We’ll see how it goes for another month or so. I don’t know. We talk about current things rather than the past. I don’t want to go there with her just yet.

My Nerves Are Bad Tonight. Yes, Bad. . .

I have a trapped nerve in my neck/right arm. It’s not good. I’ve had difficulty working for the past week. Woe. Alas. Etc.

In other news:

After a few weeks of being “good” with drinking, it’s back with a vengeance. That is, I’m back on the bottle with a vengeance. Part of this is because we had a friend staying with us this past week, and he’s a heavy drinker. I’m not saying he’s forced me to drink too much wine (two hangovers this week), but his presence made an easy excuse for myself. The thing is, I’m not serious about quitting drinking. I don’t really want to quit. I like it. I just don’t like how I get carried away with it. Last week, while watching Dexter, I experienced some discomfort as the eponymous character attended an NA meeting. He called his addiction "The Dark Passenger." I'm not sure that title applies in my case. It's no passenger. . .it's me.

Anyway.

More On the Asperger's thing. The clinician I spoke with the other week got back in touch with me (it was a follow up to our meeting; I hadn’t told her about my little foray into contacting one of the therapists she’d recommended). She knows of a therapist who is interested in exploring AS with me. I am happy. I’m not looking to get some official diagnosis; I just want some help figuring things out.

To those who have reached out--thanks.

Black Ice on the Head Trip

This has been quite the week. Following a twenty-year boycott of therapy and therapists, I "reached out," as they say.

I visited the university’s counseling center trying to get the ball rolling on this Asperger’s thing--I just want to investigate the possibility that I’ve got this condition. So I spent an hour with a young clinician. A nice young woman who listened and responded rationally. Then she gave me a list of resources outside the university. She gave me three names that I duly Googled.

One recommended name belongs to a kind of hypnotherapist (no way. I spent several of my teenage years with a hypnotherapist who convinced me I was way more unloved and unwanted than I was. She told me my mother had wanted her first baby to be a boy, so I was being punished for being a girl. A bit fucked up, no? I stopped seeing her after that business).

Another recommended name belongs to a well-qualified fellow who specializes in “educational testing” and men’s psychology. Um, guess that one’s out then.

The third recommended name seemed promising enough, so I phoned her; her phone went straight onto voice mail. I left a name and all. She phoned me back not twenty minutes ago. In an extremely rushed exchange, she pushed me to set up an appointment immediately--tomorrow afternoon. When I asked her if she didn’t want to know why I wanted to meet with her, she paused. So I explained there was some minor depression, some anxiety, some family and social issues, and I was interested in exploring Asperger’s.

Silence.

“Well, you know Asperger’s’ got a lot of press lately.”

Silence.

“I can’t help you. But thanks for calling.”

Implication: I’m attracted to the hot new disorder / syndrome / whatever. I hear about something “new” or "glamorous" in the news and jump to self-diagnose. Well, I’m not like that--not typically, anyway. My mother is like that. But on reading about AS--everything seems so right. My long-term partner has read AS materials and agrees. My office mate has read the same AS materials, and she agrees. . . . I can't be totally delusional here.

I've been advised to try the psychiatric department at my university. The problem there is the department prioritizes students who require medication. And I don’t want medication. I just want grounding (does that make sense?). Besides, I think that the uni’s mental health facilities should prioritize undergraduates. They go through such hell--especially the freshmen. I feel guilty absorbing any of their time.

So, I’m unsure as to what to do now. Do I keep trying? There seems to be no one local who knows about Asperger's other than “it’s in the press.”

Maybe I am just going for easy answers. Lord knows, every time the head-health people tried to stick something on me (bipolar, depression, schizophrenia, etc.) they were wrong. I’m likely just as wrong as they. Just paint me angry, frustrated, disappointed, and rather lonely as hell right now.

More on Asperger's; a "Genius" thing

I’m still thinking about Asperger’s Syndrome, so tonight I phoned my mum. After the over-enthusiastic “Hellos!” were out of the way, I asked her how old I was was my IQ was tested, and what the result was (I wanted to confirm--can't always rely on memory).

“You were in fourth grade, and you hit 159. Why?”**

So I told her about my investigations into Asperger’s. Supersmart kids, inadequate social skills, obsessions about arcane/obscure subject matter, etc. As soon as she heard me out, she rushed to tell me she’d experienced social isolation too. She admitted that she’d always felt superior to others (like that was a bombshell), that she didn’t always get along with people, and that she has problems with logic (whatever that means; when I asked her for an example she avoided answering).

I wonder though.

I realize that the whole IQ thing is approached with some trepidation--too many environmental factors and so on. But I’m just realizing that, at eight years of age, I was considered “genius.” Nobel Laureate type genius (five point below Mozart’s theoretical quotient), and one point below the minimal Einstein guesstimate [although Einstein wrote that he was “145” Ha! The ‘umble AE]).

But is the IQ thing all bullocks? Might I have "lost" my “genius” by not "using" it? Is it dormant, or is that "genius" still “at hand”?

I fear thinking of it; if I begin to believe in the IQ thing, I may very well be setting myself for some hubristic comeuppance. It's easier to play dumb.

**After I was tested, I was placed in an experimental class for "gifted” kids. I’ve written about that experience in an earlier blog.

Storythinking

After several months of lethargy and procrastination, I’m (at last!) making progress with my work. Well, largely anyways. I’m plagued by a drifting mind; I’ll be typing along quite happily, then my mind will float off and I begin to daydream. These daydreams aren’t unpleasant, but, clearly, they are a distraction. I’m wondering if I’m (unconsciously) somehow trying to undermine myself; I’ve stopped the obvious attempts at self-sabotage--watching bad television, staying abed until late morning, drinking while working, etc, so I’m finding fresh ways to escape. Because these daydreams are all about escapism.

Like most children, I had a habit of daydreaming. I would obsess over my little fantasies--I would go into great detail, fine-tuning each story until it would play as smoothly as a film in my mind. I would drift off into my stories while sitting at school, walking anywhere, or watching television. If something pulled me away from my daydream (being called on by a teacher, for example, or being told by my mother to get out of the house--to get outside and play “like normal kids”) I would think carefully about where I was in my story and place a virtual bookmark there. When I was able to return to the fantasy, I would “open” at the scene last played.

