AND THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE...

     Exploring my sexual identity during puberty was as easy as swimming laps in a pool full of Jell-O. My stepdad moved back into our family home when I was 14 years old. I had just met the love of my life the year prior in eighth-grade social studies and I was excited for the adventure of high school. My best friend at the time, Kat was intent on hooking me up with my beloved. She got her chance one afternoon in Spanish class and sent Anthony a note asking if he thought I was pretty. She instructed him to check yes or no. My heart raced as we waited for the note to come back up the three rows in between us. When it did, with the “yes” option checked and a smiley face next to it, my heart leaped into my throat. This little fun fantasy just became real life, and I wasn’t ready for that. Boys were scary, evil, and gross, right?  

As the days went on, I burrowed deep into fantasy land as much as I could. I covered my bedroom walls with every photo insert from every teen magazine I could get my hands on. Name a ’90s heartthrob and I can almost guarantee you his face was scotch taped to my wall. I even had a rotating monthly feature wall with a calendar featuring the Tiger Beat hottie of the month. Whether he was my dreamboat or not, it didn’t matter. I was dedicated to fantasy. It gave me something to focus on and it made my parents annoyed beyond measure.

Inwardly, I was questioning my sexuality. Did my fear and disgust of boys and men mean that I was a lesbian? Should I be looking at breasts and trying to kiss girls? Or, should I keep plastering cute boys on my wall? I was beyond confused. At the time, Clea Duvall was an out lesbian who was appearing in nearly every show or movie I was interested in. She was stunning. I remember thinking “Should I be attracted to her? Is this how I’m supposed to dress?” I played with the options for a while, but it just never felt quite right. Females never held my interest for too long. Meanwhile, there was still Lance Bass (who wasn’t out yet!) and Tom Cruise (who hadn’t publicly lost it yet), and Freddie Prinze Jr who, let’s face it – was not that great of an actor, but had a million-dollar smile that could make me weak in the knees. And Anthony who was by far the sweetest, kindest boy I had ever met. Never mind that he was also the broodiest damn teenager I have ever met.

The closer Anthony and I became, the more afraid I became of my sexuality. It was becoming clearer to me that as his girlfriend, we were expected to do more than hold hands. The pressure felt overwhelming. I wasn’t ready for that, but I didn’t know how to voice it. By the time I figured out how afraid I was of moving forward, I stumbled through my first awkward, heartbreaking breakup. I lied and said my parents didn’t approve of him. The truth is that they loved him as much as I did. He was kind, respectful, and thoughtful and he accepted my severely handicapped sister, holding her hand in public when she reached for it. She loved him, too. Anthony was always “the one” but he came before I knew what that meant – before I was ready to have the kind of conversations that people dating needed to have. So, instead of kissing him, I pretended I hated him. I broke both our hearts that day. I never once found anyone else who captivated me the way he did.

The lies coming from the LGBTQ community continued to hold my attention from about the age of 17 until I was in my early twenties. I explored my sexuality once more, in-depth at age 21 with a very out, very loud lesbian activist name Jammie. She was everything I had hoped to be. She was a mother, a homeowner, loud and unashamed of who she was. She lived life on her terms and was unapologetic about it. At the time, I thought I was absolutely in love with her. But it was not meant to be, and we both went on to marry other people. I sometimes wish I could erase that part of my history, but I think I will always be grateful to Jammie for allowing me to be a part of her life and figure things out for myself. We broke each other’s hearts when we parted ways, but I know now that it was never meant to be. She was not part of God’s plan for my life, and I was never going to be who she needed me to become.

Three weeks after the implosion of Jammie and me, Byron came into my life. He was everything I thought I ever wanted. He was an older man, a smooth talker, successful in his line of business, and best of all, he lived two states away. We became very close online and over the telephone. He respected my boundaries (at first) and made me laugh harder than anyone else had ever been able to. Our life goals were totally in line with each other’s (or so I thought). Our budding romance was like something out of a fairytale to my young mind. His entire family adored me, and I, them. Then, I began sharing some of our private conversations with a friend of mine and Shelly pulled my head out of my…*ahem*…behind and assertively explained all the red flags to my naïve self. When I began questioning Byron on all these issues, everything began to unravel to the point where he began asking my opinions on other women – younger than me. Mind you, he was 9 years older than me, and I was 21 years old. But, oh my gosh…was he like a drug to me at the time. You see where this is going, right? He’s now three times divorced, has had open heart surgery, and lived with ex-wife number three before marrying wife number four. She doesn’t look much older than me.

Right before the end of it all with Byron, I was perusing Myspace with my friend, Shelly and we were sharing photos of all our old schoolmates when suddenly we came upon Anthony’s profile. My heart stopped and I gasped audibly. Shelly caught on quickly and slyly asked “And who is this?” I could barely breathe. He had filled out so nicely and was at least a thousand times more handsome than I remembered him to be. “Tony,” I said breathlessly. “It’s my high school boyfriend, Tony.” And just as quickly as I found his profile, I tried to click away, but Shelly wouldn’t let me. She wanted details and she wanted them now. God bless Shelly. She was Kat 2.0 and wasn’t going to drop this. I spent the next twenty to thirty minutes explaining who he was, so she didn’t ask again. I figured that was the best way to handle this situation. Shelly sat there patiently, with a smile on her face that was growing wider by the minute. She clicked the button to send him a private message and commanded me to “type”. Type what? It had been five years since we’d seen each other. Surely a man this gorgeous had other prospects. “Type,” she commanded again. “Ask him to dinner.” Two weeks later, we went on our first date in five years. Eight days later, we were engaged. Two months following that, we were married.

