tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85019945065991274192024-03-05T09:47:59.975-04:00Chimera One LifeMy life and the chatter in my head. I take you with me as I travel through the sane, the insane, the logical and the emotional aspects of my soul. Sometimes it is funny, sometimes painful, sometimes dark and troubling. It is introspective and honest. I've been told I am not normal and I'm pretty sure that many people can't be all wrong.Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.comBlogger106125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-20321770597245875692018-05-14T04:05:00.003-04:002018-05-14T04:05:33.187-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="_4yxo" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><i><b><u>Mother's Day</u></b></i></span></div>
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I have mother issues. Is there a daughter who doesn't? I am also a mother, <br />
so I guess that means my daughters have issues with their mother. <br />
Throughout history, mothers have both been revered and the cause for anything that goes wrong in the universe. Tomorrow is Mother's Day, <br />
the day of the year set aside to honor mothers. It is also one of the most stressful days of the year for many women. I know I'm stressed.</div>
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I have spent every available minute of the last week in bed sleeping. I love to sleep! It's my favorite thing to do when I want to avoid something I don't <br />
want to face, and I don't want to face Mother's Day. It's depressing to me. I listen to all my friends talk about their mothers with such love and I wish I <br />
had that. At heart, I am still a little girl who wants her mommy, but my mommy is never coming. My mother is still alive, I think. I really struggle <br />
with all the emotions I have tied to her, most of which I don't understand. <br />
I'm angry with her. I'm sad for her. She is a human being, and I suppose she did the best she could.....but I don't believe she did do the best she could.</div>
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I try to be understanding of her. After all, I am a mother myself and as far as mistakes go, I have made some big ones. My mother was the eldest child <br />
born into an alcoholic, blue collar country family. She has two younger brothers. I know very little of her life except the bits and pieces I have <br />
gathered over the years, so I have little to help me to understand her. Her mother died when she was around 12. I have heard two versions of how she died. Her father, my grandfather, told me she died "of brain cancer or breast cancer, I can't remember which." She told me her mother died shortly after giving birth to her youngest brother, of complications from childbirth. I <br />
don't know what kind of mother my grandmother was to my mother, but I know my mother resented her dying. My grandfather was not one to be <br />
alone, so he remarried fairly soon after she died.</div>
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My mother's new step-mother, Evelyn, was not someone my mother liked at all. My mother said Evelyn was a clod woman who drank as much as her father did. I don't know much more about her, except she died too. My grandfather remarried again to a woman I would know and love to be my grandmother, Dorothy. My mother didn't care for her much, either. As I <br />
think about it, I cannot recall anyone my mother did like. As far as grandmothers go, though, Dorothy was the best. I loved her.</div>
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I know life was hard for my mother. Living with alcoholics is never easy, <br />
but my mother was also the victim of incest. My uncle Danny told me the children all shared a bedroom growing up. At night, my drunken <br />
grandfather would come into the bedroom to get my mother. My uncle did <br />
not go into any details, so that's all I know. I think it's all I really need to <br />
know, anyway. My grandfather had some brothers, but there was one in particular I remember. Uncle Harry was the "fun" uncle. When I was little <br />
he was at a family gathering with his five daughters. Even though I was <br />
little, I knew exactly what my dad meant when he said "yeah, Harry got to <br />
all his girls." It would not be a leap then to think he probably got to my <br />
mother as well.</div>
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My mother also developed early and she had very large breasts. She told me she would skip school because the boys would snap her bra straps and try to feel her up. Breast size was really important to my mother. I was slow to develop, and graduated high school with an A cup. Once I had my first daughter, my breasts decided to catch up and I wound up with a C cup, but <br />
my mother wasn't happy with that. Several times over my life she made comments about my cup size. I was happy with a C cup but she would say, "Don't you want bigger breasts?" No, I really didn't. Somehow, her <br />
perception of female sexuality and self esteem was tied to the size of her breasts. </div>
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She graduated high school and married a serviceman. While her husband <br />
was serving, she met the man who would raise me as his daughter. He was older than she was, divorced with two teenage daughters, and had a good <br />
job at the local B & W. She became pregnant with me while she was still married to the serviceman. According to her, he offered to raise me as his<br />
own, very noble of him, actually. My mother divorced him and married my father. </div>