I expect the daydreaming was a means of maintaining sanity, of self protection, of backing away from the life I dreaded and placing myself in a world where I was in control.

I was seldom “in the moment” as a child, I think. I am a bit more so know, but I reclaim that daydreaming tendency periodically. And now it’s while I’m trying to work. And I’m working on something I love. Go figure.

The Child in Nevada

Like everyone else, I was concerned for the little child whose rape was filmed by her attacker; thank God she was found safe. I hope the media leaves her alone now, and that her mother gets the little child some psychological help pronto.

When the police in Pahrump, Nevada released photos of the abused child, they gave her age as five. I knew, immediately, that she was three. Instinct, I suppose, or perhaps I was projecting something--after all, I was three when my experiences began. When I looked at that photo of the chubby, sweet, child, I saw myself. Again, I hope her family gets the child any necessary help immediately to limit the emotional damage.

More music--The Birthday Party

I’ve been listening to The Birthday Party a heck of a lot lately. The Birthday Party was an early 80s Australian band; its members included Nick Cave and Mick Harvey. Sadly, The Birthday Party is fairly obscure now (in the crowds I move in, at any rate)

Seriously folks, if you like Nick Cave, and / or if you like dark, sleazy, anarchic, wild, blistering, depraved early post-punk that skitters between mean rockabilly and proto-industrial, this group is for you. Hey, if they were good enough for John Peel (who loved them), then they‘re good enough for. . . .

I first discovered The Birthday Party long after they’d broken up. I was working in a record shop in the early 1990s, and some distributor sent the store a promo copy of Hits. I fell in love at first hearing--and nobody else could stand it. Happily, my manager sent that promo cassette home with me. I still have it, but I’ve “upgraded” to the CD. Now that I’ve finally collected all of my BP material on my iPod, I’m never without.

Now I just need to get a new copy of Hole’s Pretty on the Inside and I’ll be set. . .for a while, at any rate.

Hole's "Pretty on the Inside"--a musical meander

Pretty on the Inside, Hole's debut, came out when I was in my early twenties. It spoke to me, wept with me, raged with me, rumbled in me, and stayed with me like nothing ever had (nor has). "Teenage Whore," "Garbageman," "Pretty on the Inside". . .the music articulated my self-loathing, my anger, my pain. I'd forgive Courtney Love (nearly) anything because she provided a catharsis, an expression of all the bubbling bullshit inside of me.

The rawness, the freakishness, the pain of Love's vocals in an age of Tori Amos and Suzanne Vega...no contest (I knew I was supposed to find "Me and a Gun" cathartic, but I didn't).

As far as Riot Grrrls go (is that antiquated or what?) nothing, nothing by Bikini Kill, L7, Seven Year Bitch and other valuable bands, touches Pretty on the Inside.

More insociability (yada, yada, yada)

In my previous post, I came across as crying "victim!" in terms of my social failures. I’d like to remedy that.

Why I freak people out

1) Peculiar announcements. For example, in a seminar once, a conversation revolved around gender and literature. I seldom spoke in the class, but this time, I was unstoppable. “Ezra Pound once declared that “the brain is essentially a great clot of genital fluid” (e.g., the intellect is, essentially, male). Everybody turned to stare at me, open-mouthed. I attempted to explain why I divulged this curious, if mildly revolting, quote, but quickly gave up. I was a bit surprised that my colleagues, primarily modernists, were unfamiliar with the cite. But never mind.

2) When I’ve done something I feel badly about--shame or embarrassment--I shut down to others. And I tend to walk about looking angry (although I’m not--but my face is “set”; I'm trying to mask my emotional state, and I suppose it appears angry). I add this because today someone asked me if I was upset over something, and I was feeling fine at the time.

3) When I drink to excess at parties and other gatherings, I can become overly aggressive, sexually inappropriate (making passes at people even though I‘m not interested in actually having sex, making out with female friends--who I later avoid out of embarrassment), or I begin gossiping, talking about my experiences, etc. People are interested in none of the above; truth be told, I’d avoid someone like drunken me.

4) As I can’t do the small talk, and the “introductions” thing, I come across as a snobby, superior bitch. I’d like to claim I’m not, but maybe I am.

Actually, I can be a miserably moody female. Who wants to be around that?

Learning to Talk

I’ve just spent an evening out, at a bar, with a group of colleagues. I spoke with a few people, but I didn’t engage the way other folks did, I mostly sat outside the group and watched their interactions. Surprise! I remained sober while others fell about giddy with booze and plans to continue their intoxication into the night. Oh, the promise of the early evening buzz--who knows where the alcohol and the evening will take us? To curious bars, to strangers' beds, to pavement pukings, to sprained ankles from staggering in heels, to Godalmighty hangovers and the morning shame. . . .

I'm not pointing fingers here. I simply spent the evening watching these much younger people getting ready for a pre-term blowout (good for them). So, I spent a bit of time at the sidelines nursing a dirty vodka martini. A wallflower? At my age? Hell yes.

I wrote a few blogs back that I am fairly incapable of walking up and saying “hi, I’m SG, how are you etc.” I need to be introduced to people before I can talk to them. This aloofness isn’t intentional, and it isn’t a reliance on etiquette.

I’ve always been convinced that my lack of social success is due to some freakery on my part. I’m fundamentally unlikable, unlovable. But, how much of it is me, and how much of it is “them”? Do “they” sense my sordidness, my seaminess, before “they” even know who I am? I don’t know. I’ve always struggled with social settings, be it classrooms, parties, recess, or professional meetings. It’s not just awkwardness; maybe it’s like Prufrock being pinned against a wall.

One problem is that I can get so tongue-tied that I am simply inarticulate, and people can’t grasp what I’m saying. So many thoughts begin teeming in my head that I swear I get confused. Usually ½ xanax helps to level that mental calumny--which poses the question: is it anxiety that provokes the confusion? Maybe, maybe not.

Although the xanax generally does the trick, I took some prior to my PhD oral exam; even so, that was a disaster. I swear, I don’t know how I passed. It's ot that I didn't know the "answers," I just couldn't respond clearly to the questions posed. I am convinced that the paper I presented saved me. And the fact that my advisor is confident in me (but then, what if he isn’t, and he just doesn’t like to see his students fail? In the post-exam debriefing he assured me that he had seen the other committee members fail examinees--and this without my asking him “how did I pass?” I assume he either sensed my concerns or he and the other committee members had spoken of my inability to speak extemporaneously). Anways, there's a bit of shame in here; I humiliated myself in an arena where I should excel.

