The Hardest Thing I've Ever Done

SOTD: "Karma Police" - Radiohead https://youtu.be/IBH97ma9YiI

"For a minute there, I lost myself. I lost myself". 

Most people think they know me. At least that's how I see it. But the truth is, I'm not sure anyone knows the real me. There is an expectation of me that I generally live up to, but it's nowhere near the actual person inside, the person I've spent most of my life hiding away. 

Sure, you know that I'm a liberal democrat, my mother is the greatest thing I've ever known and most of my friends know that I've confronted breast cancer at least once (although the truth is, the count is now at three). What I don't tell anyone is that as a child I was verbally and physically abused by the men in my life, I've never met my biological father and I was date raped during my first month of college. It would be an understatement to say I have trust and commitment issues. 

Some might say I should keep those things to myself. To them I say I have tried that and it didn't work very well. Others might ask why I'm telling the world now. To them, I don't have a specific reason, only that I'm aware of things around me and over the last year or so I've encountered people who share some of my experiences and others fighting different demons and somehow we've found a certain comfort in sharing our stories. I consider this a safe place and can't think of a better way to share these stories. So I'll start at the beginning...

I'm told that my mother found out she was pregnant after her first time with my dad. I've never really believed that to be the whole truth, but I did believe that she wanted to have me and his family did not. They didn't want me to ruin his life and all the things he had planned for his future. They asked her to abort me. She refused and he went his way, while she went hers. The unplanned pregnancy caused my papaw to cut her off. He was ashamed and disappointed. Luckily, the story goes on and when she brought me to see him as an infant, wrapped in a pretty pink blanket, he completely melted and fell in love at first sight. Without many words they moved on to a better relationship. Unfortunately, my papaw lived in Tuscaloosa and we lived in a suburb outside of Atlanta. I would spend a few weeks every summer with his mother, my great-grandmother, Mama Bea, and he would occasionally take me fishing or try to teach me how to make homemade ice cream on the covered patio of Mama Bea's cute little yellow house, but he was a man of few words. My fondest (or at least most vivid) memory from childhood with him is a story I've told more than a few times. It involves a Fisher Price doctor's kit and a promise from a 6 year old me to never become a lawyer - he was always afraid I would put away a bad guy who would later get out of jail and want to hurt me. I was maybe six years old and desperate to make him happy; of course I promised! Later I would learn I was not built with a stomach for medicine and anyone who knows me will tell you I should have broken that promise because I would've made a damn good lawyer!! Alas, I am nothing if not a woman of my word. 

Not long after the promise, my mother remarried for a second time (her first husband, was my brother's father). My step dad was a man named Tommy. He worked with my mom & had a daughter almost exactly a year younger than me, but she lived with her mother and not long after Tommy married my mom, his ex remarried and his daughter, Kristen moved to Aurora, Colorado. She would mostly visit during summer break and sometimes over holidays. My mom & Tommy were together for about eight years. During that time, they built a house and we moved out to the 'country.' When I was younger, my body was pretty awkward. I was taller than most kids in my class and I was pretty skinny. A lot like my brother except he is still just tall and skinny and I have struggled with my weight since I hit puberty. 

This would probably be a good time to mention Tommy and his daughter were both shorter and carried a little more weight; although I never realized that, in this context at least, until now. My mom was a thin woman. In fact it often surprised me that she could work as hard as the men around her given she had very little meat on her bones. Maybe she felt like this was something she had to be in control of - maybe she passed that on to me. When I was about 10 or 11 years old, Tommy commented on my thighs. He suggested I be careful what I ate, concerned that I was developing cellulite. I don't think my mom heard it, I would like to think if she did she would have stood up for me, but I would begin a lifelong struggle with eating disorders that would eventually lead to the one blemish on my perminent record when I was caught with diet pills at school in the 7th grade. That was in 1994 and my punishment at the time was a paddling by the school principal. My struggle with body image and weight would continue long after this incident, although no one really ever talked about it, at least not in front of me. 