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It wasn't a happy marriage. Both of my parent were alcoholics and my <br />
mother was not prepared to be a parent, though she was in her twenties <br />
when she had me. She did what was expected of most women at that time. <br />
She was a member of the PTA (Parent Teachers Association.) She was a girl scout troop leader. She was a housewife and had dinner on the table every night at the same time. The house was clean and her children were <br />
reasonably well behaved. To an observer, it would appear she was a good mother. At times, she could be a good mother. When I was around 12, my parents were in a particularly vicious argument. Out of the blue my mother yells "She isn't even your daughter!" That was the first I heard my father was not my father. He yelled back "What kind of mother tells her daughter her father is not her father in the middle of an argument?" She yelled back "I already told her, she already knows." Then she looked at me and said <br />
"Didn't I already tell you?" She never said any such thing to me, but not wanting to be beaten I nodded my head in agreement. Satisfied, my mother said "See?" I don't know where the argument went from there, my head was spinning. They got divorced shortly afterward.</div>
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When I think of my mother from a distance, and not how she relates to me, <br />
I feel so sad for her. She is bitter and angry. It consumed her to the point <br />
where she has no hope, no faith life can be good. She does not know how to love or to be loved. I understand she is a victim of her childhood, and of <br />
the times she was raised in. She is an alcoholic. She didn't survive her life. <br />
When I think of her as my mother, however, it is hard to feel compassion <br />
for her. I do try. I hope one day to be able to. I try to look at those few moments when she allowed herself to be a good mother to me and hold on <br />
to them, but I have yet to succeed for more than a short while. She was a <br />
cold, hard woman most of the time, and that is what I see, what I remember when I think of my mother.</div>
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I don't want to, and it makes me sad. When Mother's Day comes around <br />
each year, I wonder what she is doing, what she is thinking, if she even <br />
misses me. I am angry with her! I wanted, needed her to be my mother. I <br />
try to hold on to the gifts she has given me, such as my ability to be tough. I survived the traumatic events in my life in part because she taught me to be tough. Like many things, though, that gift has cost me. I am not as open <br />
and loving with my daughters as I would like to be. I know I seem cold to <br />
them at times, and I do hug them, love them fiercely and deeply, but there is<br />
a wall there. I would really like to be a warm, loving mother who gives <br />
freely of her affection, but it is difficult for me. In that respect, I am handicapped. How do I reserve a day to honor her? Is she deserving of <br />
being honored? I can't answer.</div>
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Because my mother was unable to be a mother to me, I parent by exception.<br />
I know what hurt me as a child, and what I wanted from my mother, so I <br />
don't do the things which caused me pain, and I try to give my children what<br />
I wanted in a mother. That is not the same as parenting because your<br />
parents were good people. I am often insecure, wondering if I am doing the best I can by my daughters. The worst part about parenting is you don't get your grade until your children are adults. That's when you see the fruits of your labors, and the results of your mistakes. I am seeing my mistakes reflected in the lives of my adult daughters and I am sad. I can tell myself <br />
I did the best I could, and I really did, but still, I am sad. I have loved my daughters fiercely and with everything I had to give. I hope at the end of <br />
the day, it is enough.</div>
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I understand the time and culture my mother lived in. I try to give her the benefit of the doubt, but in the end I am still angry with her. She was victimized as a child in the worst possible way a child can be violated. She knows that pain well. Yet, not only did she allow my father to do the same to me, she facilitated his access to me. I just can't reconcile that. Incest scars every single aspect of your soul; leaves no area of your life unaffected. <br />
When I became an adult, I had no memory of what happened to me. I did<br />
what was expected and got married at 18. At 19, I gave birth to my first daughter. When I discovered I married a pedophile, I went to the ends of <br />
the earth to protect my precious little girls. I couldn't take away the pain of what happened to them, but I didn't have to allow it to continue. </div>
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I instilled in my daughters something I never had; a sense of self worth. <br />
Being born female meant your worth was diminished. A female in my <br />
family was worth only what she could provide in service to the men in her <br />
life. I never wanted my daughters to feel inferior simply because they were female. I stressed education and self sufficiency from the time they could speak. Although my children were victimized, I refused to allow them to be victims. I taught them to be confident in who they were and to stand in the face of injustice. I taught them to be all the things I could not. I took my insecurities, my pain and used it to ensure my children would not have to <br />
