Pressure Points

I spent the better part of the afternoon getting knots worked out of my pressure points, thanks to my sweetheart. As I felt him work his way from my Achilles tendon to a calf muscle that has been giving me trouble for years, tears welled up in my eyes.

I have suffered in silence for years. I couldn't make my pain invisible enough. There is only so much yoga, foam rollers, and tennis balls can do; people need to be touched.

Outwardly, my ex and I were very affectionate. We held hands often, and I rarely entered a room full of people without his hand on my back. But we never kissed. I shouldn't say never. We sometimes kissed during sex. But he wouldn't touch my feet. Ever. No matter how badly they hurt. Asking him to scratch my back evoked a look as though I'd asked him to build me the great wall of China.

By the last year of our marriage, holding hands began with him cracking my thumb. It was painful, and I begged him to stop. But it was the price for touch.

We slept for eight years on a broken bed that hurt my back. Four years into it, I had neck surgery-- it was that bad. He finally broke down and bought a new bed, and six months later had another woman in it.  Man that hurt. Why couldn't he do her on the couch, so I could have taken the wonderful bed I'd longed for so long for in the divorce?

Fast forward to now. I can't lotion my feet without my dear man rubbing my poor soles. That's what he does, what I'm most grateful for. He rubs my soul. He frees my pain.

For so many years, I'd suffered in silence. Hid my pain. Feared sympathy. The only person I told my pain to responded with irritation. He complained for months if I let on that I hurt to anyone. Seriously, that was an actual fight he threw in my face. I'd not hidden the pain from a pulled groin well enough on a double date. He claimed i was seeking attention. I really just wanted to be home. This was his shining example of the depths of my manipulation.

So I built walls. I put on a fake smile and showed the world what a happy wife looked like.

He used to say a lot that another man might buy me flowers or kiss me, but only he loved me enough to take care of me.

Another jewel of his: No one's ever been nicer to you than me. My silent response always was: Isn't that sad.

Letting Go of the Past

In the words of Sting, " I keep the faith in my fashion. ". This Rosh Hashanah, I contemplated the past year. I've been carrying a lot of guilt and shame about getting divorced, and how it's impacting my youngest son. I woke up today, having coffee on the river, thinking of the stones I should throw to atone for my failings. Being raised Catholic, guilt is an easy garment for me to wear. I'm happy to share, instead, where my day ended up.

Tonight, on a bike ride home from downtown, in the rain, I found myself rejoicing. I find rain sacred, and today, it brought sweet revelations.

I was wearing the pants I bought last summer for spin class at the gym when I was getting in shape for the Tough Mudder last fall, where I realized that I had no more desire to impress my ex and he had lost all compassion for me. I was riding the bike our oldest son left behind when he joined the army, a bike my ex hated, but I refused to give up last spring, when I knew the end was near, but before I knew about my ex's affair. My bike was decked out with a new bell, lights, and a basket (basket!) that my new love surprised me with.

I used to love bike riding as a child. Five years ago, my ex and I bought the first bike I've owned since I was in middle school, when my mom's boyfriend turned my bike into a guitar. About a year later, my ex upgraded to a $700 mountain bike, but wouldn't fix my flat. My bike lay unused for years as a result, much like our oldest son's did, for the same reason.

Riding my son's bike, tricked out by my new love, in the rain, jumping puddles, this Rosh Hashanah filled me with the joy in knowing that everything is as it should be. To regret anything of the past year, would be to rue today, which I cannot do. Today is the culmination of all my yesterday's, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Turn and Face the Strain

I used to be so calm, so settled, so forgiving.

I am a flagellant; I must forgive, because I am so guilty. Blame my Catholic roots, my Jewish stepmother, my fractured heart, but understand this: I must forgive.

Hate, anger, and resentment hold me bound. They damage my wings. They make my soul bleed. They are usually unnecessary in creating anything good out of a day.

Yet, here I am. Angry, hurt, scorned.

I am ashamed of this. It goes against my nature. I'm a roll with the punches kind of girl. A natural cheek turner. I pride myself on humility.

But I've been wronged. I've been cheated, and, insult to injury, I protect my attacker like a true victim.

I find it impossible to be honest about these feelings in real life. I can't tell the truth of my pain. Doing so injures me so much more than any wound I've suffered. But I'll tell you the truth. Here. Shhhh. Pretend I never said this, or I'll never trust you again.

