From Teen to Tramp - Stories of She #3

STORIES OF SHE

#3

From Teen to Tramp

She wakes up startled, with a feeling of nausea. The lingering taste of liquor, mixing with the bile seeping up the back of her throat. Her head heavy, woozy. Her body seemed to move, yet not in the direction of her spinning surroundings. A heavy weight on her chest. Movement. Breathing. Oh fuck. What is happening. Is this a bad dream?

She opens her eyes. The room is dark, yet she can sense a body atop her. The slightest hint of light seeping through a curtain to reveal the silhouette of person directly above her. A strip of light near the floor on the other side of the room, where the door must be. A face mere inches away unidentifiable, as it hovers close to her cheek. She closes her eyes. Her mind, trying to process what’s happening. Where is she? Who is this? Why is this happening? The booze making it that much more difficult to think.

She hears him breathe. She feels his breath against her skin. She smells it. The reek of liquor and stale cigarettes. Her attention quickly moves to the rest of her body. The movement. Not her. It’s him. The faceless silhouette above. The sensation. The dreaded realization. The invasion. She can feel his flesh against hers. The coolness of the room on her exposed extremities. Oh God. No. Stop. No sound from her mouth, but thoughts in her head.

The panic cuts through the haze of intoxication as her mind goes around in circles, faster than the spinning room. She doesn’t know what to do. Does she speak? Does she move? Does she scream? What would he do? Would he hurt her? Who is he? She thinks maybe she should just stay still, try to act as if she’s still asleep, and hope he will stop and go away.

She’s afraid. Her chest tightens with fear and anxiety under the weight of this stranger. She wonders where her friend is? They came to the party together. She must be here somewhere. Where are the rest of her friends? Did they all leave her here alone? They wouldn’t have. She then notices the music and voices outside the door. Mentally, she pleads for her friend to come in and stop this. Her mind o is this? What did she do? Why her? Why won’t someone help her? Help. Please. Make it stop.

She hears his breath get more labored, moaning. She decides the best option is to just pretend she’s a asleep and he’ll leave. With each thrust, a piece of her crumbles. Just get it over with. Hurry up and be gone. The vulgar sounds, then silence. No movement. It’s over. Thank God. She continues to lay still. Waiting. The minutes feel like hours.

She feels his weight shift, then his retreat from her body. The hope that it was just a bad dream gone as the coolness of the room replaces the heat from his body. Stay still. Stay perfectly still. She peeks through partially closed eyes watching. She lays perfectly still. Her shirt and bra crammed upwards almost choking her, if not for her arms still in their sleeves. Her flesh had been splayed open, used, discarded. So exposed. So vulnerable. She desperately wants to cover up but can’t let him to know she’s awake and watching.

The faint glow from streetlights behind the window curtains, creating the outline of his silhouette as he stands. Who is he? She quietly watches as he bends over to collect his clothes, quietly dressing. Her throat tightens with the sound of his jeans zipping up. Anxiety. Nausea. She can’t make out his face, nor tell what color the t-shirt he’s pulling over his head. She tries to identify him, but it’s too dark. Only if there was just a little bit more light.

With that thought she realizes if she could see him, he could see her. If he opens the door, the light in the hallway will allow him to see her, expose her even more so. What if people from the party look in? She must find a way to cover herself. Oh God. No.

Make a move, you can do it. She tells herself. Roll over as if she’s trying to reposition herself like a sleeping person would do. She pretends to partially stretch, then rolls to her side, facing away from the doorway. Bending her leg, providing some cover to her exposed body. She hears him quietly chuckle, then senses him move towards her. Oh God. What is he going to do? She feels a blanket being draped over her body up to her shoulder. She tells herself. Stay perfectly still and he’ll leave.

Finally, she hears the doorknob slowly turn. The light from the hallway gradually lightening the room as he slowly opens the door, enough for him to slip through and close it behind him.

She takes a big breath and lets out a sigh of relief. He’s gone. But who is he? What just happened? Is this real? Please be a dream. But she knows. It’s not.

She waits, for what seems like an eternity, in case he returns. Finally, she sits up, feeling the effects of the booze, still dizzying her a bit. But not like before. Reality helped sober her up. She pulls down her shirt and adjusts her bra to cover her chest. She feels around the bed, then the floor for her clothes. Finding her jeans, she notices Her underwear were still in her pants. She wonders how he got them off without waking her. She wracks her brain to remember what happened. With all her might, she strains to remember.