live my life. My pain would not be their pain, my failings would not be <br />
theirs. In many ways, I did succeed, but I have also failed them. I suppose I would not be human if I had not made mistakes along the way.</div>
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My daughters are too young yet to appreciate the sacrifices I have made <br />
on their behalf, or to understand the struggles I faced as a single parent. <br />
It will be years before they can frame our relationship in any type of <br />
context. They will never know the pain in my heart from feeling as if you <br />
didn't matter even to your own mother. They matter to me. That is what I cannot grasp. Why didn't I matter to my mother? She was so cold towards <br />
me, though I was desperate for her love and affection. After the divorce, <br />
I was trying to cook supper for us and asked my mother to teach me how to cook. Her reply was "No one taught me and I'm not going to teach you." I thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. I wanted <br />
to be just like her. I put on her make-up, wore her jewelry and she was <br />
furious when she caught me. I had to sit in a corner holding the make-up a<br />
nd jewelry for hours, until her anger subsided. She allowed my brothers to beat me, to hurt me and when I defended myself it was me she punished. <br />
I was older and I should know better, she explained. My brothers were 1 <br />
and 2 years younger. She would often punish me to extremes. I spent the entire summer once on a couch, looking out the window while she slept <br />
and my brothers played. I waited for someone to come home so I could <br />
get up and play too.</div>
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After my parents got divorced, she set aside any pretense of appearances. <br />
She didn't seem to care anymore if she did what was expected of her. She didn't take care of us kids, the house wasn't clean anymore, and she spent <br />
all of her spare time in bars. That was the only place I could spend any time with her. Back then, a child could hang out in the bar if the parent was drinking there. She taught me how to be sexual with men. She taught me <br />
my only value was in my sexuality, how much men desired me. She beat me more frequently and with greater severity after the divorce. She beat me so badly once that even my father was concerned and wanted to notify the <br />
police. I didn't want him to call the police, but my mother lost custody of <br />
me and two of my brothers. She was permitted to keep one of my brothers, though I didn't understand it. Even now, I find it ironic my father was concerned about my mother beating me. From my perspective, it was <br />
like the pot calling the kettle black. </div>
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When I was 16, she took me out to breakfast after the bars closed to have <br />
a talk with me. She told me she was dying and had only a few months to <br />
live. I was devastated. For the next few months, I went over to her house <br />
as often as I could, doing things for her, cleaning the house. I doted on her. She lived across town, so it was difficult for me to get to her house. She <br />
never came to pick me up from my father's house; I either took the bus or walked. She never got sick. I never knew what disease was killing her, but <br />
it was never mentioned again. My had mother used it to gain attention. She used my fear of losing my mother to her advantage. I do not understand her.</div>
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After I had my daughters, I tried to incorporate her into my new family as grandma, but it was difficult. I tried to have a relationship with her, <br />
talking to her about the problems I faced as a new mother, but I never <br />
received any type of support. When I talked about how my husband had become physically violent with me and I wanted to leave him, it wasn't her <br />
who stood by my side, it was her husband. He was a kind, decent man. He offered to shelter me and my two children in their small apartment, but my mother wouldn't hear of it. He stood his ground with her though, and <br />
told me I had a place to live if I wanted to leave. I never forgot his kindness during that time, nor did I forget my mothers' lack of it. </div>
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I did leave my husband and entered The Battered Women's Shelter. Again, <br />
my mother was nowhere to be found but by this time I wasn't expecting <br />
her. I entered into counseling and started to heal the scars of my childhood and become the parent I desired to be for my daughters. I came to see the relationship with my mother as toxic to me and I stopped going to see her. <br />
I had little contact with her at all for years. I healed much of my pain. I <br />
missed not having a mother in my life. I saw the relationships my friends <br />
had with their mothers and while they were not perfect, I wanted that. I needed my mother. I felt it was time to reconnect with her. I was older, <br />
wiser, more mature. I felt I could accept my mother as she was, devoid <br />
of what my expectations in her were. I would never have the mother I <br />
wanted or needed, and if I was to have a mother at all, I needed to accept <br />
her at face value, just as she was.</div>
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I started to spend more time with her. We went to yard sales, and <br />
shopping. We went to bingo halls. I came over just to visit. When she <br />
had her gallbladder removed, I opened up my home and cared for her overnight. Nothing had changed, my mother was still the same, but I <br />