I am furious at being betrayed by my closest friend. I struggle to forgive and I don't know why. The whole world knows I've been wronged; I don't need validation in my role as victim.

That's what it is. I resent pity, being made victim. I hate it. It feels like the hardest slap to my ego.

The sooner I really feel this, the sooner I can let it go. I hope.

I had to read Scripture at my dad's wedding this weekend. The passage was about forgiveness. Every word was true. I barely got through it. I cried helplessly when I was done.

I used to be a master at forgiveness. But all my other tests pale in comparison to this one. This betrayal may be the one to break me, may just be bad enough to turn me into something I hate, into someone I can't respect. God help you if it does. I'll never forgive you of that.

Ch-ch-changes Invite to Write prompt #2

Live the Life you Love

By Dana LaLonde

I am in the midst of changing my life in ways I'd only dreamed of. I have had a dream version of myself my whole life. I imagine many of us do.

I've always wanted to be a citizen of the world, stranger to none, lover of my fellow man. I have always wanted to go somewhere unfamiliar and call it home. I've always wanted to immerse myself in a life full of communal joy. I have visions of a house in the woods, jazz streaming through the yard, friends new and old passing through, celebrating the sweet joys that only creating community can bring.

I want to make the world my home and strangers my family.

I want to live in a tiny house in the Andes.

I want to take away all the comforts I cling to see what I really need.

I want to live in harmony with nature and an ancient culture.

I want to create a sustainable life on a small farm, minimizing my ecological footprint.

I need this. I need to be someone I am proud of.

In the end, we live the life we must.

We make the choices we can live with.

My whole life I've devoted to creating a normal, American suburban life. I did. I am a soccer mom, a teacher in my hometown, the proud mom of an American soldier. The problem is, I'm not normal; I'm a writer.

I've realized recently that my need to create new worlds on paper stems from my need to create a new world for myself. My life didn't suit me.

Thanks to various changes this year, another woman has moved seamlessly into my old life, giving me the opportunity to create a new one. I am thankful for this chance, for the opportunity to be unabashedly myself.

I have the opportunity to be the woman I admire. I have the opportunity to show my sons another way of being. I have the opportunity to create myself, on my terms, in my way. I have the opportunity to chase my dreams, giving my decade of former students an object lesson of living.

I can't wait to see who I become.

Dear Maya

I too know why the caged bird sings.

She sings for peace,
For freedom.
In anger
At being caged in the first place.
In pain from beating her
Wings against the bars
That hold her in, she sings
In defiance of
The indignities she's suffered.

She sings, enraged.
She sings because the truth
Flies from her mouth, unbidden.

She cries,
Seeking solace, seeking refuge.
Desperate to retain that final
Shred of dignity.
She sings
For her homeland,
Out of pride
For who she would have been, uncaged.

She sings
In longing, lamenting that the cage
Exists at all.
She mourns
Her own soul,
Knowing the cage is her own
Design, fashioned to keep
The world out, soldered by
Fear of freedom. Imprisoned
By her younger self.

Maya, I know this wasn't your
Answer, but it's your fault.

Thank you.

Silent All These Years

I am a rape victim.

It took me 23 years to be able to say this sentence.

To be able to call myself victim.  To be able to call how I lost my virginity.  To recognize that my abuser took more than my innocence, stole more than my girlhood.  He continues to brutalize me.  I continue to blame myself.  I could kill him with my bare hands for what he did to my sons' mother.  My boys deserved to be raised by a woman who felt whole.  They deserved a mom who didn't see a killer in every shadow, threat behind every smile.

I have to forgive him.  Not yet.  I just left denial.  I need to feel rage for a little bit.  I need to feel anger towards someone other than myself.  I need to cleanse myself in my ire, to learn to protect myself, to save myself, to value myself, to love myself.

I've been hurting for 23 years and I thought I deserved it.

I can take a couple weeks of sheer rage, knowing that I didn't.

