A book I own has some exercises and writing prompts so the following is part one of however many I decide to do of these, and this may be it.
My first memory of a man who is/was not a family member comes from game night at the house/home of a couple that my family is still friendly with to this day. I was sitting on the lap of the dad, and my mom told me I was too old to be sitting on other people's laps. I remember being quite confused by this, and not understanding why my age had anything to do with this new information. All of a sudden I was taken away from a spot at the table where I could see the cards, and more easily interact with the other game players, and squished onto a chair with another child. I probably sulked for a while, I don't remember much, I'm guessing I was about seven or eight years old, I know I couldn't be older than nine because that's when we moved away from that town. Years later we were at a picnic with this family and I saw this man again, there wasn't anything improper or inappropriate in the way he interacted with me, or my siblings that I could see, and I resented my mother even more.
My parents had given us sex lectures at young ages, I remember my mom being pregnant and going to visit my youngest sister in the hospital when she was a baby. I also remember her and my dad bringing my brother home and helping care for him when he was little. We lived in a very small farm community, and then moved to what seemed like a huge city, but in reality was only about 10,000 people total. My dad was the pastor, there weren't a lot of girls my age around, I was friends with a lot of boys, and I didn't really see anything wrong with this. I liked to do the things that they did, and as we got to know each other better they were more willing to throw the football to me at recess. We had our share of very good athletes, and I remember one guy in particular. I have no idea how or why we were paired up, perhaps we were just standing next to each other that day. He couldn't figure out which percentile he was in for the Presidential Physical Fitness Test, and being no wizard when it came to math, I surprised myself, and probably him, by being able to do this for him without a great deal of effort. He smiled at me, and I hadn't thought he was that cute before, but I did then.
A male friend and I tried French kissing each other. We had no clue what to do, we briefly touched our tongues together, backed away from the other person, and felt, I can't say how he felt, but I was very put off by the whole thing that had previously sounded marvelously seductive and scandalous. My mom read romance novels and my dad was very critical of this habit. I was on his side until one day I picked one up for myself. It didn't take long to finish. Migrant fruit picker's daughter who drives a semi and plays the cello at night falls for vineyard owner's very starchy son. It was not well written, but I devoured it, especially the part where they came together one night. Mostly what I remember is her wearing a man's dress shirt that had belonged to her brother, and him being very angry about that. Just for kicks I would love to go back and read this book again, others stick like mud in my mind, the chemist and the heiress, a pregnant blonde and a dark haired Italian?, a woman who was in labor on the side of the road ending up with a guy in some dangerous industry, oil jumping, firefighting, something like that. Most of these were extremely predictable, but I kept reading.
I got into longer novels, Johanna Lindsay, Jude Deveraux, Lavyrle Spencer, Nora Roberts, and with the exception of Spencer, have largely outgrown this genre even though I will very occasionally find something and wade into it just for old time's sake or nostalgic reasons. If you have ever read any of these, and even if you haven't, you probably can guess that the plots are simple, and character development is minimal at best. Most of the time there is some sort of personality clash, the people are thrown together for X reason, they don't get along well, and then suddenly, they are involved in a sexual relationship. One novel that I can't remember well outside of the woman being named Ariel, actually portrayed a horrible scene where the protagonist gets down on her hands and knees for the guy before being asked because she had been married to a completely repellent older man who would whip or otherwise abuse her if she didn't please him sexually. The main character is disgusted, not a far stretch, and I'd like to go back and read that one again to see how I would feel now that I am older and more experienced. I doubt it is worth the trouble of trying to hunt that book down, but I am curious.
Perhaps in my mind, there was an association between fighting, or anger, and sex. More than one couple would be arguing, the man would kiss the woman, or otherwise capture/entice her, and pretty soon they were getting down and dirty together. Sometimes she did mind, but the authors made almost no effort to portray this as a rape scene which is how it would play out in real life if a man tried to force entry into an unwelcome feminine area. All of it was shallow, there were words of love spoken, but no real emotional intimacy and this is the part that I want to focus on next because this was the big missing ingredient in most of my sexual encounters. Sadly I was divorced after twenty some years of being with the father of my children. I had no idea that having sex could be such a wonderful experience because I never allowed myself to go there. My body may have been in the bed, on the couch, anywhere handy, but my heart and mind were many, many, many, miles away, and it wasn't any sort of lie back and think of England type stuff either. I really did not know that one ought to be able to expect more out of an encounter than two bodies performing the sex act.
