She Saw “ME” and melted my defenses ….

When I’m afraid I typically appear that I am angry. Not so much now, but certainly up until my early 40’s. I can’t say I fully understand how that translates from my childhood, but it’s a coping mechanism that I was first busted on by a late and precious girlfriend I had.
I hadn’t been in America too terribly long, I don’t even fully recall what the event was that triggered my fear, my sense of security felt threatened, and she was there with me when it happened. I started speaking out loud, protesting and arguing against whatever the incident was. I remember my heart was pounding and I was fearful of being able to stay in America. My mind was racing and in turn my body responded by getting busy. I went into the kitchen and started washing the dishes. I was talking incessantly (always an outward sign that I am feeling fear) and she came up behind me and put her arms around me and rested her head on my shoulder. At first it irritated me; I wanted to push her away. I felt my insides squirming, wanting to wrestle away from the warmth of her comforting arms. My eyes stayed focused on the soapy bubbles in the sink, I was physically uncomfortable. I felt restrained, not so much by her arms, but more her tenderness. What was I to do with gentleness? How do I embrace such a stranger to my soul? Why isn’t she responding to me with angry words and demands to calm down? Rather she started to cry and asked, “what are you so afraid of?” Those were the first words in so many years that were able to penetrate my solid steel defenses. She saw “ME.” She wasn’t afraid of, or turned off by my apparent anger, rather she moved herself toward me with tender arms and soft-spoken words. I clearly and emotionally recall how that felt to my twenty-something year old self. I remember how my body came to rest, how my heart stopped pounding, how my chest eased from its tightened stance. I felt “seen” and I started to cry. The relief was immense, the freedom to drop my guard and to feel safe with a human being was unrecognizable to me, I’m still unable to articulate those feelings and a place inside me still longs for how that felt.

Repeating myself …. sort of …. allowing for comments

A friend asked today, “do you have a blog?” I responded that I didn’t and she encouraged me to start one…

Today’s conversation was food for my soul. It wasn’t deep and heavy, it was rich and real! It was a two-step, two-person kind of conversation; both people offering and sharing with an openness on both parts. I crave that and sadly my regular daily life doesn’t afford me that luxury, so maybe I can create it here…

So why Faces On The Wall? Well, while most kids I knew were out playing football, jumping skipping ropes, playing elastics, hide-and-seek, tag-your-it, wrapped up in the joy and laughter of their sweet youthful innocence, free, simple and unknowing; I was hanging over the top of the cellar steps, being penetrated from behind by my father, facing darkness, inhaling the damp aroma of a white-washed coal cellar, the black coals before me, but black cannot be seen in the dark.
Sometimes it would happen when my friends were in the living room, my dad and I in the kitchen (behind a closed-door) under the guise of making them a cup of tea. Behind the closed-door, I would be guided to the top step of the cellar steps, the light always kept off, he would slather his dick with Vaseline, pull my pants down or my skirt up, and force himself into me, his hanky in his hand to catch his sperm. It took all of two or three minutes. He had it down to an art. I on the other hand was numb. No words were ever spoken, just a finger to his lips, signaling me to be quiet. We’d finish making the tea for my friends and walk back into the living room like nothing had happened. Was he ever afraid that he would be caught? Was the thrill of being caught a thrill for him? Did my friends ever wonder why we closed the kitchen door just to make tea? Did they believe him when he said, ‘we’ll close the door to keep the draught out?” Did they ever see the shame in my eyes? The split that took place – being fucked by my father on the cellar steps – walking back into the living room like nothing had happened. How did I hide that? How could no-one see me? I am still the same today, unseen and un-showing!

First time blogging …

As a novice I’m floundering here in the dark … kind of the same darkness when I hung over the cellar steps. I don’t like to be caught off-guard, just as I don’t like not to understand, even a small thing like this blog page; not understanding it causes anxiety. I have little patience for myself and oftentimes too much patience for others. Its how we are sometimes, those of us who endure unimaginable things. We are tolerant of things that we shouldn’t be, and intolerant of things that we should be. Ambivalence runs rampant at times!