Which brings me to the reason I couldn’t sleep tonight. I’ve been passed up, ignored, for several opportunities I’ve been entitled to within the parameters of my program, which ends in June (please forgive me for being vague here. It‘s necessary). I’ve tried, twice, to bring authorities’ attention to this. Once, it worked. The second time, nothing. And I’m at a loss. I’m afraid to nag, But I do know that “squeaky wheels get the grease.” But why are people who aren’t squeaky, and who aren’t as advanced (in the program) as me, getting all the grease? Again, this isn’t paranoia. I just keep getting skipped. Either I’m invisible or people are picking up on the social ineptness. It certainly is not my job performance (I’ve got great evals). I’m thinking that, perhaps, my inelegant articulation impeded getting my message across to aforementioned authorities. Then again, they just might not give a whatever (the latter worries me, because one of the authorities is my advocate).

Anyways, I can't sleep because the clock is running out on my time in the prgram, and it looks like I'm going to leave with next to no real experience in my area, and I'm wondering how that will help me acquire a decent job next year.

Note: although my job requires me to speak publicly on a regular basis, I have few problems. I always prepare a “script” (with footnotes, believe it or not) before it’s necessary, so I’m seldom required to think hard on the spot.

Balloons Go Pop!

I recall a childhood party. Probably the first one I attended. It was a fellow student's birthday 'do, so naturally there were games. One of these was a race to sit on a balloon and pop it. I refused to do it. The birthday girl's father kept trying to get me to sit on that balloon, and he couldn’t understand that I was scared to--either I was afraid of the noise or I was afraid of “hurting” the balloon. I ended up crying over it, and the parents phoned my mother to come and get me. That was the last birthday party I attended as a child.

Sweet Sixteen and Never Been. . . .

This happened on my 16th birthday.

I went out with my friend Debbie. We headed for her boyfriend’s house in the northeastern side of town (about three miles away from my home). We drank a few beers, we listened to some Iron Maiden, but my heart wasn’t in it. I felt...bad. Anxious. I wanted to go home. Debbie didn’t want to go. John, Debbie’s boyfriend, had a car, but he didn’t want to drive me home, which was understandable (the beers). They didn’t want me to call for a ride--my mom was at work (the graveyard shift), and her live-in boyfriend might get pissed off at chauffeuring, and this would get me in trouble. That was their reasoning anyway.

I should have gone with my instincts and called Herb (mother’s boyfriend). Instead, I went along with Debbie and John’s urging--they would find me a ride home. This meant we walked down the main drag in that part of town--with Debbie sticking her thumb out while John and I walked behind. A truck pulled over. A big, blue, old school Chevy.

Debbie yelled, “You got a ride!”

I said no. No. no.

John said, “Don’t be scared, I know this guy. He’s the security guard at Zed Middle School. I know him. He’s the best guy to drive you home--he’s a security guard.

So I clambered in. I gave him directions to my street (not my house).

We started off pleasantly enough. He offered me a Camel straight (non-filtered for you non-smokers)

Then he turned off the main drag. And he drove down street that, at the time, was undeveloped. Lots of fields. Lots of fields. And he pulled into one.

It was February. Snow covered everything.

He drove pretty far in-maybe half a mile. I remember seeing the lights of a bowling alley and a set of McDonalds arches. So close.

I said “what are you doing?”

He said, “I’m going to fuck you.”

I pleaded--no. I was still a virgin (and I was). He said I wasn't--couldn't be.

He opened the truck door and pulled me down the seat so that my legs were hanging out.
He stuffed it into me. He shoved his fingers up with it--to put it in me--impotent.

I was screaming. He put his hands around my neck--“I will strangle you. I will kill you bitch.” I shut up. I kept looking at those Golden Arches. At Silver Lanes' flashy signs.

Then I left; I went into third-person and saw what was happening from the other side of the windshield. It all became a movie, and Valerie Bertinelli was playing my part.

At the same time, I was still there. I saw the stupid plastic dog hanging from the rear-view mirror. I noted the murky blue, broken, dashboard speakers.

And then. I don’t know how this came to me…I grabbed my little, skinny, black Cricket lighter from my vest pocket and put it up to his face. He had some growth there, and I torched it. I seriously did.

He yelled, and knocked the lighter out of my hands, into the snow outside. The he pulled me out into the snow. He went back to choking me and trying to shove himself into me.
He finally gave up. Standing up, he said “I’ll drive you home.”

I gave, again, directions to the street I lived on. I added “It’s my 16th birthday.” He said “I’d give you money if I had any.”

All I kept thinking was “sweet sixteen and never been kissed.”

A block before my house I said “This is it”
“Are you sure” he said.
“”Yes” I said.
We were in front of the house were I usually babysat for a neighbor woman.
So he dropped me off. When he drove away, and after he’d turned the corner, I ran home.

I don’t want to go into the drama that followed right now. I’ll just say:

I felt safe/justified when, after being inspected by doctors that night, the police drove me back to the scene of the crime, notes a sign of a scuffle, and found my little black Cricket lighter--evidence that I wasn't making it up.

Debbie and John denied I’d been raped. They said I was making it up for attention. And laughed about it; they denied they’d been with me when I got into that blue Chevy; they said I’d left John’s house to find a better party.

My mother cut out a blurb from the local paper that said “teen hitchhiker raped.”

I went to the house were I usually babysit the day after my rape just to let the woman know that I’d been dropped off nearby, in case she saw anything “funny.” she said, “you mean like him?”

And there he was. Walking up and down the street smoking a cigarette.

Did “they” catch” him? No. Not a surprise, either. This is a city where a then-recent police chief said, when asked what a woman should do if she were confronted with rape, that she should “lay back and enjoy it” (following a public outcry, he chose to wear the slogan on a t-shirt. Somehow, he thought he was being funny)

I’m sure I’ll elaborate on the police's woeful invesitgation at another time. But can I say this for now?

Fuck you, Detective Poindexter.