I have shared with you already that our earliest days of marriage weren’t all sweet and perfect. There were hard times, especially during sex. It was confusing for me to be so attracted to a man and yet so put off by the act of sex. Was it dirty? Was it okay to enjoy it? How should I enjoy it? What are the rules? Fortunately, in time, we were able to have hard conversations, couples therapy, and pastoral counseling. We figured it out. Together. He has always been “the one” and though the intimate moments of our life together haven’t always been sunshine and roses, they have all been ours to stumble through, together.  There has never been a person who has captivated my heart more than he. I thank God for Anthony every day.

I belong to my beloved, and his desire is for me. – Song of Solomon 7:10

In 1999, our Sophomore year of High School

On our wedding day, 2006

September 2007 with our first child

Us circa 2010, as I was visiting him on the ship during a duty day

Renewal of vows in 2021, on our 15th wedding anniversary

My beloved on a date night this summer, 2022

     Love is a beautiful, scary, crazy roller coaster. It is made harder by recovering from past abuse and deceit, but it is always worth the effort. You are always worthy of love and no one has the right to lie to you and tell you otherwise. There is an "Anthony" out there for everyone. Trust in God to bring your lover to you, in His (God's) time. 

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found 

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

 

BODY TRIGGERS

     I was standing in the middle of the department store, holding on to too many items when the urge to pee hit. The store was packed with shoppers and my mom was nowhere to be found. I hadn’t grabbed a cart and I suddenly wasn’t sure where anyone I knew was. The more I walked around looking for a familiar face, the more panicked I became. I felt claustrophobic. My heart started beating faster, I couldn’t breathe properly, and I began to hyperventilate. No one around me noticed anything was wrong and I felt alone, abandoned, and terrified. My mind began playing tricks on me and suddenly I was mentally transported back to my parent’s living room, seven years earlier, sitting on my stepdad’s lap being sexually assaulted while watching Mickey on Ice on the television. I collapsed to the ground and peed my pants in the local Fred Meyer store. Everything I’d been holding in my hands fell to the ground, scattering around me. Suddenly, I was alone. At least on that aisle. Only the security cameras caught that incident. I picked myself up, made sure the pee didn’t show (thank you ugly skorts of the 90s!), and kept walking around the store until I found my mom. I lied and said yes when she asked if I was okay. What else was I supposed to say? I couldn’t explain what just happened, especially not in public.

Fear of using the bathroom in public still plagues me. Until I had kids, I couldn’t use the bathroom in my own home for the longest time without intense fear. When I was very young, I would make the family dog go into the bathroom with me to guard me. Sometimes I would open the drawers in the bathroom to block the door from being opened because I was so afraid that my stepdad would come in and assault me while my pants were down. This is not an irrational fear, as he used to come in and watch my siblings and me take a bath all the time. He would always make inappropriate comments and stare at us for way too long. On those nights, I knew I would need to bury myself deep under the covers in bed or he would be making a visit to my room, too.

Hiding my body at all times became a chore for me, but it was also a necessity. If he didn’t see me naked, he wouldn’t think about me naked, right? And then, I’d be safe. This thought process consumed me, even into my adult years. I wore the baggiest clothes I could, dressed as masculine as I could, and tried to avoid even appearing attractive in his eyes. I was like a mouse, trying to navigate the farmhouse without the farmer noticing, but it was unavoidable that he would notice me. And the abuse continued.

The flashbacks continue to this day, though they are not as frequent. Someone asked me once what my triggers are. I started naming them and couldn’t stop. There are many. My brain rewired itself during the many years of trauma. That’s what happens when adults abuse kids from infancy to puberty. I am not “normal”, and I never will be. I’ve been through over 20 years of therapy, and I still find myself needing reminders to “just breathe” through a random panic attack.

My last trigger was needing to use the restroom while waiting for my son’s school bus which was over 20 minutes late in picking him up for school. I had multiple flashbacks to the times when my mom would forget about me somewhere and I would be forlornly waiting for her to pick me up. I had another flashback to that incident in the local Fred Meyer. And another, where I was about seven years old, getting ready for school and my stepdad grabbed my breasts in the hallway while no one was looking. It all came to mind so fast and there was nothing I could do about it except just work through it. To the outside world, I was upset about the bussing system. Internally, I couldn’t figure out the decade, the current location, or whether I was safe. My mind was a tornado of thoughts – the greatest of those was “make sure my son is safe.” But I didn’t know how to do that. I wasn’t in control of the bus. Fortunately, my husband was able to step in and make sure he got to school safely. Then, he sat with me and calmed me down. That wasn’t the first time, and it surely won’t be the last. My husband is a saint. I have no idea how he puts up with me.