accepted her with all of her faults. For a while, it worked. I tried to talk <br />
to her about my childhood. I wanted to gain some understanding and <br />
insight into our lives. I was careful how I phrased any questions, so as not<br />
to place blame on her, not to judge. I did not receive much information. <br />
Her answers were short, contrived. Once, I tried to bring up the sexual <br />
abuse, to see if she would offer me anything to it. I said "Dad molested me when I was little." She had no reaction. I could have said "the sun just <br />
ducked behind the clouds." She replied "that's how men are." And it was the end of the conversation. So that was our relationship and I accepted it <br />
was all it was going to be.</div>
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When my second husband left, my life fell apart. My mother was no help <br />
at all. I became sick, so depressed I required hospitalization. When I <br />
returned home, I was talking to my mother on the phone, telling her how <br />
much it meant to me that my father had come to visit. (She did not come to visit, but, I never expected either one of them to come see me.) I don't <br />
think I finished my train of thought when she hung up the phone on me. <br />
And so that was the end of that. I have not spoken to my mother since. <br />
I can only guess she felt I was implying some sort of slight by telling her <br />
dad had come to visit, and since she hung up the phone I will never know <br />
what was on her mind. </div>
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About a year ago, someone called me and left a message saying it was <br />
urgent I return the call. I did not recognize the number, nor did I recognize<br />
the voice. The caller did not identify me by name, nor did they identify themselves. I thought it was a wrong number. I tried to return the call and received an answering machine stating some office hours, so I hung up, not wanting to leave a personal message at a place of business. The caller called the next day, saying that the message I heard was the correct number. I <br />
tried to return the call several more times without success. The line was <br />
either busy or I heard some strange tone. I played the messages over and <br />
over. Something about the caller's voice.....it was my mother. The last <br />
message left she said "well I guess there's nothing more to say." I may <br />
never know what she was trying to contact me about; she never answered <br />
her phone and I never got the answering machine again. </div>
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I wonder how long I will grieve the loss of my mother. I never really had a mother, and she is not dead (that I know of) so it is strange to me to grieve<br />
the loss of something I never had to begin with. So that is why Mother's<br />
Day is stressful to me. I want to forgive my mother, because she is the only person she could be. I just don't know how. I understand horrible things happened in her life, but instead of protecting me from the things that hurt<br />
her, it was as if she wanted me to suffer as much as she had. I go back to <br />
the "no one taught me how to cook, so I'm not teaching you." Since she suffered, then I must suffer with her. I don't understand. I don't <br />
understand because I love my daughters so much I would never want <br />
them to experience pain and heartache in their life. And to the extent <br />
that I am able, I will protect them from it. </div>
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<span class="_4yxo" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-weight: 600;"><i><u>Mother's Day Pancakes</u></i></span></div>
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There can be many sides to the same story, so this is the flip side of Mother's Day, the side of the day which fills my heart with joy despite the heartache hiding from within. My children opened my heart with love, such love that nothing of my mother clouded a moment of my day. Children replace heartache with heart. It is impossible to feel insignificant when the eyes of <br />
a child shine into your soul. I may not have mattered to my mother, but I definitely matter to my children. </div>
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I can have thousands upon thousands of moments when I feel I am an utter failure as a parent, but it takes just one second of love from my child to wipe away the mountain. Today was my day. I was not able to be with all of my children in presence, but I felt them with me in spirit. Everything I did with my daughters today was something I wanted to do; they did not take one second for themselves. We watched Lady Gaga's new video,"Judas," <br />
(which I loved) and she sat patiently with me while I compared it to the Madonna video, "Like A Virgin." She let me explain the allegorical content, and we compared the two videos with respect to style, format and artistic <br />
value. She usually doesn't like to hear anything I have to say if it sounds like learning might take place. We even discussed Lady Gaga's choreography <br />
and musical influences! I loved it! </div>
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Next, we went to the grocery store and picked up some very fresh and <br />
flavorful blackberries. Blackberries are one of my favorite fruits to eat <br />
because when I eat them I almost feel the fresh country air of my childhood calling me back. I feel the warm sun shining on my face, I feel the solitude <br />
and safety alone on my beloved farm but most of all it reminds me of a <br />