People playing caps at the kitchen table. The living room with mismatched furniture, filled with people. Her sitting on the floor with her friend, squished against legs of those sitting on the couch. A bottle being passed around. A hazy memory of trying to stand up and someone assisting. Laying down on a soft bed and her friend’s face smiling above her. Muffled voices. The room go black.

She questions herself did she hook up with someone and was so drunk she forgets? But that doesn’t make sense. But no memory of kissing anyone, no memory of even flirting. Her friend wouldn’t have allowed it to happen because she was so hammered. She would’ve stopped it, wouldn’t she? Her thoughts searching for answers. She wonders if this happened because she was passed out? That she was easy bait? God. She heard those things can happen. And was warned that girls shouldn’t get too drunk, and never pass out because these things happen. And if they do, their reputation is ruined. Labeled as easy, a slut, and it was her fault, so she should live with the shame. Oh God. She can hear voices from the party and wonders who knows what just happened? How can she step outside those doors? And where is her friend? She feels so alone. So scared.

While seated on the bed, she puts her right foot in, just like she always does. Then the left foot. Then stands. Like the wetness running down her inner thigh; her worth, her confidence, her naïveté leaves her. She steadies herself against a wall, trying to sober herself and decide on how to face the people at the party. She doesn’t even know who he was. If he’s still out there, what would he do? What would he say? What did he say? The feeling of embarrassment and fear of humiliation washes over her. She needs to find the bathroom. To clean up. To throw up.

She tries to remember the layout of the house. There’s a hallway. Where would the bathroom be? To the left or to the right. Where’s the doorway to the living room? Would they see her leave the room? She comes to a resolve. If she stays longer, there’s more of a chance to be found in there. Inhaling deeply, the air, the courage needed to face what lays outside the doors, she gently turns the doorknob and slowly opens the door.

Cheers to 55

 

Monday, October 7^th was my 55^th birthday.  I awoke feeling a wee bit melancholy.  I longed for my mother and Walter, wishing I could talk to them, to hold them in my arms.  I decided to take flowers to the cemetery and reflect on memories of them, of what has transpired since their passing, Mom in 2005 and Walter in 2019.  Those thoughts helped lift the melancholy and filled my soul with such gratitude for what has transpired over the years.    

When I returned home, I went through the multitude of messages on my social media, in my emails, and through text messages.  Each name I saw, I’d reminisce on moments shared and how they fit into this life of mine - from the past, the present, through acquaintances, or are family.  My heart filled with emotions, such love and appreciation.

There are more years behind me now than there are ahead.  Looking at the years gone by, there's been good.  There’s been bad. There's been happy.  There’s been sad. From the highs to the lows and back. I look at the constants throughout. Family. Friends. Love. Support. Laughter and tears. Welcoming the new, and tearful goodbyes. Watching my children grow up to become such wonderful men. And holding precious grandchildren in my arms.

It may not be a life exciting enough to be worthy of a movie, but damn, I am happy to own my story. Those years not only made me who I am but allowed me to accrue beautiful memories and fill my life with wonderful people.  

I don’t quite know how many chapters I have left, nor what happens in my story.  But what I do know is that between now and the last page, I plan to fill each page with as much vim, vigor and vitality as I can.  

Cheers to 55!

 

SHE - Stories of She #1

She is they.

She is ze.

 She is them.

She is we.

 She is you.

She is me.

 

She is your friend,

Your sister,

your cousin,

 your teacher.

 

She is a stranger.

Your aunt,

your boss,

your preacher.

 

She is many voices

Choked back by tears

of criticism

of humiliation.

 

She can’t even whisper

Silenced from fear.

of rejection

of retaliation.

 

 She is the phoenix

Risen from the flame.

Left in the ashes

Sorrow and shame.

 

 She is the woman

Who no one will tame.

The past behind.

The future she claims.

 

 She is the C.E.O.

in power suit and heels.

She is the grandma

who makes the best meals.

 

She is the celebrity

you would love to meet.

She is the destitute 

living on the street.

 

She is the small child

cowered in fear.

She is the woman

you  see in the mirror. 

 She is they.

She is ze.

 She is them.

She is we.

 She is you.

She is me.

 

Stories of She #4

Stories of She #4

To the bullies

Who joined in on the torment…

...you’re forgiven

...you were just a child.

To the bullies

Who poked, prodded, and hit …

…you’re forgiven

…but understand what you did.

To the bullies

who enjoyed their sorrow and tears…

…you’re forgiven

 

…hope the child healed from the pain.

To the adults

Who knew it was happening….

...it’s your fault

…you could have stopped it.