Back at work

Today was my first day back at work following a three month break. It's been a fantastically long three months (and I don't mean "fantastic" as in "terrific," but as in "preternaturally"). I'm grateful for the return to order. If you haven't figured it out already, I'm horrific at regulating myself. Even so, I woke up way too early (4:00!) worried about the day. Perhaps it was because after several months of self-imposed isolation, I was going to be surrounded by people. Usually, this sets me on edge, so I took 1/2 xanax before I attended the big meeting that initiates our work year.

As I said, I was dreading seeing all of these people. But, surprisingly, I was pleased to see everyone (at least, those I know). You see, I assume that people don't like me, that people avoid me, etc. So I was thrilled when I was greeted with hugs, pleasantries, and happy catch-up chats (and no, it's not because I've been away for "health issues").

I guess that I'm projecting my distrust of people: I expect them to see me how I see them (now, that that make any sense?). I'm seriously phobic about social situations. I'm peculiar about meeting people. I don't--I can't--walk up and introduce myself to a stranger. I wait for introductions. Even if I'm standing with a friend and an unknown third party, I won't say jack unless/until I'm introduced. I don'tknow if it's shyness or a fear of intruding on others' conversations, but there it is. I just fail at sociability. Unless I drink. then, I fear, I get too social. Which is why I am not attending the annual autumn wine and cheese 'do.

Anyways, today was an uncommonly nice day.

Aside: Miles Davis's "Black Satin" is one odd track; I can't decide if it's disconcerting, frightening, or genius.

An "A-Ha" Moment

Although I'd planned for a long bike ride today, the weather wasn't conducive. Instead, I spent the day in my pajamas catching up on magazines I subscribe to.

One article, from the August 20th New Yorker, in particular caught my attention: "Parallel Play A lifetime of restless isolation explained." Tim Page, a music critic, wrote the article. He recounted his lifelong isolation, his attempts to "fit in," his social awkwardness, his obsession over minutiae, his reportedly high IQ, and I thought "Holy cow. This sounds way too familiar." The point is, a few years ago he was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. So is it possible that I have this condition? Is this, and not my family situation, the reason why I am the way I am?

For a few reasons, I've declined any meetings with psychologists or psychiatrists for the past decade. I'm far too suspicious of the mental health industry as a whole. Page's article, however, has me thinking that perhaps I should seek some psych assistance.

Perhaps I do have a conditon that predisposes me to certain behaviours, and my family situation simply exacerbated that condition. I actually hope this is the case. . .because I would be able to concretize, define, me.

Bob Herbert on Las Vegas's Brothel Dreams

I'm enjoying some Australian red wine tonight. My problem with red wine is that I drink it like Kool-Aid. Seriously. I can drink two bottles in no time at all. I love the flavour--but I'm at the point where I go from no buzz to totally pissed. Kind of like Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof--there's no middle ground (mind you, I don't think I'm like this with any other alcoholic beverages). Anyways. . .whoring.

I am ambivalent about prostitution. I have been a whore; I respect the woman who finds herself exchanging the use of her body for cash or drugs--she often might feel her body is a source or power or control over her situation. But is it a true empowerment? And for all this description of prostitution as "a woman embracing her sexuality," is it? Yes, you embrace yourself as a sexual object, but is that the same as embracing your sexuality? I'm just wondering. And Bob Herbert recently published an Op-Ed column that only complicated my ambivalence. I can only reprint his opening words, which are:

"The first thing to understand about prostitution, including legal prostitution, is that the element of coercion is almost always present."

And he's right. As I can't reprint the article in its entirety, I don't feel comfortable arguing for or against Herbert's position (as I can't cite Herbert directly). Instead, Ill let you read the piece yourself at the New York Times. Caveat: you must be a Times Select subscriber to read the entire column.

Update: The exceptional blog, Behind the Times (subscription wall) has Herbert's piece in full. For free.

Body compulsions

I’m on dirty vodka martinis tonight.

I did write for my dissertation today; I think I’ve moved beyond my block. I seriously think that this blog has something to do with that. I've promised myself to post daily, so here it is.

The topic is the body image thing: I get quite frustrated thinking about this issue, so I’ll probably write some and edit/re-edit it later.

My mother bought into the family obsession with female figures, facial beauty, and the need for male affirmation. Always bodily fixated, she requires sexual affirmation--whether from males or females--that is, she needs people to let her know her how appealing she is. She’s passed that onto me. But in my mom’s case, the primary means of affirmation--her source of identity--is tied to her fuckability.

My mother’s an attractive woman. But she’s always seen herself as imperfect. She had her first lipo in her 30s, when it was pretty new for non-celebs. Her first eye lift in her early 40s. She’s in her late 50s now, and she wants a full-on facelift, but she’s hesitant (she did speak to me about getting one of those “lunch hour facelifts.” I helped change her mind by sending her links to a CNN report on how often they backfire). Instead, she’s opted for injections of something that fills in her wrinkles. Remember, we're from thrifty working-class folk. So she shops at Goodwill and St Vincent’s, Wal-Mart, Costco--anything that will save her money. She is parsimonious--always worrying about her pension and saving money. She dumped HBO (a channel she loved) because of its cost. But she’s willing to cough up for cosmetic procedures. It’s paid off, though. Every time I visit a cosmetics counter with her she announces “I’m her mother,” and the saleswoman invariably responds “but you don’t…she [me] looks….” [awkward silence].

Of course I look older than her. I’m a smoker, a drinker, and I haven’t paid the obsessive amount of attention to my body and face as my mother does (mind you, she does look terrific) because I've always believed myself ugly--even when I was a making a good income as a stripper. Admittedly, I'm regretting my inattention to my appearance now that I'm aging.

My mother's appearance has a downside, though: she’s been lifelong friends with Ana and Mia. As a consequence, she’s had some health issues; she's perennially ill. More on that in another post, I think.

How did her fixation affect me? Well, she put me on my first diet when I was ten years old. When my body began developing, it didn’t develop the way she liked; she began talking to me about plastic surgery when I was 14. My bust was “too big” and needed to be “corrected.” She continued to advise: I needed surgery on my face, my belly, my teeth. All of this before I was 17, but, of course, she didn’t want to pay for any of these treatments. But she felt it was her motherly duty to point out my imperfections, to inform me of my options, and to leave it at that. I realize she wasn't trying to be hurtful, that she didn't see that I might interpret this as "my mother really thinks I'm ugly." But that is how I interpreted her advice.

