Friday, September 30, 2011

I'm the Mistress of Alliteration, and I Remember....

The other day I was talking to a friend about being a thug, and maybe something about ho’s and pimps, and eventually we got to the subject of my blog. She said something to the effect of “I’ve been waiting for you start talking about you know, your story on your blog, are you going to?” I replied with laughter, and a quick answer, “well I think I want to keep it light. I’ve got so much blah blah blah blah going on right now, and I really like the humor. I guess I could go there when things settle down, but I don’t know how serious I can get.” But you see, I was lying, not on purpose, not to be mean, but really I was lying to myself.  If there’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s making up excuses, which is not to be confused with procrastination. I am after all the Queen Grand High Poohbah of Procrastination; but what I’m getting at here is actually finding a stupid reason for not wanting to do something. (I know, you’re saying, but Becca isn’t that really the same thing… well no, not really actually. Procrastinating is a lot more fun than actually making up flimsy excuses as to why you don’t want to do something that actually doesn’t have to be done…) 

I guess I felt that I just didn’t want to get into it, my sordid past (actually not very), and all the heavy luggage that goes with it (I don’t recommend trying to lift any of it).  In an ironic way I didn’t want to make myself vulnerable to you, the readers, because everyone loves a fun time gal, and NOT a Debbie Downer, right? Right. Or at least this is what I managed to convince myself.  But perhaps it’s worth a shot. If it doesn’t work I can go right back to slapstick and pirate curses, and we can just forget this whole thing ever happened. Deal?

It’s a motherfucking deal then.

So Snarksters, in an effort for you to get to know me, shall we start Familial Fridays? (Oh man, do I have a way with alliteration—no not illiterate, alliteration, dude: look it up) Hmmm…. Now where to start… We could always go the traditional route ie “it was a dark and stormy night…” or the non-traditional route, ie "sometimes you’re the statue and sometimes you’re the pigeon"… but all of that seems so convivial and trite at the moment and I’m in an erudite sort of mood (ok apologies my snark bugs, but I do sometimes use words that are difficult to pronounce because they’re rattling around in my head, but not because I want you to be more confused than you already are). Maybe we can try something more like this...

I remember.

I remember the first time he hit me. I thought it was a mistake. In fact I was sure it was a mistake because there was no way that this shining example of what it means to be a total shit bag of a human being would in fact actually raise his hand, pull it back and hit me. It was more shocking than hurtful.

I remember.

I remember being frozen between halfway sitting and halfway standing, my fork precariously balanced between my fingers threatening clattering on the floor, bleeding out spaghetti. The tingle like insect legs on your palm is what woke me up, as tears began to surge forward.

I remember.

I remember thinking, “why am I crying?” Why was I crying? The hot pools of shame wrestled their way down my face, leaving angry streaky comments in their wake. He had already sat down and had continued eating dinner. “Sit down, and close your mouth.” It was almost whispered, and thrown at my way as to suggest I was the one who had caused the interruption in our dinner routine. One more daggered glance sent me scrambling, limbs in every impossible and wrong angle to regain my composure and my seat, which only delayed the actual process of sitting down. “What’s wrong with you that you can’t even sit down.”  I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me, but it must be something.

I remember.

I remember we just kept eating. I did not utter one single syllable. I did not get up and leave. I did nothing. “It must be my fault” I told myself, repeatedly. I must have done something wrong. But what? I rewound the events before the conjecture of his hand against my skin, to ascertain what could have sparked such a discourse. We had been laughing over something stupid and inconsequential. He had asked me if I could go to a gallery opening, but I couldn’t. I had a final to study for, and eventually had to go back to my own place. I had told him I couldn’t. We argued. It was settled with his physical punctuation that I would indeed attend the gallery opening.

I remember.

I remember I felt like I had eaten fistfuls of garden dirt followed by a cement chaser.  Later there was whispered kindness, comforting embraces, and an insecure relief began to settle at my feet, like a dog thumping its tail, warming the edges of my being. I stayed on. I stayed silent.


PHEW. That was HEAVY. And I’ve decidedly don’t do heavy anymore.  Such a burden. Really. But in all seriousness I dated a total douche bag of a human for about 4 ½ years. It/He was a large part of my adolescent life, shaping me, molding me in all the wrong ways. Things I’ve had to re-teach myself, re-learn what is or isn’t “normal.” In all of this I have managed to keep intact my sense of humor, somehow, and here I am on the other side. Definitely, defiantly defying (ohh there's that alliteration again) the statistics about being the product of an abusive relationship, what that means for future relationships, what that means to the future you.

Here’s a little bit of advice that has taken me YEARS to learn, and I’m still struggling with it:

You, YES YOU, are a person of immeasurable worth.
You deserve to be treated with respect.
You deserve to be loved in an appropriate manner.
You are capable of loving in an appropriate manner.

Snarksters, NO ONE has the right to lay their hands on you in a manner that is physically abusive. Don’t stay silent, and don’t think that this is “NORMAL.” I assure you, it’s not. Please seek help if you are in an abusive relationship and can’t leave.  Help and resources can be found here.

Now that we’re done with those un-pleasantries you will all be very happy to know that this weekend I’m attending the belated birthday party of Ms. VamipreS; so next week’s Conversational Mondays should be super AWESOME. I’ve promised to try to behave myself, but shit, who are we kidding? It’s me, after all.
“Pictures of last night ended up online, I’m screwed, Oh well…” (Katy Perry, Last Friday Night) I'm guessing that's summing up my weekend... how about yours?