To the adults

Who didn’t stop the bullying…

…it’s your fault

…your inaction enabled them.

To the adults

Who did nothing…

…it’s your fault

… you should have stopped the abuse.

 To the child

Who was shunned by their peers…

…it’s not your fault

…kids can be mean.

To the child

who was teased, mauled, abused…

...it’s not your fault

...you didn’t deserve it.

To the child

Whose innocence was tarnished…

…it’s not your fault

…don’t let them define you.

 

…dig deep into the rubble of your heart, find your light and shine.

  

The Trunk - Stories of She - #2

Stories of She

#2

The Trunk

In our family “the trunk” is a metaphor for the unspoken.  Be it a wrongdoing, an embarrassment, a taboo, or a secret, it’s best to “just put it in the trunk” where it’s hidden, safe and sound; to be forgotten, never to be spoken of again.  

In my mind’s eye, the trunk is old, like a large steamer trunk that my grandparents would have brought over from the old country.  Held in a cold, stone chamber, this worn wooden box, wearing marks from a long, hard voyage’ sits in the center on the cold, wet floor.  Its rusty metal clasps hold the lid hiding its contents.  Inside, it’s dark, damp, deep.  An ominous vibe oozing from cracks and crevices.  Secrets quietly humming, anxiously waiting to be released. 

The protectors guarding the trunk vary, depending on when one enters the chamber.  Dressed in long dark hooded robes, the elders have inherited the duty to guard the trunk and all it contains.  Should those approaching speak to the guards, they would be urged to leave, to never look back as the past is best left where it lay. 

Those entering the chamber with their burden, head hung low, dragging their bare feet across the cold stone floor must face the guards. With wisdom, compassion, understanding, and little judgement, the heavy lid is lifted just enough to slip the burden inside, and ensuring those inside do not escape.  Although the unspoken is left behind, the bearer carries the weight of guilt, of shame, pushing it deep inside their soul, taking it to their grave.

Noone could ever guess the number of contents inside the old trunk.  Some so deep, hidden for generations, lost to time.  At the changing of the guard, knowledge of some contents may be shared with the new as the old step away.  But more often, what’s known of the contents is taken with them to their grave, absorbed into the earth.

There are many secrets carefully laid deep inside, with the intent to stay within its walls for eternity.  Those are protected by the guards with fortitude. No matter what one came armed with, they would be turned away with warning to never question again.

 On occasion, if approached with the right information; a physical clue, a flicker of a memory sharp enough to carry details; or overheard whisperings as a child; the seeker may be permitted a mere, yet distant, glimpse of one of its contents.  A hypothetical scenario, a flimsy clue to follow, or if extremely lucky, a confirmation.  Enough to satisfy the need to know, and maybe, but not always, just enough to stop any further inquiries. 

Not all secrets are intended to be kept in the trunk indefinitely.  The protectors ensuring the trunk is a safe place until ready to be released.  When the occasion arises, the heavy lid is opened ever so slightly for the unspoken to be carefully removed from its resting place.  The weight of it lifted as it meets the light, allowing it to take shape, fly with the breeze, sharing its message, then dissipate into the atmosphere.    

Through the years, the decades, the generations, the use of the trunk has gradually changed.  As culture, as society, as mindsets have changed, the need for it has lessened. Judgement, ostracism, disdain, progressively replaced by understanding, acceptance, compassion. Another choice emerged, to “kiss it, bless it, and let it go.”  A difficult choice to make at first, but eases with time.  The weight of the burden lifted into the light instead of a heavy heart.  The protectors stand guard of the trunk, as the trunk will always remain.  Although they mourn for those who hadn’t such opportunity; they quietly cheer on the new generations, pleased to see that what was once unspoken, can be. 

Where do I Feel Safe?

 

ONE OF Nine Questions for Journaling and Introspection – Where do I Feel Safe

@vanessaandheriphone

 I was watching a video by Vanessa Laterza on TikTok called Nine Questions where she poses nine questions to inspire journaling and introspection.

Out of the nine questions, one really stood out as a topic to explore.  The question at first seemed simple enough to answer.  But when thinking of the response, I found it was a much more complex question.  One that I needed to dig deep and explore.  The question was “Where do I Feel Safe?”

When I thought of the question, the first thing that came to mind was ‘in Walter’s arms.’  Immediately I felt a knot in my throat and the walls of my chest tighten around my heart, squeezing all the air out of my lungs.  Then followed emotions encircling me like a cyclone. I couldn’t answer “where do I feel safe”.  Thoughts swirled around me, the intensity uprooting questions I needed to explore.