She didn't stop with her plastic surgery suggestions until I was in my 30s. The last time it happened, we were in my husband's presence, in her car as we pulled into the family's garage. She said, cheerfully, "you know, there's a new technique. It's called a "skin bra." It would be quick and easy, and [my husband] would really like the results." After that humiliation, I spoke to her. I was pretty passive-aggressive, but I let her know she wasn't allowed to talk about my body anymore. She's mostly stopped.


Boy O boy. This is getting whiny. I’ll cut it loose now. Happy weekend.

Slacking off

Newcastle Brown Ale. Lovely.

Nothing to share today, really. I’m tired. And I’ve spent too much time writing for this blog rather than working on my dissertation. Today I realized just how far behind I am and am panicking a bit. I also need to prepare for the upcoming term as well as compose a short paper for a conference. I foresee many a sleepless night ahead. . .

I believe that sounding off on here has been good for me. Admittedly, I often look this page over and think, "Good God, many, many people have suffered really horrific experiences. Mine is nothing. What a lot of boo-hooing and whining. Why don’t I just get over it all and get on with my life?” Yes, these stories from my past might be insignificant compared to others' experiences, but just holding everything in and letting it simmer can’t be good for me either; doing just that resulted in my anxiety disorder, I think. It’s certainly resulted in a hella amount of free-floating anger.


R.I.P. Luciano Pavarotti. And thank you.

The Family

I'm enjoying a lovely Venetian pinot grigio (with soda) tonight.

I thought some family background might be useful (for whatever).

My immediate family consisted of the parents and my two younger siblings. Five altogether.

I seldom saw my father’s parents or sisters while I was growing up, and they seldom showed any interest in me (the one period of time when they did express interest in seeing me was during my parents’ separation: they would have me over and pump me for dirt on my mom. Since the divorce was finalized, I saw them once before their deaths ten years ago). So when I speak of “my family,” I mean “my mother’s family.” My immediate family falls under that umbrella.

My mother’s family believed themselves to be very “traditional.” Most of the men served in the military at some point. Beyond the military, the men worked as mechanics, factory workers, miners. My own father worked at a car plant and later as a miner (until his drunkenness and adultery destroyed his job and marriage). The women stayed at home with children and housework. Nothing more was expected or desired of them. Of course, this doesn’t mean that the females were weaklings: smart, strong broads run in the family’s blood. We knew how to talk back. We also knew when not to talk back.

You could say we were “working poor”; we were definitely working class with that reverse elitism you sometimes find among poor people: folks who didn’t work with their hands were suspect, and this included teachers, clergymen, and the rich. Too much time sitting, thinking, or praying equaled laziness, and laziness was corrupt. Too much thinking couldn’t be good for a person, anyway. No. In my family all was black and white, either / or. I don’t mean to imply that my relations were all dimwits or non-thinkers. They were, however, anti-intellectual. I was the first person in my family’s history to go to university, but I think this has a lot to do with the opportunities for education that arose while I was growing up rather than anything else. Academia wasn’t a future they mapped out for me, that’s for sure.

The family was never “close,” as in intimate, open, honest, and loving. But we did stay together. Tribalism, really. Nearly every time a member of the family moved, the entire family--uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins--moved (this actually made for some great road trips).

Emotionally, we are all expected to behave a certain way: not like a sissy. We--both men and women--were expected to take whatever came our way, and to take anything other than a macho stance meant you were a baby, a weakling. Because of this, or enabling it perhaps, there was always lots of “mean teasing” going on. People would hurl insults at each other and pass it off as “kidding around.” Men would call each other pussies, women would sneer at other women about their appearance, name-calling was par for the course: “lardass,” “pussy” “sissy,” “cow” “fatty” were common nicknames for family members. Nice, huh? But maybe it’s not uncommon. I don’t know. I always resisted acting this stuff out; I hated being around it, and I always feared being the object of somebody’s else’s scorn.

Oh, and my grandpa would call his sons by female names, and this just resulted in the men over-hyping their masculinity. This often came to a head when they were drinking (which was often: whiskey and Coors beer were the family’s preferred bevvies). When the menfolk were drunk, fights would break out. Lots of shouting that lead to lots of hitting. Brawling, really, because everyone would get involved. I didn’t see much of the fighting, but I heard it. Sometimes from two houses away. Sometimes the fights--the yelling and the hitting--involved husbands and wives.

Moreover, the family was heavily sexualized. Little girls were encouraged to play cute and flirt, to pout, to be submissive, to simper, to try on Mae West impressions, to dance to “The Stripper” (no worries: they remained fully clothes!). The big message: to be loved by this group, you had to be appealing and you had to obey whatever an adult directive given by an adult.
I remember one Christmas where the kids (including me) were hustled out to an uncle’s house so the adults could watch a vhs tape of Debbie Does Dallas. Could you imagine watching a hardcore porn film with your brothers, sisters, and parents in the same room? But for us, or them, I should say, I guess it was normal. Magazines like Playboy, Oui, and, now and then, Hustler were scattered around homes. Two boxes of an old sex-themed comic book called Sex to Sexty got passed around from home to home. By the time I was five I knew exactly what my body was supposed to look like: big (but perky) breasted, long limbed, flat bellied, and thin waisted. I seriously thought my body would grow and develop to resemble that of a 1970s centerfold. People bitch about Barbie's ill effects on girls. Sod that. Barbie's plastic. Photographs are real. Realer than Barbie, at any rate (at least they were in the 70s).

In the family, men and women alike would talk about women’s bodies--their breasts, bottoms, and weight. When I was developing, relatives seemed more interested in my bustline than I was. If you reacted to these comments, you were sneered at because you couldn’t “take it” (back to the macho stance). One small example: as a teen, I got a phone call from my drunken dad. He asked me how big my tits were (yes, he called tham tits). When I told him that wasn’t appropriate thing for a father to ask his daughter, he said “well, excuse me. I thought you were mature enough for this kind of talk.” Eh?