time in my childhood when I was happy. All of that from eating a <br />
blackberry. We picked out a bottle of wine and she bought me exactly <br />
what I wanted for supper...the new chicken salad sandwich at Arby's. <br />
We came back to my apartment and watched a movie. What a nice day.</div>
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Most of my writing originates from darker sources. When you are in the presence of love, however, the darkness wilts away. It is still there, a silent soldier awaiting its call to duty, but when love enters it must recede. My children taught me what love is, they taught me the strength of love, and <br />
they taught me love is greater than my darkest fears. My children allow <br />
room in my heart to remember my mother in a kinder light. I love my <br />
mother simply because she is my mother. I love my mother because I <br />
choose to love her, despite anything she has done. </div>
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Growing up, I had impossibly curly hair, especially for a white girl. The <br />
curls were so tight I could not get a brush near it, so the hair did what it <br />
wanted to do. Of course the style was 1970's poker straight and my hair <br />
would never go near a straight line. There were not straight irons or great <br />
hair products, and I washed it with VO5. The humid air made it frizzy and <br />
the winter air made it electric. My name was Charlotte at a time when the book, "Charlotte's Web" became wildly popular and children were not kind <br />
to me. Some of the children chased me around the playground pulling at <br />
my hair trying to find the spider in "Charlotte's Web" of hair. I hated <br />
having curly hair. This was one of those times my mother was a good <br />
mother to me.</div>
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By the time I was in high school, chemical hair straighteners were hitting <br />
the market. It was a very expensive process. I don't remember asking my mother if I could have it done, but one day she took me to the beauty salon<br />
and paid for me to have straight hair. The stylist flipped and feathered it <br />
just like Farah Fawcett and for the first time in my life I felt beautiful! I still recall how much I loved my mother for doing this for me. I appreciated <br />
her taking me to get it done because I knew she did not have much money, <br />
and this time I mattered. She put me first. My senior pictures were <br />
scheduled for the same day, so I have the moment I felt like a movie star memorialized in my high school yearbook. It is the only picture I have of <br />
all my yearbook photos that I did not ink out my picture. I was beautiful. <br />
The straightening process lasted only a few days before my stubborn hair returned to its naturally curly state, but the picture and this wonderful<br />
memory of my mother have endured through the decades. Happy Mother's Day, 2011. And to my mother, wherever you may be, today your memory warms my heart. </div>
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<span class="_4yxo _4yxp" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-style: italic; font-weight: 600;"><u>No More Pancakes, What I Wish My Mother Kne</u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dear Mom</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I love you still though you are no longer on this earth. I’ve always loved you, even when I hated you, when I was angry with you, when I needed you, when you disappointed me, when you didn’t live up to my expectations, when you were </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">cold to me and when you abandoned me when I needed to have a mother. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You were never going to be a great mom, or even a good mom. I knew this and I hated you for it at times. Through it all, I still loved and needed you. I need you now though I am a grandmother myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Your mom died just when you needed her the most. I don’t know if she was a good mother to you. You never talked about her to me. How I wish you did. Maybe we could have bonded over the feelings we each had for our mothers. Maybe I would have had a better understanding of who you are and why you couldn’t bond with me. Maybe I would understand why it appeared as if you didn’t love me. Maybe I would understand why you were unable to show me how much you loved me. I know your childhood was a nightmare. Your brother told me how you slept in the same room as your brothers, never having any of the privacy a young girl needs as she is growing into a woman. He also told me how helpless he felt when your dad came into the bedroom at night, waking you up and taking you somewhere else. Uncle Danny knew why grandpa took you out. It wasn’t a family secret. Your uncles did the same things to his five daughters. Maybe during family events your uncle also sexually abused you. Maybe you were even raped repeatedly. I don’t know. It’s just the way it was. All of the women and young girls were used at the perverted whims of the men in our family. Uncle Danny was afraid for you. Did you cry on his shoulder when you returned? Did you huddle with your brothers, seeking the only comfort you could? When did everything you were meant to be die? That’s when it started. I have a pretty good guess because you had some pretty serious armor on you. You were strong, though I know you felt like you weren’t. I know your emotional development stopped the second your dad did those horrific things to you, things no child should endure. And you did endure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I