There’s a partially stuffed reindeer on the floor of my
living room that is getting more action than I am.
For half an hour on Thursday I had to listen to my
boyfriend’s Shih Tzu huff & pant as he humped away at the fuzzy toy that
proved just her size. I admit, initially
I tried to stop him, but my yelling upset my own dog so much that she turned
the bestial nuptials into a threesome by proceeding to hump the Shih Tzu.
Sign.
My “person” (my grandma told me I am too old now to describe
a man as my boyfriend) and I have had sex once this week, and it was quite an
effort to get to that point, let me tell you.
Lots of Dowton Abbey episodes, and surprise flowers, and cooked dinners
and prosecco and the-woman-he-texted-on-New-Year’s-Eve-is-just-an-old-friend-and-I-need-to-relax-and-trust-his-love
conversations to get me in the mood.
Yes, this time around it’s my fault.
I’m the one who doesn’t want to have sex. But at least I have a good
reason.
I was sexually abused as a child.
That’s the first time I’ve ever written those words.
About six months ago the stars began aligning, calling me to
examine some nuggets of truth, nuggets of darkness that needed the light. I began a special type of therapy at the
suggestion of my counselor, and soon I was off… down the metaphorical dark corridors
into surprisingly well lit, if unsupervised, areas: backyards, basements,
bedrooms, and sidewalks. Playmates and
predators alike disrupted my imaginary games, walks home from school and summer
fun. Some of these stories I remember,
and rationalized and wrote off a long time ago.
But some I had forgotten.
It’s no wonder I hated wearing dresses, staying home alone,
and eating mac n cheese.
I know, that last one doesn’t make any sense; just trust me.
However, a few months after the start of the new therapy, my
counselor called a halt. It was too
intense and too traumatic. Like many
stressful situations, there is a good reason they were repressed, and now, half
exposed, we needed to stop the peep show.
Maybe I’m too flippant with my metaphors, but looking into
your past, into the experiences of a three year old who doesn’t have words can
be like trying to see through a piece of paper with one little pin prick in it
and expecting it to open as a window to the other side. Even now, six months later, the story is not
easily written.
I sat down to write about Christmas and New Year’s and
parties and funny anecdotes, but as I passed that poor partially stuff reindeer
on the floor, this story began to unfold.
It’s my defense. No longer hidden
in my strained muscles from whence all our initial defenses come, it is now my
verbal defense, my articulation of why I don’t hold men in high esteem, why I
might have a slight commitment problem, why there’s a stocking hanging on my
parents’ fireplace with the letters BFOTY (for my Boyfriend of the Year), or
why I can’t seem to have sex any more even though I used to really like it.
This story is my apologetic for why I believe men are
an inferior gender… Chapter One: I was sexually abused as a kid. The End.
Oh, God, I hope not.