My mom and Tommy were divorced in the early 1990's. It's a blur for me, I didn't even know the reason why until I was in college. Turns out, Tommy was having an affair and asked my mother for a divorce so he could marry his mistress - a woman named Donna who had two kids, a girl and a boy, close to my age. During the divorce I missed a lot of school and I went from being in the gifted program for talented children, to nearly repeating the sixth grade. But my mother moved us to a small rural town in Tennessee called Crossville. My grandmother had remarried a few years earlier and she and her new husband found Crossville on their honeymoon. They didn't just find a new town, they bought a farm and left their lives in Atlanta to raise horses and build their dream home in Tennessee. When we moved to live with them in January of 1993 they had converted half of an old barn into a house and my bed was in the loft above the kitchen. I started school on Martin Luther King day, which I had always known as a holiday in Atlanta, but in my new small town was not even recognized. Culture shock was a mild explanation of the changes I would experience that year. Luckily, because my classes in Atlanta were more advanced, I was able to finish the 6th grade without repeating the year. My brother wasn't as lucky, he had to repeat the second grade. It took me a while to find people who wanted to be friends with an outsider like me, but eventually I did find my people and I'm especially grateful for one of the best friends I've ever had (Ashley) and our friendship which continues to this day. She was one of only a few people who ever visited the farm and got to know my family. There were two others, Rachel and Jessica, friends from church who would come over on Sunday afternoon to ride horses from time to time and my first boyfriend, Jeff, who visited once and after being chastised with the nickname 'washboy', because he was constantly washing his hands, never came back again. In his defense, it was a farm. I washed my hands a lot, too. Also, we were barely 12 years old. 

It just struck me that I had far more visitors at the farm than I ever wanted. I was ashamed of it; the barn, my family, the whole situation. At least that's what I told myself. I think more than anything, I was embarrassed that my life was more than a little messy. Another thing about the farm is that it was nearly 30 miles from town. Or maybe 30 minutes. Either way, it was pretty far. Adding to my frustration was the blizzard that kept us snowed in for three sold weeks. If we didn't have farm animals providing eggs and milk, I'm not sure I would've survived. Our family dog, Tobey, who had been with us since the country house in Georgia, did not survive the blizzard. 

We lived with my grandmother and her new husband until right before I started high school. Things were not always great. Eventually, my mother had to move us out because she could not stand how 'Pop' was treating my brother. I won't say that my brother didn't deserve some punishment for the things he did, but he never deserved to be abused the way he was by Pop. I know, because he used to hurt me too. The first time I saw him lose control was before my grandmother married him when they lived together in Georgia. He had this little black pick up truck, a 5-speed, which was usually parked outside their house, on top of a hill. One day I thought it would be fun to pretend I was driving and not knowing at the age of eight that shifting the gears would cause the truck to roll, that's exactly what I did. Scared to death as the truck rolled down the hill to eventually crash in the ditch, when everything stopped I thought the worst was over. Little did I know it was only the beginning. In a matter of seconds, he had pulled the truck out of the ditch and back up the hill to park (this time with the emergency brake) right outside the house. The house that I was suddenly being dragged inside. He screamed and yelled and yanked me by the arm from room to room before grabbing a wooden broomstick and swinging it at me in the dining room. Luckily, at least for me, he hit the glass table instead. I had never seen anyone so angry. I was more than terrified and that was only the beginning. He would explode like this over the tiniest thing. I wish I could say I only experienced it a couple of times, but it happened at least a couple of times a year. My freshman/sophomore year of high school, my mom remarried again, briefly, and I didn't like her husband, so I lived with my grandparents. Unfortunately, without my mother there things were even worse than I remembered and aside from being thrown around the house and beaten until I was black and blue, it was during this time that Pop began telling me I would never be loved. "I would never find anyone who could possibly love me". I was barely 15 years old, I don't know why, but I believed him. Worse than that, most days I still do. My grandmother and I had once been incredibly close. But at her wedding, standing in a hideous teal green flower girl dress, as she said her vows, I said, under my breath, "Things will never be the same again". I don't know if I made that my truth or if I was simply that perceptive at 9 years old, but it was true. Things were never the same after that. As if the physical and verbal abuse weren't enough, he also teased me about my body and would grab my boobs and my butt and then laugh about it. I would cringe and my grandmother would do what she always did, pretend nothing had happened. When I finally moved back to live with my mom, I had to see a social worker who asked me to tell her everything. I did, just as I did here and they launched an investigation. In the end I was told it was his word against mine and nothing else happened. I would go to their house for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners with my whole family, but after I went to college, his daughter's ex-husband set the barn on fire one night, burning all of my childhood photos and memories along with many of their belongings and not long after they moved to Texas. I would only see him one more time (my college graduation) before he died from a very advanced lung cancer. When my family went to Texas for his funeral, I went to New Orleans to help rebuild the home of a hurricane Katrina survivor. I don't regret my choice at all. My grandmother, however, still doesn't understand why I have a difficult time expressing my love for her. It's not that I don't love her, because I do, I just know I will never get the apology I want. And sometimes I take that out on her by being a little bitchy. 