Control is a very big issue for me, seeing as how I had so little of it growing up. There was never a safe place for me, except for Sunday mornings when my grandma would take me to church. That was always my favorite place to be. Jesus is there and all the people are nice. When you’re a cute little kid, they’re even nicer and more accommodating. They hold the heavy hymnals for you, smile at you when you finally become brave enough to sing, and look out for you to make sure that no one messes with you while you figure out the faith stuff. I will always be grateful to the handful of men and women who kept me safe and protected every Sunday morning during my formative years. They were the ones who truly loved me and gave me a safe place to be. Plus, it was never scary to use the bathroom at church. The bathroom door had a lock, was single use and I could use it alone for as long as I needed to. There was no rushing, no fear. Until the church was over and it was time to go home again.

View from the choir loft. My first church.

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found 

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

 

I HATE VICTORIA'S SECRET

    Ever since I can remember, I have been obsessed with the beauty of underwear and swimsuit models. How do they get such a flat tummy? Why are their boobs contained to just the front of their bodies, and not the sides, too? Why don’t their thighs rub together? Why wasn’t my butt ever as cute and pert as theirs? Granted, I was about five years old when I first remember thinking that, but that thought has always dominated my brain space. Why can’t I look like the models in the magazines? And if I did, would I be as happy as they are? The thought of obtaining that same body type both delighted and terrified me. After all, those bodies are what men want to touch, right? Those are the women who have sex for fun because they want to. Not because someone else told them at seven years old that they had to. Right?

                I learned early on from listening to my male cousins, my stepdad, and his drunken friends that “fat chicks” were not what men wanted to touch. Did that mean that if I got really fat, men would stop touching me without my consent? I’ve spent over 30 years testing that theory, and I can tell you honestly that it doesn’t work that way. Some men are just absolute pigs and they will touch anything that breathes, whether he/she/they can give consent or not. I sure wish I had learned this lesson sooner. Being fat is physically and mentally painful.

                Throughout my school years, I was teased mercilessly for my weight. When I went home, I was abused simply because I was there. I escaped a lot into fantasy worlds – namely Hollywood drama. Who was dating who? Which popstar was at the top of the charts this week? Who had the biggest house, fastest car, and deepest secrets? I ate it up almost as fast as the rag mags hit the newsstands. MTV was my best friend, and don’t even get me started on the amazing teenage rom-coms that the 90s had to offer us. I was convinced that if Lance Bass wouldn’t marry me, Freddie Prinze Jr surely would. After all, he killed it as Zack Siler in She’s All That.

                So many of my peers were also insecure about their weight, height, and looks. I see it now, as I look back over many interactions in the hallway, classrooms, and the girls’ locker room. I wasn’t the only girl who changed for Phys Ed in the bathroom stall. I wasn’t the only girl convinced that the newest shade of blue eye shadow and a sparkly scrunchy would solve all my problems and get “that guy” to notice me in between classes. We were all in an awkward stage of uncertainty. Some of us had deeper traumas behind it all, and some of us were merely coming into our own at the absolute strangest point in our lives. Puberty.

                Magazines geared towards the female gender have always had a way of making us feel more insecure about ourselves three pages in. Right there, past the table of contents is always this gorgeous-looking woman with zero flaws (because photoshop exists) and she has the biggest, loveliest, most uninhibited smile on her face. This woman has it made. At least, that’s what we’re meant to believe. If we buy whatever product she is representing, we too will have it made. As we peruse the magazine, we read about women and girls who have found the secret to remaining beautiful and confident all day long. Usually, it involves an expensive brand of mascara, a colorful brand of shoes, or a Wonderbra that perks up our tits enough to grab and hold the attention of the opposite sex. There it is again. Sexualizing our bodies to garner attention. It starts so early, doesn’t it? I was twelve years old when my Mom brought me my first issue of Seventeen magazine. She said that she hoped it would help me to figure some things out. Yep, it sure did. I spent the next twenty-seven years chasing unobtainable beauty standards and beating myself up whenever it didn’t work out for me.

                Sex is not the end-all-be-all I thought it would be. Sure, it is wonderful. With my husband. It’s traumatizing when I’m under the tender age of ten and being told to just be quiet because it will all be over soon. No amount of makeup will ever make a man love me more – or less. No amount of fat will ever protect me from sexual predators. No magazine geared towards women ever features even one woman who has her life all together all the time. That kind of woman doesn’t exist.

We are all human, we all have our flaws, and we’re all balancing life as it comes at us each day. Some days, we look like we have it all together, and we may even fool ourselves into thinking we do. But then…a bad day happens and we feel down on ourselves. We feel like failures. That couldn’t be further from the truth! We are amazing simply because we are. Those who seek to hurt us in any way do so because they are hurting inside and aren’t strong enough to ask for help. They’re the weak ones. They’re the problem. Maybe we should start putting them in charge of paying for our therapy as we work through all our issues and come to terms with the fact that we are amazing just as we are and no one has the right to touch us or hurt us. EVER.

A portion of my poetry from June 2005.
Read it as many times as you need to
until it sinks in. YOU ARE LOVED!

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found 

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.