Now none of this is, I believe, abusive. My family were heavily invested in sex, but being heavily invested in sex doesn’t automatically make one a predator or an abuser. What I am trying to point out is the lack of boundaries. My family didn’t do a good job of distinguishing public matters from private ones. Also significant, think, is the way the entire family objectified women as physical things. Your grades don’t matter but your bra size does. A career isn’t anything if you’re unattractive. The only good woman is a submissive and sexually appealing one (I’ll write more on the effects of this perspective in another post. Hah. Make that all my other posts).

My grandma rebelled: she gained weight (and was called “lardass” the rest of her life). My grandma died when she was 59. She was ill, but she resisted medical treatment. She wanted out I think. And I resent that--not her wanting out, but the conditions that made her want out (does that make sense?).

So writing this out, I see a number of things that provided a schema for my own life behavior, for it involves:
Alcohol abuse
Lack of boundaries (or, now, uncertainty of boundaries)
Fear of the sneer

And the things that are valued in a female:
Obedience
Sexual passivity / availability
Physical / sexual appeal
Stoicism (e.g., macho stance)

Much of my family is dead now. Two uncles (one a suicide, the other a drug overdose). Grandpa died in his 70s and Grandma, of course, at 59. Once Grandma died, everything pretty much fragmented anyway. The tribalism collapsed into petty arguments and jealousies. People stopped communicating. Everyone moved on to different towns. Any pretense at being a traditional family faded as we isolated ourselves into smaller units, which, in turn, also shattered.

Note: If there's one thing I can't let go of, it's losing my Grandma. She was my anchor, my admirer, my encourager; of my family, she's the only one who supported me, who never derided me, and who (even though she desperately wanted me to give her grandbabies) told me I would go to college. If someone else had a go at me in her presence, she would take them apart. But I'm convinced that she just wanted to go. She was tired.

Fairly bare bones

I'm wondering if there's a way to reorganize my posts as I write them so that they reflect some sort of chronological order. The problem is that when I begin to write of one incident, another, similar incident springs to mind, and I’m reluctant to interject with “at this time we lived here and I was dating this man” if that information is tangential. So here, in brief, is a vague-ish rundown:

1) I was born in the southwest in the late 60s to a largish family.

2) A few years after my birth, my (entire) family moved to SoCal, where I was the victim of sexual abuse.

3) In the early seventies, my immediate family moved to the Midwest (and along Route 66 before it was torn up). This is where I attended kindergarten and first learned to doubt that “starting over” was ever possible because nothing really changed.

4) The next year, we--my entire family--moved to a small town in a conservative state.

5) In the mid-70s my immediate family moved back to the southwest (where my father’s parents lived and where my parents divorced).

6) In 1977 we (myself, mother, and two siblings) moved back to the small town in a conservative state.

7) The following year ("Hot Child in the City" was huge) , we moved to a city where my mother entered community college. This city is where I spent most of my pre-adult years (middle school high school and university), but I never considered those years “formative.” My personality and my problems had already cemented themselves by this point. This is also where I was raped and nearly murdered.

After I completed high school, I entered the local community college as an inexpensive way to earn my GUR credits before enrolling at a university. At this time, I began work as an exotic dancer (among other things). I would return to this job periodically for the next ten years.

I lingered at the community college so I might take classes that interested me--I was in no rush, so I was able to enjoy courses such as political science, philosophy, anthropology, and art history. I finally moved on to university and achieved my BA. I followed that immediately (well, two years later) with an MA in the same discipline as my BA.

After my MA, I left the region. I met a men whom I married and divorced within three years.
I’ve remarried (seven years now), and I am currently a PhD candidate, which means I’ve done all but my dissertation. The downside of dissertating is all the requisite introspection. Whenever I sit down to work, sooner or later I end up turning that introspection onto myself, and that leads to a debilitating anxiety. I kind of figure that this blog will help ease that anxiety. Like I keep saying, a way to get sorted.

Elementary: exclusion

I've always been called an "exceptional student," beginning in elementary school, but academic success resulted from a sort of forced seclusion: I found it difficult to assimilate into groups of other children, and they, in turn, avoided me like the plague. I'm not certain why, but it's as though the other kids distanced themselves from me by instinct. Then again, much of my behavior was pretty off-putting. I alternated between introversion and hyperactivity. You know that kid who would be dead silent, perhaps frightened, but would abruptly change gears and start acting up? Laughing loudly (hysteria?), always looking for attention? That was me. (I still tend to be loud, and I’m horrified when I realize I'm doing it). You can’t really fault the children for keeping a safe distance--I probably scared them with my instability.

So, being isolated, I focused on my homework and I began reading. My parents had an old set of the Encyclopedia Brittannica--the volumes were off-white with brown labels on the binding--and I started playing with them. I'd just open a volume at random and see what I could find. The illustrations attracted me, and this is where I discovered Graeco-Roman art, Henry Moore, Big M's Pieta, Brancusi's Bird (of course, I didn't think of these things as "art," but it was my introduction to aesthetics). In the second grade (what is that? Seven years old?) my teacher escorted the class to the school library; the librarian explained to us what a library is, and then let us loose. That's when I found the first major literary influence on my life: D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths. I adored it (and, nearly as much, the D’Aulaires’s book on Norse mythology).

In the third grade I focused on getting through the Little House books. I also picked up a few Alfred Hitchcock anthologies for young adults. This was my introduction to the "hook handed killer," the "roommate without a head," "the black ribbon," etc. All tried and true, albeit basic, scary stories. Funny. I've never realized that I began reading "horror" as young as eight.

After I learned what a library was, I demanded that my mother take me to the town library. Mind you, we were living in a very small town at the time, and it held an equally small library. Half of its space was devoted to children's books, which is good. Especially because the librarian made sure that children stayed in the children's section and didn't venture into the adults' stacks. So I whipped through their selection of Beverly Cleary books, some Judy Blume (Are You There God? It's Me, Maragaret and Forever weren't included in the stacks). But these bored me. My thrills came from fairy tales, sort of. Twisted fairy tales with bitter endings. I recall loving Ruth Manning-Sanders's wonderful series of folktales. I think I can still recite "Goldenhair" from A Book of Ghosts and Goblins. I loved her Book of Mermaids as well.

