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. http://www.bandbacktogether.com/abuse 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?