To say I was a little awkward in high school would be inaccurate. I was completely insecure and between trying to seem normal and also keep my troubles at home a secret, I'm actually surprised I managed to come out with the few achievements I did. I kept a scrapbook from senior year which holds, among other things, a note I found on my car one afternoon. It was from a secret admirer. At the time, I thought someone was making fun of me. It would be ten years later at my reunion that I would learn the truth, it was real. Not only that, but guys were afraid to ask me out because I intimidated them. I dated only a couple of guys in HS, and none of them seriously, thinking it was true, what Pop had said, no one ever wanted me. Learning the truth at 28 was a particularly troubling thing. On one hand I'm hearing the opposite of a horrible truth I had accepted, but at the same time I realize accepting that truth has molded layers of insecurity that I'm not sure I can just peel away. 

When I went away to UT for college, there was a bit of relief. It was a chance to start fresh and at first it seemed that anything was possible. My first week I went through sorority rush and pledged ZTA. I made lots of friends right away and things really did seem pretty good. Back then, in 1999, our homecoming game was right after school began. My sorority had a mixer with the fraternity that we had paired with for homecoming that year. It was the third week of school. I drank more than I should have and ended up in one of the bedrooms with a guy I had only met that night. He made me another drink and the last thing I remember was hearing "Back That Azz Up" blasting from a stereo in his room. I woke up laying on his couch without my pants. In faded moments of hazy memory I remember him climbing on top of me. That would be the story of how I lost my virginity. As I left the frat house that night, one of the older sisters drove me to my dorm and could see I wasn't myself. I shared some of what had happened with her and then she said, "That type of thing happens all the time."  She suggested I just move on and act like nothing had happened. I couldn't get out of her car quick enough. By the time I reached my suite on the 6th floor of South Carrick I was throwing up. My suite-mate came out to check on me and knew I wasn't just sick from drinking too much. I told her what happened and suddenly this massive life event became a topic that I would have to discuss with our RA, the Hall Director and eventually, the Dean of Students. It was in a meeting with the Dean that I was urged to seek criminal/legal action. I declined. I had learned following the incident that the guy wasn't even a student at UT anymore. He was living in Atlanta and had only returned to celebrate homecoming week with his brothers. Also, a few of my new friends had met guys that week, some of which are now married with children. I felt I could handle it myself and perhaps my older sister was right, I should just move on. Except I couldn't. I certainly tried. But I begin to fall into a depression that I didn't even realize was controlling every part of my life until nearly a year later. I waited more than 5 years to tell my mom and even then I didn't call it rape. All the insecurities of my youth were exponentially worsened by the events of my third week of college. And even today, I can't imagine ever feeling whole. I pray for wholeness, but my prayers don't seem to be enough. 

Have there been times I thought maybe everything would be better if I weren't here - Absolutely. Have I ever tried to make that happen - Never. It is my hope that by sharing these stories I might help someone else feel less alone and perhaps might find some form of healing for myself. I can't imagine a time when I don't struggle with issues of trust and acceptance, but I'm working on it. And the last thing I would ever want is for anyone to feel sorry for me. Was my childhood difficult - Yeah. Have these challenges effected who I am today - Probably. Do I think I should be defined by my past - Absolutely Not. If you must link my past with who I am today, I hope you will remember the many other things you know about me and the good times we have shared. I don't think about the bad things at all, if I can avoid it. I certainly don't expect you to carry my baggage any farther than this post. 

In the end, I'm still me. That's all there is and with any luck, that's enough.