By the fourth grade, we'd moved. I immediately began haunting the Ocotillo Branch of the local library. Although it was probably a modest-sized building at the time, I thought it huge and wonderful; morever, I was able to break free of the children's area. Consequently, I found myself in both David Copperfield and Jane Eyre (these two read largely under the sheets with a mini-flashlight). I identified with these characters in numerous, probably obvious, ways.

At my school, as with many, there was an end-of-year convocation where administration would distribute awards. Mandatory attendance, by the way, for the entire school body. Like my fourth grade colleagues, I was to gain a certificate in mathematics. A piece a paper that announced I knew the multiplication tables etc. My teacher that year, Mr. Emerson, announced each child's name, and they went up on stage to retrieve this certificate. As is cmmon, everyone applauded. When it was my turn, someone began booing. I don't know why. Probably just your average child's cruelty kicking in. Anyway, other kids picked up on it. Soon, everyone was booing as I crossed the stage. I grabbed my piece of paper and began to take off. My teacher took hold of me. He had something else to give to me--a lovely, diploma-sized piece of paper that announced I was the "best reader in the x area." It was signed by the governor. Okay, I know that seems hokey now, but it impressed me then, and it made up for, a little bit, the booing that hadn't stopped while I was onstage.

Later that afternoon, I was helping Mr. Emerson clear up our classroom. He was hesitant, but kind. "It must have been hard going onstage with all of that." I don't know how I responded or what I replied, but chances are that the family's macho stance bore me out. But I appreciate Mr. Emerson's sympathy. Because it was hard to have several hundred people deriding you. and the faculty didn't do anything to intervene. (Now that I think of it--the faculty's non-interference might be perceived by the audience as authorizing the audience's behavior; I probably took it that way too--"Nobody intervened because nobody thought I shouldn't be booed"). Anyway. . .

At the end of my fourth grade year, the school suggested to my mother that I take an IQ test. I ranked 159. I don’t know if that number was true or not. As a result of the IQ thing, the school placed me in an experimental class for “gifted” children. The curriculum focused on self-study. Several “topic” stations were distributed throughout the classroom, and your task was to spend an hour at each one at some point throughout the class day. You completed assignments at your own pace while the teacher and a teacher’s aid floated about offering any necessary help. I loved the class, I loved my schoolmates, I learned about Phyllis Wheatley, Judaism, Henry VIII, and Medieval living conditions. I felt “right.”

After six months (in the middle of the school year), I was returned to my “normal” fifth grade class, much to my “normal” classmates’ mirth. I was humiliated. Nobody explained why I was moved from the “gifted” class, so I assumed it was because I wasn’t smart enough and was, therefore, deserving of my classmates’ scorn.

Years late, my mother told me that it wasn’t because I wasn’t “smart enough”; rather, my excitability proved too distracting for the other students.

The following year, in a different school, but my loudness again backfired on me. My teacher placed my desk so that it faced the wall, outside of the group. He ignored me if I raised my hand in class, and my classmates were ordered to not speak with me. This continued for several months. When I was time to rearrange the desks (as this fellow was wont to do), I asked him, in private, if I could please be re-admitted to the group, and he agreed. He changed his mind when “rearrangement day” arrived. I remained facing the wall. Allow my sixth grade self a little pity: this extends beyond being the last one picked for a kickball team.

Then again, this all certainly looks very whingy, doesn’t it? Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m making mountains out of molehills; alternately, I’m concerned that readers will think I’m exaggerating these experiences. But this is the way things were done in the late 1970s.

I should add that, following my eviction from the “gifted class,” my “acting up” didn’t cease. In fact, it was compounded. I began to behave inappropriately in a sexual sense. It was compulsive more than anything else, and that, I think, was associated more with how adults had sexualized me more than some precocious sex drive. Anyway, I got called into the school counselor’s office one late spring afternoon. My teacher had asked the school psych to meet me. I stopped my actions dead after that--the shame that other people knew. Yes, I should have known better. But I didn’t. My “boundaries” were more than “squiffy.” They just didn’t exist.

When I think about this, I'm overcome with self-loathing, disgust, and shame about my actions, by not knowing what I was doing to myself; that is, setting myself up for scorn and others' disgust. This is the first time I've ever discussed this episode in any capacity whatsoever. I'm a bit torn, a bit ambivalent, and I might delete the entire entry.

Coward's update: I caved and edited the latter part of this post. The details are beside the point anyway.

The last time I fell asleep in class

So, why do I drink so much? Well, at first it was to help me get to sleep. Believe it or not, I’m terrified of sleeping tablets--Ambien, Valium, those kinds of things. My mother, however, has taken such things as long as I can recall. I think she’s as hooked on them as I am on booze (not that she’d admit it). Okay, tangent time:

Anecdote: when I was in high school, my mother worked graveyard shift. I was too afraid to sleep those nights when I was alone in the house, so I’d pull all-nighters. It wasn’t bad: we had cable and MTV was still in its infancy. I’d drink coffee and stay awake with Toto Coelo, Duran Duran, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, and a few other bands I'm too ashamed to admit I enjoyed.

One day I went to school after one such all-nighter, and I dozed off in class (admittedly, it wasn’t the first time I’d done this). My teachers discussed my naps, and decided to phone my mother. One did and asked if she had any pills I might have been taking because I was falling asleep in class (funny that drugs ranked first in their suspicions and that no one had thought to speak with me about the situation).

My mother responded by counting out her pills; as I’d been nowhere near her tablets, the counts must have been acceptable. Even so, she still asked me if I’d been into them. This wasn’t the first time she’d falsely accused me of something when I was innocent, so I didn’t overreact. I just said “no,“ and left it at that. But I went to school the next day with a good deal of guilt and shame knowing that all my teachers were convinced of my “drug abuse.”

I’m sure this little scenario isn’t uncommon; I assume it’s happened to many, many teenagers--then as now. Especially now with our drug paranoia at such an extreme--and mine were merely the days of “just say no.”

I should add that, for various reasons (none drug/alcohol related), I was enrolled at an “alternative” high school. Three teachers (addressed by their first names), 60 students. A very cozy situation lacking none of the power struggles and angst of “regular” high schools. There were, however, fewer jocks because we had no gym.

Why is this important? It might not be. Like I wrote: it's an anecdote.