Fifty Shades of Grey movie review

On the way home from seeing Fifty Shades for GNO, or more specifically, mom's night out, we started asking ourselves, why?
Why do we like this story? And not just us, why do so many women feel drawn to Ana and Christian's love story? Why, like Twilight before it, are forty-ish women flocking to this story like a siren call? Could it be that we are sex-starved and desperate? Nope. Not our group. Sex-crazed perverts? Closer, but no. That doesn't feel right either. Uninformed about violence against women and unwittingly glorifying abusive relationships, as Twitter will undoubtedly claim?
No. That's not it. I follow Femen and support Pussy Riot's cause. I am notorious for posting what my friend's husband calls "bra burning" messages on Facebook. While I am not raising a  daughter, the rest of my friends are. And they do so conscientiously.
So what made us leave our families to trek to the theater en masse to see a bondage flick?
That's the million dollar question.
The answer is, I'm not sure there is an answer. Not just one, anyway. Maybe there are fifty reasons why.
One reason is curiosity. Some women, and some men, might be curious about the lifestyle, or nontraditional sexual relationships in general. Maybe, like Ana, we are curious as to why someone would choose to be a Dominant, or a Submissive.
Maybe. Or maybe it's not so much about the unfamiliar. Maybe it's about how rampant violence against women is. And that women aged between twenty and twenty-four years old are at the greatest risk of becoming victims. Maybe it has to do with our knowledge that romantic relationships are a dangerous place for women. That domestic violence is the most common cause of injury to women between the ages of eighteen and forty-four.
The CDC reports that twenty percent of women will be victims of sexual violence by a lover, and thirty-six percent report being a victims of sexual assault, rape, or stalking. This means all of us know someone who has been victimized.
Recently, there has been an influx of female leads in dystopic fiction. It is becoming commonplace to see a woman running for her life through the woods onscreen,  not as the victim of a killer, but as a victim of society. This seems relevant here. While on one hand we are taking our children to see women take on the world, we are taking ourselves to see a young woman be willingly brutalized. For love, no less. Talk about your mixed messages. We would have to be blind to not see the issues many groups are taking with this film.
That said, I don't think this film is speaking to the domestic violence that is undeniable, but more the gray areas. The sixty-four percent of women, not the victims of attack, but subject to horror stories and media images, leaving them wondering just how safe they are.
Our fascination with Mr. Grey is that he gives us things life doesn't. Like safe words. We have no such thing in real life.  Ana intentionally ires Christian. This is not the behavior of a woman in fear. She stands her ground and says how she feels.  She has no fear that he will hurt her out of anger.
How many of us can say the same, unequivocally? Without reservation? Knowing the statistics?
We watch Ana get tied up and struck, yet she is in no real danger. She can leave anytime.
This is not to say they have a healthy relationship; he follows her on vacation.  While our current selves are thinking, red flag, our younger selves are remembering the times we sacrificed pieces of our privacy, our dreams, our independence, for love. Our age has made us wiser, more cautious, but we remember too clearly the overwhelming need to please our lover, to do whatever he asks, to be whatever he wants, and that feeling is fifty shades of f***ed up, as Christian says.
In How to Read Literature like a Professor, Foster claims that anything in literature can be about sex except sex; sex is always about power. Mr. Grey is asking permission to have power in their relationship, but he is at her mercy. Too many women feel powerless in their relationships. While many abused women stay in their relationship at their peril to help their love through his or her illness, Ana leaves when she feels her happiness is compromised. Despite her love and compassion for Grey, she feels no obligation to him.
This movie is pure fantasy. We wish we could surrender control and still feel perfectly safe.

Tell Him About It

I received a phone call recently.  A friend.  "Can you come get me?"
"Sure. Where are you?"
"Home. I don't feel comfortable."
We had just been out with her and her husband.  They are going through a rough spot, which happens, and had just been dancing together, looking happy together, which also happens.  I have no doubt that he would never hurt or, or of his love for her.  Nevertheless, I picked her up right away.

The next morning, my husband, too tired the night before to realize what happened when we got home, asked about it.  I told him: They started arguing in the car, and when they got home, she felt afraid and called me to pick her up down the road.  I said, "You don't understand what it's like to be a foot smaller than someone who is inebriated and yelling in a booming voice.  Even when you are sure you're safe with someone, it's scary."
He got quiet, and asked in a small, scared voice, "Have I ever made you feel like that?"
"Of course.  Dozens of times."
"But you know I'd never hurt you."
"I know.  But in that moment...it's scary."
That was the end of the conversation. He was quietly more affectionate and gentle than usual that day.  Pensive, seeking forgiveness for something he didn't even know that he'd done.

She and I can't be alone. Couples argue.  We fight.  We choose hard words in the dead of night, after a few drinks.  It happens.  But so does this fear.  Even when we feel safe in a relationship.  Even in a happy marriage.