I first tried to think back to moments where I could honestly say that I truly felt safe.  I suppose it was before I learned about life and what kinds of dangers can lurk in the shadows.  Back to when movies monsters and the boogey man under the bed were what nightmares were made of.  If I woke up from a bad dream, I knew I’d be safe with Mom and Dad.  They were only across the hall from my room. 

Like yesterday, I can easily recall those nights.  First, I’d have to gather the courage to crawl out from underneath my blankets, then prepare to make the mad dash from my bed, out the door, across the hall to my parents’ room, and hop up on their bed.  My eyes would scan the dark room, looking for potential danger.  Could there be a monster in that corner, peeking at me through the crack between the closet doors, or would hands reach out from under my bed?  I’d create an escape plan, from where to place my feet on the floor to reduce the chance of being grabbed.  Next, take a few deep breaths, gather up the courage, then make the mad dash, jumping off the bed onto the area rug, then run across the cold hardwood floor out my door, across the hall and scramble all the way up on my parents’ bed, crawling over Mom to snuggle in between them.  I could then breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that I was safe, no monster or boogey man would ever chance stepping near us.

As I grew, my small world grew.  From the perimeters of my neighborhood, to encompass the world beyond my parents’ purview.  Dangers existed beyond the imaginary monsters under my bed. Boogey men were real, not just those which lived in our TV.  From a child growing into adulthood, I learned that danger came in many forms: people, actions, words.  Malice incites fear and insecurity.

Since reading the question “where do I feel safe”, I ‘ve spent considerable time trying to scan through the decades, searching for another moment which conjures a sense of feeling safe.  There may be small snippets throughout the years, but nothing exceptional, nor complete.  Except for my time with Walter.

I remember when Walter and I first met, and how when he first put his arms around me for our first dance.  He gently enveloped me, emanating such a sense of security.  To describe it would be a protective, calming strength.  As our relationship grew, the more we shared not just time together, but thoughts, worries and insecurities.  Trust quickly built – solid, supportive, judgement-free.  The days where I felt weak, vulnerable, spent; I just needed to hear his calming voice, even if only over the phone, I could feel the stress, that pressure in my chest wane as he comforted me.

Through Walter, I learned how to be completely vulnerable.  So freeing.  I could be as silly as I wanted, could bare all, body,  mind, and soul, knowing that he accepted every bit of me without judgement, and with love.  I knew without a doubt that he would always protect me, comfort me, encourage me.  Walter would be there to scare away the monsters;  pick me up if I fell, brush off any negativity and offer his shoulder to lean on so I could carry on.

After his death, there huge void in my chest, the spot he once filled.  My comfort, my security gone with his last breath, leaving me weak, vulnerable.  Over time, as I worked through my grief, step by step, the overwhelming void started to shrink as it gradually filled with memories of him, of us.  With each flip of the page on the calendar, my strength grew, creating a new sense of self.  As months turned to years, I’ve worked to build a solid foundation for myself.  Using Walter’s words, I try to encourage, comfort, and reassure myself.  I use those softer words to be kinder, less judgmental.  

Will I ever feel safe within another’s arms?  I really couldn’t say, as I have no idea what the future holds.  What I do know is that I've developed a desire to experience, to explore.  To accept with grace and enjoy what fate has to offer.    

The emotion and fluster caused by the question “where do I feel safe” has waned with each word I write.  Each sentence brought me closer to my answer.  I am strong. I am brave.  I strive to be true, be vulnerable, yet find the balance to feel safe, secure, and confident in myself.  I can scare away the monsters from under my own bed. 

Where do I feel safe?  The answer is within me. 

April 8, 2024

Memories of Mom and Christmas

I’m not certain why, but this holiday season, I’ve been filled with fervent sentiment and emotions. The intensity grows with each pulse of my heart, and a yearning rises like a tightening in my throat as I go through the motions of Christmas preparation. Memories of loved ones; and images of past Christmases dance in my head, bringing me joy entwined with longing for those who are no longer with us.

I didn’t have opportunity to spend many Christmas mornings with Walter, only one in the eight years we had. He would fly home to Nova Scotia so he could spend the holidays with his mother, children and grandson, Jase. But we did our best to spend it together across the miles. Texts, calls and Skype video calls at 7:00 pm. The one Christmas we spent together ended up being his last, little did we know. We enjoyed the togetherness. I’ll always cherish the memories. Like he and Dad, sitting together, sipping coffee, chatting away like Waldorf and Statler from the Muppets, up in the balcony, watching our antics, shaking their heads and chuckling at us. He’s been gone four years. Some days it feels much longer, yet I can recall a memory which can feel just like yesterday. I’m grateful to have many from the years we had together.