do know you did your best to be a mother to all us children. I give you credit for that. I’m sorry I never told you I always admired your strength and I look to your example when I need to be strong myself. You couldn’t save me from the same horrors you faced. You couldn’t face the fact you were as helpless to save your daughter as you were to save yourself. I get it. You couldn’t save me, but you could teach me to be strong. Thank you mother. Because of you, I am strong. I was so strong I was able to save my daughters from the same fate as you and I. They were still sexually abused, but I eventually got them safe from any further harm. It was the worst time in my life knowing my children were being hurt in the same way we were hurt and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it. I did get them safe though. I was able to do that because of you. Your strength has guided me through the worst times in my life and like you, there were many events which occurred that qualified for the worst times in my life. You couldn’t be with me to support me through those times, but you gave me what I needed to make it through. I survived. Thank you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It is my sincere hope that you have a better life now than you did here on earth. I was so angry with you for so long. I was angrier at you than I was my father. I don’t understand that myself, but I did eventually forgive you for all your failings. As I reflect on your life, I feel a deep sadness. I cry tears for the life you had even today. You didn’t deserve it. You never deserved the horrors you faced. Your life was so hard, you became hardened yourself to survive it. You made it impossible for your children to be a part of your life. I tried. I tried so many times. Each time, I failed to reach you or to relate to you as an adult. For this, I am sorry. I am profoundly damaged and I wasn’t strong enough to deal with your type of damage and the walls you put up around you. I wasn’t strong enough to have a child for a mother. I don’t blame you anymore for being a child in a woman’s body. You were never allowed to grow up. How many mother’s days went by without a single word from your children? This I regret. I was so busy trying to be a good mother myself and so wrapped up dealing with my issues with you I failed to recognize you deserved better than my wrath. If the pain my children cause me is any indication of how you must have felt all those mother’s days that passed without a word, I am intensely sorry I caused you pain. I am sorry that every single time I reached out to you, to try to have a relationship with you, I abandoned you over and over again. I can’t imagine what that felt like for you. I know how it feels to be abandoned by my children. It hurts deeply and intensely. I too have been abandoned over and over by my children. I forgive them every single time they hurt me. I forgive them when they cause me tears. I forget what they did so I can enjoy them when they are close to me. I put my hurt aside and try to never look at it again. I hope you were able to forgive me. I hope now that you are in spirit, you have the wisdom to know I am ashamed at how insensitive and cruelly I treated you. I was trying to survive. I too have armor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You were still working at age 72 when you died in your sleep. I am grateful for this. You had no friends. You had no children in your life. It takes great courage to live each day without someone to love you. That is the life you made for yourself, or the only life you could tolerate. Maybe there was some safety in that for you. You were a reliable worker. When you didn’t show up for your shift, they called you. When you didn’t answer, they called the police for a wellness check. They found you in an eternal sleep. I’m so happy you had a peaceful death. That is the very least this life owed you. I felt when your spirit leave this earth. Your spirit came to say its earthly goodbye. Thank you for that. Though I wasn’t in your life the last six months you lived, I mourned deeply for you. I mourn you still. I mourn the mother you were meant to be, before your father killed her. I mourn for both of us. My father killed the person I was meant to be too. Because of him, I have spent a good chunk of my life wanting to die. How you made it through your life I’ll never know. My life is so much richer than yours. Your life was devoid of human intimacy from even one person. The few times you opened up your armor and let someone love you, they let you down. They left. They always left. I have been loved. I know what it is to be loved. I know what it is to love. You never had that experience that I am aware of. You talked so little about your life. I don’t know if you had hopes and dreams once. Your life didn’t have any meaning, anything of value in it that you could hold onto. Only two people came to your memorial service. Your favorite son and your youngest son were in attendance. I would have come if I had the plane fare, but even at that your passing you left barely a whisper in the world. You passed as you lived your life, alone and almost invisible. I tried to see you and I think I got glimpses of you now and then. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I know I was a difficult child and neither you nor my father could deal with me. Besides the behavioral issues I exhibited directly due to the sexual abuse, I also had an illness which caused me to have enormous energy. I chatted all the time. I was busy all the time. I had an active and fertile imagination and often became lost in the narratives in my head. I constantly asked “why” about everything and anything. I challenged authority and rules because I couldn’t live with them. The anger, rage, disappointments and sorrows I felt were because I was so sensitive as a child I was overwhelmed in my environment. I never thought much about it, but I was the only child who got to go to YMCA camp and Girl Scout Camp every summer. You and dad needed the break. I was also the only child grandpa took hiking in the Metroparks with him. Sometimes my brothers would come too, but not very often. Grandpa seemed to have boundless patience with me, but he only had to deal with me for a few hours at a time. You and dad needed a break from the hyperactive child I was. Those issues and behaviors flawed my ability to relate to you for many years and ultimately until the day you died. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Neither you nor my father ever understood me. For many years, I didn’t understand myself. I had difficulty controlling my emotions, and I felt emotions intensely. I felt laughter and sorrow with the greatest joy and the deepest grief. I felt deeply and acutely every slight, every unkind word, every injustice. What you saw as teasing, I felt like a knife searing through my soul. I didn’t like being teased and I acted out frequently. Every cruel word said to me created waves of despair. I was drowning in the pain directed at me. I also felt soaring joy at the slightest attention. I desperately wanted someone, anyone to be proud of me. What I had didn’t have a name back then. I have a condition called Attention Deficit Disorder and it rained down havoc on a child who was also suffering sexual abuse throughout childhood. I would be in my forties before I would be diagnosed and treated. I am still working on healing from childhood traumas. I will be healing the rest of my life. Thank you for giving me the strength to do what you could not; heal. Thank you for sending me to camp each year, though it was expensive. I loved going to camp. No one abused me there. I was praised for my efforts and wanted to please my camp counselors. I would have stayed the whole summer if I could. At camp, I was given the shred of self esteem and the confidence of my convictions I would need in later life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thank you for giving me the relationship with my grandfather, a privileged relationship my brothers would never know. My grandfather would give me the one thing I didn’t know I had in life; he told me I had choices. I may not like the choices I had, but I always had choices. Most of my life has been spent deciding between a bad choice or a worse one, but it empowered me in a way nothing else could. Because of the time I spent with my grandfather, I would have the wisdom to meet the challenges life was intent on throwing at me. He also taught me that no matter what my life would be, everyone had sorrow and pain in their life. No one escapes it. It is part of the living and dying process of being human. I felt less alone. I never drowned in self pity for very long. I lived by the motto “It’s ok to have a pity party, just don’t stay too long.” I could grant myself some time to feel the magnitude of sorrow in my life, and I gave myself the opportunity to come back out of it. There was a door that never closed. No matter what I was feeling or experiencing, I never let it stop me from moving on from it or growing in spite of it. I have you to thank for that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is so much I wish I could have told you, but I’m telling you now. Maybe the words will reach you. Maybe now that you are free from the solitary and painful life you lived, you could see your life with some clarity and my place in it. Maybe you are already in a new life, you reincarnated to a newborn baby or a young child. If you are, I hope this new life is charmed. I hope you feel the love and support of your parents. I hope you feel loved by all the people in your life. You’ve had enough pain for many lifetimes. I regret my role in causing you pain and I wish I could change it. We were two damaged people trying to connect with one another but we couldn’t bridge the divide. We each brought with us the past. We brought with us the pain, the memories and the survival instincts which shielded us from being hurt again. I could no more break through your armor than you could break through mine. Our fathers set us on a path when they crawled into our beds. Neither one of us could take another road. The only difference is, when there was a fork on that path, I took the road less traveled. I had to break away from you long enough to comfort my pain and to save my children from the same path as you and I. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I saved my daughters when you could not save yours, but it was from your strength that I was able to face my own nightmares in order to ensure my daughters had a chance for something better. Mom, all three of my daughters have a chance because you gave me what I needed to get them safe. To survive. Oh, they have their battle scars but they missed the war. They have so many people who love them. They know what it is to love and be loved in their life, something you were denied for 72 years. I think you would be proud of my girls if you had the chance to be a grandmother to them. I know you would love them, even though they are flawed themselves. They are intelligent and independent. They are beautiful. They are carving out their own lives in this mad and crazy world. I sacrificed my life so that they could have one and I have no regrets. I was able to do that because you showed me the way. As