Why didn't someone tell me? Did they even know? The guy was 27 years my senior! Who knew? I didn't. I was 23 years of age when we were in full-swing and he would propose marriage to me... twice--once on Mother's Day in May 1997 at Cannes Film Festival in France, the other at San Ysidro Ranch in northern Cali on New Year's Eve 2000. I said yes both times, "Let's see how it goes".
Here I sit 20 years later ... stumped. I guess I am angry. Concessions are no fun, bu ah, how they unburden my soul. For this, I shall confess as often and as much as is possible to those who will most likely not understand. Am I angry that no one took my young hand and guided me into clarity then? Am I angry that people such as he get away with continuing to date teen-aged girls as he ages and is in his now fossil years? The privacy of every relationship holds worlds of information, so I could never be able to exactly detail what went on, but suffice it to say that it was like being on a horribly nauseating rickety carnival ride.... for far too long.
The ominous "they" say that anger is hardened hurt. Hard butter is anger; melted butter is sadness. The truth is that we are not angry, we are sad. Anger is the callous that seems to protect, but callous becomes the problem, so better it not be there. Butter should melt. Tastes better that way. I am confounded as to how the haunt of my deepest self that bore the blindness--thank some God for that blindness because it probably kept me alive then--becomes projected onto current deep relations. Like a movie projector and a screen, literally. I do not mean for it to be so, but I suppose that the Self has Its Way of moving up and out anything less sacred than belongs within you. Volcanoes need that escape hole, lest sweet Earth gets pretty boiled to smithereens. Other living creatures pay when they don't deserve to pay. How does one fix the level of cause, genesis, of a volcano before it has to become one? Pray, tell.
I was exploited. I was used. I was misused. There. Out with the lava now, she aims. I wish no revenge upon anyone or anything due to the fact that I know that there is only "one of us here" in fundamental Reality (not this reality we call reality). You actually ARE me. The ego mind loathes this fact. Why? Because if it gives attention to it--and it IS a fact--whether we are in the mood for intimacy or not at any given moment--that we are the same, one and the same--then it dies in its presence because it is the truth. Dark/Light, we know. But, here's the catch for my own life: With best of intentions, my buzzing around at some higher level in myself might just be part of the callous problem, you see, because trying to soar on certain wind up there has not allowed me to go ahead and just grab onto it like one would a horse's nape when flying down a field, lest s/he tumble and die. My father was this man. He ruined it for me romantically. He has endured the vicissitudes of several decades of my crazy mother. Why can't I have found one to love me?
The pink sunrise comes now. A stupid bird chirps at what it does not know. It screams, happy about the morning, as if we all don't fucking ... know. Another 24 hours awaits now. Shall I be present or shall I slowly die from the haunt? Fuck that guy. Really. Fuck him. I don't judge him, but I wish him acid-washed from the fibers of me. Now.
I was invited to write about this by a new friend in my life. I do not know how "knowing" that I was the victim of a pedophile can help my future. I do not subscribe to what most would call "the process of healing". Why? Because look around. We don't really heal, we just get up, all banged up, lace up our bootstraps, put on an outfit and some matching earrings, the right lipstick, and go show up wherever we must in order to keep going.
I had a breakdown at age 21. I threw all of my diaries in a nearby McDonald's dumpster and slammed the lid down on them. French fry burial. How cheap for what they told! Fear instructs stupidity. Ugh. Hindsight. I was so deeply fractured and afraid of this man at the time that I had moved out and in with two girlfriends into a house and I tried hard not to let him learn where we were. He somehow whittled his charming (sociopaths are, we know) way back in.... like a stout weed in my seriously cracked sidewalk.
I went to stay with my family for a few weeks to remember how to write a check, I was so very frantic and broken. It was as if something had taken over my mind in some kind of silent quicksand, because I had no say. I had no say in my own life because slowly but surely it had been woven in with his life. Due to the fact that he is a well-known narcissist and little girls are his prey that keep him feeding on his own sense of power, I now, these many years later am seeing it all far more clearly. The guy was a jerk, a jerk of the worst kind. I was raped too many times to mention—I just thought it was normal behavior, I had no idea that his sexual perversions were abnormal and to be written up, policed, documented. I just figured I was young and didn’t know what a sex life involved or was. What a fucking asshole. Really. What a scum-sucking cretin of a flesh-owner.
The details are deserving of a book, not a blog. But will my ego mind allow the focus on something I wish to exit most quickly from? Pride and love are like the tender soft pieces we gather up in our shifting fingers to braid hair. If one loosens, it all goes. Every gal deserves a "first love" who can be... loving. This guy was a walking talking raging brilliant absolute disastrous mess. I have always been loyal to the wrong people for too long. We should teach our prepubescent girls that they are not to give away their power to any man. Ever. Period. Exclamation. Some men are good. I just haven't slept with them yet.
Power knows itself in generosity. Powerlessness knows not its thievery. Forget giving it away to a man, but to any empathetic human, rather. No wonder some girls beam with joy from having had been ... given to. What joy these women must feel! Men are coded in their sincerest DNA to protect us. They are. If a pregnant woman enters an elevator, be dang sure that the man, not the woman, will ask to assist her.
I did not beam for quite some time, and I concede now a few clouds hold their sustain to blot out my Sunshine. Men who are attracted to me seem to be drawn to some Light within me. This would be fine except the question is why they behave like moths in the first place. Moths just cannot see. They furiously flap as if their lives depend upon it toward the warmth, anything warmer than they, hoping for what exactly? To take? This is a problem.
There's too much to say. Not to you, to me. There is no way to 'end' this uncoordinated splurt of a try at playing darts at my past. I try to practice a daily meditation that grounds me in the only time that exists.... now. I do this because it gives back to me. The past is gone, but traces, images, the imprint of certain chemistries that plagued or gave joy to the fabric that makes up the quilt of you, well, it's a thick quilt.
As healing goes, I am sure, sure, sure, that if you are a female--or a rebellious rockstar of a male--you will wish for me … healing. Well, time and space are in the Holy Spirit’s (the Bridge) hands. I shall inquire. Each morning. We each and all fight our battles. Won’t you join me?