I had heard that men liked sex, but this wasn't my experience so I wondered, was it really true? I slept with a couple of guys when I was in my twenties, more out of rebellion, anger, and a desire to fill the ever growing emptiness inside of me. I was neither in love, or in lust, I was neglected, abandoned, and thought I could trade my body for some warm arms around me. The magic scarf is a mostly autobiographical tale, Veronica is of course, fictitious, but the story about not getting promoted and getting credit for work I had done is 100% true. I felt like the story ended on an ambiguous note, and this rang true because in my short life, people did not live happily ever after. They wound up depressed, suicidal, empty, homeless, friendless, jobless, or they had jobs and marriages and friends, but not the wholesome satisfying kind. They were corporate drones, or barely making ends meet in dead end jobs with no opportunity for advancement. It took me a long time to really understand more about being vulnerable, letting my guard down, and attempting to let people in after a lifetime of setting one emotion blocking brick up after another and making sure that the walls I set in place were good and sturdy.
Until recently, I didn't know much about the ability to separate what was happening to my body from the thoughts going through my mind, and the feelings I was not acknowledging. Sure I was often tearful, there were times when I smiled, but I was terrible about expressing these things in a healthy manner since I went from a set of parents who taught me that repression was a better strategy than sharing my emotions to a spouse who picked up where they left off only he went a step further and slowly eroded the confidence I had previously. I went from being a very thin five foot tall one hundred and three pound woman who worked out to someone who currently weighs about one hundred and sixty pounds. I was fat, I was stupid, I was lazy, he had emotional affairs all over the place and I was clueless enough to think that because he wasn't actually having sex with these women, that somehow that was okay. All the love, the time, the presents, and presence, help with the housework, the children, the finances, we fought constantly until I became so run down and worn out that I laid down, gave up, and let him win. I remember a guy I dated and how he would kiss me, hold me, tell me he loved me. I miss that guy. I still see him every once in a great while, but he's married and that means he is off my list for good.
Since I am the oldest I didn't have a big sister to explain things to me. I stumbled around, let guys do what they wanted, tried to do a few things to them, I'm sure I was ridiculously inexpert, especially at first, but the more guys I dated, the better I understood that not a whole lot was expected of me. The other day a guy told me that he thought I was pretty, the compliment came out of nowhere, we hadn't been talking about looks specifically, I had been at work all day, and since we were rearranging cars on the lot in the sleet my face was red, raw, and some combination of sunburned, windburned, and feverish. I thanked him and for once, I actually believed what someone said about my looks. To me, the way people look fades very fast. People grow more or less attractive to me as I get to know them, once cute guys turn ugly once I see a certain side of them, and guys I wouldn't have considered particularly attractive previously become much more so as I see more of what makes them beautiful. I grew up in an era where sex was not discussed, and if it was, women weren't really supposed to enjoy it unless you were a hooker, or a complete slut. The idea that a woman might like sex just for the sake of it was unheard of, and I probably still retain some of that guilt today.
Sometimes people will tell me that I don't really want sex, what I'm secretly craving is intimacy. Doubtless they are onto something, I love holding hands, being kissed in ways that won't lead to anything more, all that stuff is well and good, but I do like sex just for the fun of it. I love it, and I am so tired of all these well intentioned people trying to make it seem as if wanting sex just for the physical release is too base and animalistic for a woman. I once read an article that said you should know who likes you, and that made sense to me. Leading people on is a bad idea, but it's equally asinine to reject someone inadvertantly in my opinion simply because you're not sure that they are interested in you. Another article had a strategy. Automatically assume that people will and do like you. I've tried to adopt this for the most part, and it has been extremely effective. For one, I'm nicer to people, for another, it's fascinating to see how people respond when interest is a given on my end. I do not enjoy mind games just for the heck of playing them. I am a terrible flirt, and it's a little sad to me that more people aren't better at playing the kind of games where both parties win. One of the reasons I fell hard for one guy was because of what he could communicate without saying a word. I am an absolute sucker for those types.
As far as I know, my father was faithful to my mother and vice versa. Both me and my spouse cheated on each other, likely for similar reasons. We felt unloved, unwanted, insignificant, unattractive, possibly we wanted to show that other person, and I am still reeling at how mind blowingly stupid the things we did are and were. My dad would hold us down and tickle us when we were younger. It wasn't sexual, at least it didn't seem to be, but he would not let us up when we told him to stop and that we couldn't breathe and that may be a part of the reason why the hard core kink lifestyle has never really appealed to me. I'm not particularly romantic myself, but I have a thing for romantic men. Maybe I want to be the person bringing home wine, flowers, and chocolate for someone else, or I'm just a huge control freak, or not in touch with my softer side, etc..., my parents were shocked when they learned that I was sexually active, but they were blaming me for undone deeds long before the first time. It was disappointing, done for the wrong reasons with the wrong persons, and I am looking back and crying for the loss of youth, innocence, sexual ideation, and probably a whole host of other things my therapist would tell me needs to be addressed.