Three's a big girl, then

As a child, I was something of an insomniac. Like other kids, I would fight to stay up with my parents. But I don’t think it was simply a case of not wanting to go to bed. I actually didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to be alert, awake just in case something happened. I don't think nighttime scared me as much as bedtime did, for, as children, we went to bed when it was still light out (about 6:00 during the school year, 8 in summer).

I think my anxiety about bedtime began when I was three.

We moved around quite a bit while I was growing up. When I was three, we (myself, parents, two younger siblings) moved to California. We lived just outside of Los Angeles, and this is where my memories begin. I’m not certain of the chronology, but three big events happened:

1) Fourth of July celebrations! Our parents got us ready for bed, and as soon as it grew dark, my family went out onto the street where neighbors were setting off fireworks. A kind man gave each of us children a sparkler to play with. Poof ! I went up like a firework myself. The sparkler had ignited the cheap, blue, synthetic nightgown I was wearing. I must have passed out. I woke up in the hospital, smelling something horrible (disinfectant? burned skin?).

The next day my mother drove me to my grandmother’s house nearby to show off the nightgown’s remains. She appeared proud of my having been burned; she was clearly excited as she told my grandmother about the sparkler.

(Years later a friend of my grandparents told me that he’d been the one to give me the sparkler, and that when I caught fire he threw me to ground and smothered the flames with his own body. My mother says he’s full of nonsense. I don't know who to believe--I think all of the adults on that July 4th were drunk on ring-pull cans of Coors).

2) First Earthquake! I woke up in the middle of the night because the bed was rocking. My mother, nude, was crouched over me, holding me to the bed (my siblings were cradle-bound at this point). I didn't know what to be more scared of--the earthquake or my mother. Bless her. It was her first earthquake as well.

3) First Abuse! My mother's brother agreed to babysit my siblings and I while the parents went out to play. It was a regular evening, uneventful. When it was time for bed, I helped fill my siblings’s bottles with sugary water and prepared for bed. When I came out to the bedroom to say “goodnight,” he said that, since I was the eldest, I could stay up a little bit later than the babies. I was delighted. I started to watch t.v. with him. I was so young I didn't quite understand what it was he was watching, but I do remember a laugh track, so I'm guessing it was a sitcom. Just a few minutes after I'd settled down ont he sofa, though, he picked me up and bent me over the couch, across the armrest, and he assaulted me.

And then the typical post-abuse story: he told me I was a big girl. A good girl. I wasn’t to tell my mother; I went to bed feeling sick, dirty, ashamed, and unsure.

The next day, I was playing in our empty garage, which smelled of old oil on warm concrete. I was setting “table” on a large, overturned cardboard box. The dishes were cheap, tin toys with Charlie Brown characters on them. A door connected the garage with the kitchen, and it was open while I played. I could see my mom getting things ready for lunch, and I could hear her talking on the telephone. When I heard her hang up, I called out and told her all about the previous night's event. I don't know why I just ignored my uncle's directive. Perhaps I was just a brave kid. Perhaps I wanted my mom to know my uncle thought I was a big girl, a good girl.

She didn’t respond. I went inside to see if she’d heard me, and I found she was on the phone again. When she replaced the receiver, she said “Grandma and grandpa know, and you aren't to tell anyone about this.” Nothing more was said.

Inconveniently, perhaps, I remembered all of it, in a rush, when I was 12. I don't know what provoked the memory (I think my uncle might have been planning to move into the area). Regardless, I remembered. I told my sibling about our uncle had done to a three year old girl. I thought relating the event was perfectly acceptable; all the grown-ups knew. Surely there wasn't anything to hide. Well, my sibling went to the family adults--including our mother--to report what I'd said.

My family--including my mother--told my sibling that I was a liar. They told me I'd made it up. I was misremembering. I had to apologize for telling horrible stories. They pretended I'd concocted the event in order to grab attention and to scare my sibling. Even though I knew I was right, the feelings of dirtiness and shame escalated, compounded by guilt and humiliation. I was pushed out of the family's safety net, usurped by a sibling's need to feel safe around my uncle.

When I was 18, my mother confirmed my story. She justified forcing me to lie by saying "we just didn't talk about things like that back then. We thought it was better if nobody knew" She's right, I know, but that doesn't curb the betrayal I feel. We haven’t spoken of it since.

Two years ago my uncle shot himself in the chest with my grandfather's gun.

Years before, his wife had left him, taking their two little girls with her to another state (I'd always wondered if he'd forced his attentions on those girls, but it could be that he'd never touched a child after me). Following his divorce, my uncle wandered. He actually spent some time doing the hobo thing and jumping trains. Alcoholism and drug abuse incapacitated him to the point where he couldn't work. So he hang out in bars and received disability checks for some ailment.

I felt ambivalent when he died. I still do. I understand the tragedy of a life wasted, of the pain that must drive one to suicide, but I know that if he'd never touched me, everything in my life would have been different. That one action kickstarted a chain of actions. and here I am.

Introduction

I’m a getting-on-to-middle age professional woman: alcoholic (bottle of wine a night minimum), sexually inappropriate, inclined to self-harm, and determined to sabotage friendships and whatever achievements I might grasp. I am multi-phobic, I alternate between extremes of fear and anger and am horrified by myself and, often, others.

I don’t want your pity. I just want to give you the facts.

I’ve been thinking for a while about composing a memoir. “They” say that writing things out tends to help you overcome problems; I assume it’s because writing gives you some sense of control. Well, control is what I require: I seem hell bent on self-destructing.

This is my rough draft of a life that, in some ways, reflects the standard story of childhood trauma leading to abusive relationships and addiction. But it also includes involvement in the sex trade and, ultimately, a professional career. In an effort to save that career (and, perhaps, my life), I’m beginning this ’blog.

The point of this narcissistic exercise? So much of my existence--my experience--has been hidden, secret, falsified, that I feel fake. Unreal. By putting it “out there,” I hope to make those experiences more concrete, more real, and less debilitating.

I’ll remain anonymous because everything I write will be verifiably true, and some of this material could harm my current life.

Again, no pity. I’ve achieved some remarkable things, and I wouldn't have achieved them without my experience; this is simply an attempt to order that experience.


NB: If you have any questions for me, any comments on the blog’s form / content, or wish to share experience, please leave a comment here or you can email me.

Funny that “sordid” rhymes with “sorted”--“organized, tidied up, put right”