The holiday season always reminds me of my mother. It was her favorite time of the year and she embraced every tradition with a passion. She’s been gone 18 years and I strive to carry on with those traditions. Memories come to my mind with each action. Some connected to the activity at hand, and others just appear. Each lovingly welcomed and savored. I miss her and think of her often. But this year, I’m missing her immensely, so much that I’ve found my eyes well up at times, bringing a moment of melancholy so strong that I have to consciously tell myself to shake it off. Or ‘put some starch in that backbone’, like my Auntie Lil would say. Once recovered from the sense of sadness, I can enjoy my memories of long ago.

Our tree was decorated with colorful ornaments, carefully removed from their box and hung with such precision. Delicate glass bells, silver with green detail. Gold teardrops. Handblown, mercury glass balls, some with starburst insets, others with glitter. Silver tinsel, placed one at a time, ever so delicately. An angel with gold wings and halo sitting atop the tree, guarding what lies underneath. A wreath with gold bells on the front door. Christmas cards hung on the entryway divider bookshelf.

Christmas baking was a beloved ritual with our mom. A stack of Christmas albums, filled with classics by Burl Ives, Judy Garland, Bing Crosby, Julie Andrews; playing on the console stereo in the living room. Ronco presents A Christmas Present laid open atop with the Santa’s Village pop-up proudly displayed. My brother and I peering into the windows of Santa’s workshop, and carefully trying not to touch the reindeer or trees. The aroma of freshly baked treats wafting from the kitchen, practically calling us to come taste. Mom singing along to the music as she stirs the ingredients in her large white Stoneware mixing bowl, and us eager to help - and maybe sneak a taste of cookie dough.

My childhood excitement waking up Christmas morning. I can almost feel my bare feet touching the floor as I rush to the living room with my brother, Michael, to see what Santa put in our stockings. Our smiles visible in the meticulously placed tinsel which draped our tree. Mom and Dad joining us in discovering what lay underneath the colorful wrapping of each gift, one at a time to allow us to savor the moment. The tv in the background playing the cartoons we’d only see on Christmas Day. Davey and Goliath, Christmas Is with Benji and Waldo, The Remarkable Rocket, The Happy Prince. My parents watching us play as they sit and enjoy the morning before family festivities would begin.

The family gathering at Auntie Ida’s home. A kitchen filled with adults, gathered around the table with music playing in the background; and the children playing together in the living room with the Christmas movies on tv. The reflection of the tree lights across the screen. Turkey, cabbage rolls, perogies, and all the fixings for a delicious Christmas meal. Sweet treats, laughter, love. I can close my eyes and see Mom with my aunties Ida and Lil sitting with their cups of Sanka. Laughing and talking, hands gesturing as if they aided in the telling of the stories. A trait which I’ve inherited. Auntie Ida with her painted nails and her elegant hands moving so gracefully with a cigarette – the ash continuing to grow, but never falling off. Auntie Lil’s hearty laugh, coming deep from within. A genuine sound of happiness, contagious and uplifting. Mom, the little sister giggling at their stories, and watching them in admiration. My older cousins, who I looked up to, joining around the table. The next generation. Watching them from the door, their body language, their laughs, so much like their elders.

Cherished as much as my childhood memories, are those of my mom as a grandmother. The mere existence of Jordan and Jared made her world brighter. Her excitement to see their faces Christmas morning equaled theirs. My boys opening their gifts, one at a time, just like we did. Each gift was shown to their grandparents with pride. My dad sitting in his recliner enjoying the entertainment they provided. The kids helping my mom open her presents, sharing the moment together. Cousins Pat and George joining us for dinner, then playing family games. Then we adults would relax and watch the boys play until they gradually tired out. The togetherness of family so treasured.

I know times have changed and so has Christmas for many. Busy lives, stressful and strapped for time or cash. Some shun the commercialism, and some embrace the HGTV Christmas decoration trends of the year. I’m fortunate to look back on Christmases long ago with such wonderful memories, and tried to create ones for my children, with help and guidance from my mom. She taught me to shift the focus from fret to festivity. She showed me that it wasn’t about spending ungodly amounts of money on the newest trends or copious amounts of presents. It was about simple traditions, togetherness, and love. And I will continue to carry those values and traditions forward with love and gratitude in my heart.

Thanks Mom. I love you forever.