What I know today; and why I attempted to dive into this a bit even though I have held back a lot, is that I am much better friends with myself than I used to be. Yesterday at work I was talking with some of the people there. I told one guy he should get a girlfriend after he was complaining about being bored at home and not having anything to do things with, he has complained about being single before, and future me can see that past me was poking a stick when I should have punched out and gone home for the day, but we got into the conversation and I could tell that I said some things that were upsetting to some. It took me a while to realize this. Then I felt really guilty. I felt bad that I had opened my big mouth, and thought of ways to apologize, even going so far as to Google it. Then I thought, what I said is true. I haven't done anything really wrong other than possibly be a bit blunt and insensitive around a charged subject, I do regret that, but if you always tiptoe around and stick to safe subjects, you never find out what someone is really made of and how they react when they are on the defensive, wounded, angry, bitter, jealous, and so on and so forth. Good relationships aren't good because they are safe, they remain that way because they have been tested, and passed those real life exams.
An aunt of mine first introduced me to Robin Norwood and her book; Women Who Love Too Much. I could see it so clearly in others, but observing it in myself, and then having the courage to actually do something about it took much longer. I am so ashamed of who I was, but I didn't really know any better, or that things could be different. My parents were hard and harsh. My dad is gone, but my mom is still juding me, withholding approval, validation, she doesn't come out to see me, she tells me when and where she is going to be. She's controlling, cold, often tactless, she is a classic ESTJ in my opinion, and has no problem telling me where I fall short and how I continuously fail. Regardless of what I do, I am the prodigal daughter, and she still maintains that she had every right to be abusive since I was such a mostrous brat, and probably continues to view me that way since I am also very stubborn and resist her control. Today I did not go to church. Why? Because I felt controlled. Why do my daughters act out? Their parents had no clue. We fucked up and that is not okay. But the very best thing a parent can do to help their child is to take care of themselves regardless of how selfish it may appear to others.
The book defines being selfish carefully, it means you stop trying to please people whose standards you can't meet anyways, and you go through the long, hard, thankless, but wonderful process of introspection, developing your spiritual side, seeing what areas you need to improve, I forget what some of the rest are, but basically you have to relearn how to do so many things it feels as if you will never emerge a free woman, or man, or whatever the case may be. But the first step is admitting that I have a problem, and I have done that. I've gotten much better at figuring out who is toxic even if I'm not initially great at it. I have a lot more compassion and self esteem than I did, that little girl, the young woman, the married wife, she had no idea how badly she was suffering on the inside. People taught me to suck it up and pretend that things were fine and I got so good at that my own mind could no longer be relied upon to determine the difference between fact, and fiction. I let men touch me, spent time with them, laughed at jokes that were not funny, stayed up talking to people I did not want to be talking to, texted people back because I felt like I should, and in some ways, I will probably always be in some form of recovery, like an addict who recognizes that the next fall may be waiting right around the corner.
This has mostly been about me, but the partners deserve some mention too. That old saw about not being able to love others until you love yourself is actually true. We think of love as sacrificial, but it needs to be a balancing act as well. You can become phenomenal and hyper sensitive to every imagined nuance and rapidly changing mood until your own heart feels as if it is going to pound out of your chest for fear of retribution. One of my love languages is acts of service, so I do a lot for those that I love, and even those I don't care about. I do it for them because I am me. I used people. I didn't mean to, I didn't always know I was doing this, I was not fair to them, I objectified men, trashed them, hated them, flirted with them without any intention of doing anything with them, not out of some twisted sense of vengenance, but because people are complex beings, and we don't always know why we are doing things when we are doing them. It can take me a very long time to understand my own motivations, actions, feelings, and I'm largely guessing when it comes to others. However I have not been the woman or girl I wished I could have and should have been, and for that, I am sorry. I bitterly regret being hard when the situation called for a softer stance, and being cotton candy fluff when I needed a spine.
I know a guy, and perhaps just looking at us you might think that he is emotionally unavailable while I possess what are commonly called the softer skills in the modern business world. While I can carry on a conversation better than he can, he is way more in touch with what he and others are feeling, and easily grasps a riot of emotions, names them, and perhaps even allows himself to feel them. I run, I shut down, I freeze, and I envy him that. It's almost laughable to me, and I want to be able to ask him how he does it, he may not even know. I hate opening my mouth and listening to what comes out although I suspect part of that is merely me being hard on myself. He's hard on himself, but it is a low self esteem thing rather than a true lack of emotional understanding. We are both frauds, but I'm getting the credit that he deserves, and that doesn't sit well with me even though I know that he wouldn't care if he was recognized for it, that's just not his style, the limelight has never really appealed to him that I could see. There's a lone drummer in his head, and one in mine as well, every so often they sync, but more often, the beats are too dissonant which is funny to me because I feel as if both of us want a closer relationship with the other person.
If you were wondering when I would drop some personality theory into this, apart from the brief bit about my mother, wait no further. Now rather than focus on what type someone is, or might be, I try to look for which function they are using, if I can spot it. Introverted intuition is usually fairly easy for me to see; or maybe I should say feel, and in this one case I am talking about an actual physical sensation. I can literally feel these people and if that sounds strange, I don't blame you for thinking that way. I was once standing in a coffee shop trying to see if the friend I was waiting for had arrived. There were perhaps ten to twelve other people at tables and chairs. One guy in the corner just felt different. Like a radio frequency I recognized, or a magnetic force field pulling my vision toward him. He didn't say anything, and I didn't move, you could say that this whole thing is in my head and I imagined it, and I can't prove otherwise, but it happens often enough that I have stopped questioning it. They don't even have to have Ni as their primary function, it can be further down in the queue. Sometimes I even recognize it online, but this tends to be more difficult since you have less to go by. Whatever it is, it feels as we have our own special means of communicating, without words, or in addition to words, as if there is subtext nobody else can see, hear, or interpret.
I wanted to do both more and less with this. I wanted to go very deep and be brave and write about things (specifically) that I have done, and have been done to me. Apparently I am not ready to go there publicly, and may never be. The exercise was to write about men, your interactions with them going as far back as I could remember, and writing without holding anything back until I was done. In a way, I am exceedingly fortunate. In other ways, less so. My mind is reeling when I go back and think about that little girl who just wanted to be closer to the cards at a game, and was given a rude reality check and very vaguely introduced to the concept of sexuality. There was nothing bad or dirty about me sitting on that guy's lap and I'm angry at my mother for insinuating that either of us were doing something wrong. I'm especially agitated when I think about parties in general and how I was forced to stay at parties where I was allergic to a cat for instance, and subjected to subsequent allergic reactions and asthma attacks. It is no surprise that I am seriously out of touch with what I am feeling at times, having been taught from very little on to ignore what was happening to me and my body. Despite the painful years of marriage, and the turbulent years of dating someone who was older, but less mature, I'm in a pretty good place today.
I can't go back and do anything about the past, I'm proud of myself for having gotten this far, and I'm sure there are people who have some choice things to say about me, and possibly, I have earned those words. I want to forgive others, but first, I must forgive myself. I saw sex as a way to get some affection (before I knew what great sex could be), and I resent the idea that women are tramps, whores, sluts, or mistaken about their intimacy needs when they say that they like, love, or want sex. Sometimes, I do not care whether he loves me or not. I just want that instant gratification since it feels as if I have denied myself for far too long without any real satisfaction (pun intended) other than hey, at least I don't sleep around. I respect myself and men respect that. At work, I feel large and immediate doses of instant respect when I walk into that shop. While I could be mistaken, I don't think that there is a man in there who disrespects me. I'm pretty sensitive to that type of thing, and we may not like or love each other, but I generally respect them, and I feel the respect as if it is a tangible, palpable thing. Even when there is the rare moment when someone blatantly or more subtly indicates interest, it is accompanied with heavy duty commercial grade amounts of respect. I might even say few are respected the way I am, but I really don't know that for a fact, I just believe it to be true, and I have a feeling that they might agree.
The other day a guy asked me something. I responded, and another guy said that he was just patronizing me. The idea was hilarious and I laughed spontaneously. Then I thought about it. Had the commenter seen something I had missed? I thought about it some more. I know the questioner quite well, I could buy the idea that he was being patronizing, but it didn't quite fit. Then I thought about it from another angle. Why would someone accuse another of being patronizing if that wasn't really the case? I let this roll around in my head for a while, and then out of the blue, I wondered, was the person actually jealous and trying to discount something another person had said? Yes that is somewhat egotistical, however, it could also be true, and it made a lot of sense to me. It felt right. If I had to guess, his love language is quality time, possibly followed by either words or affirmation, or physical touch. I doubt he is into gifts, but he does things for and with me and I love that about him. It speaks very loudly and very clearly to me, and I do feel loved in some sense. Not the sense I want to be loved since it is one small arena, but if a man stands outside in freezing rain without a hat or gloves on because you have asked him to help, and what you want is nowhere in his job description, he might have some ulterior motivation. I try to be a giver and a matcher, but sometimes I am a taker too, and this feels really, really, really good. I have a feeling that Robin Norwood might approve.
Xoxo,
J
P.S. Thank you to anyone who took the time to wade through this mess. It felt like too much and not nearly deep enough, but it was a start I guess.
Until next time,
j
P.P.S. Tell me now how do I feel, tell me now, how do I feel?