helpless and damaged as you were, you managed to do that for me. I am so grateful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I live my life being grateful because I know the abyss. I know the darkness, the fear, the terror. When I allow myself to think of what we faced, I am amazed we survived it. The blackness consumes your life and there isn’t a part of it that’s safe, that isn’t touched by it. You never escaped your darkness, but I found the light and am able to live in it. I am grateful for the many times I have felt loved. I am hurt by the knowledge you couldn’t find a way out. I am hurt by the knowledge that sometimes when you tried to get out, I pushed you back in. I didn’t mean to do that to you. In a way, you were the ladder that helped me get out and live in the light; in the brilliance and happiness this life has to offer. I am sorry I had to step on you to get out. I am sorry I wasn’t able to reach down a hand and bring you up with me. Maybe you knew you would never get out. Maybe being the ladder was the only thing you could do for me. I got out mom; and though I still suffer the heartache and sorrow the abyss left with me, I can quell the muddy waters and bathe in life’s richness. I can do that because of you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am grateful for the richness in my life. I am grateful to be loved and to be able to love in return. I am grateful for the light. I am grateful for the strides I have made to heal my wounds. I am grateful for feeling the pain life tends to throw at me. I am grateful for the happiness I feel. I am grateful I made it out of the abyss when so many don’t survive it. I am grateful I didn’t try to cope with drugs and alcohol. I am grateful for the nicks and cracks in my armor. I am grateful for the richness life has to offer. I am grateful I appreciate the sunlight and the smell of freshly mowed grass. I am grateful I can see the beauty in the flowers and to smell their aroma as I pass. I am grateful for the courage it took to get my children safe and I am grateful I was able to do what it took to get them there. I am grateful you were the ladder. This, and so much more, is what I wish you knew. Happy Mother’s Day 2018. </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-76333031076324324062017-12-22T19:25:00.000-04:002017-12-22T19:26:50.976-04:00The First Thanksgiving<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Tomorrow is the day I had been dreading since my mother died in June. It would be the first Thanksgiving without her. My mother was the driving force in my family, and for me, mom was the sun, the moon, the stars and everything brilliant in the universe. I drove up to the cabin, telling my brothers and sisters I had to work so I didn’t have to be reminded mom wasn’t at the table. It had been a year of loss. My marriage crumbled, I had a miscarriage, and I had even lost myself. When mom died, she took something of me with her. I didn’t know who I was without her on this earth. I didn’t know how to function not hearing her gentle voice guiding my day. I didn’t know how to be happy without her gregarious laughter. Mom’s laughter was infectious, you couldn’t help laughing yourself, even if you didn’t know the joke. I knew I should be thankful for something, but I couldn’t think of a thing. Just the thought of the rest of my life without her brought hot raindrops running down my face, nearly blinding me. I couldn’t breathe. </div>
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It was unseasonably warm and the leaves clung to the branches. They were shades of every fall color, but to me they looked dull. They were a reminder of the death and lifelessness winter would soon bring. I pushed on the gas pedal and watched it climb to sixty, seventy and then eighty. Maybe I would lose control of the car and crash. Ninety, a hundred, the speed of the landscape became blurry. Instinct took over and I slowed for the next curve up the winding road. As much as I wanted the abyss of death, I couldn’t let my mom down. She wouldn’t want me to end my life, not on purpose, and not accidentally on purpose. Familiar road signs came and went. There was something cathartic in the drive. I couldn’t be with my family. I couldn’t pretend that life went on when I missed her so much. They say it gets easier, but I can’t see a way through the grief. How does it get easier? My mom will never answer the phone when I call, she won’t greet me at the door when I visit and she won’t ever make me a cup of cocoa ever again. </div>
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I pulled into the narrow lane leading to our family cabin. I passed row after row of empty cabins which were shuttered for the season. There were a few people who lived here year round but with the nearest town nearly an hour away, most preferred life in a city where there was more to do than watch the snowflakes fall upon the fading grass. The hours of wintertime would be hard to fill when there was only the sound of crisping glass echoing in the freezing night and the crackling sound of wood burning in the fireplace. I pulled to a stop and sat in the car. Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go in after all. </div>
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Everywhere I went, a memory of mom taunted my pain, daring me to give up my grief. I watched auburn leaves dancing across the porch and the leaves reminded me of my mother’s brilliant hair. Grandpop always said God never invented a better color than the color of mom’s hair. He found a leaf once that very color. He kept it pressed in his bible. Mom put that bible, filled with grandpop’s most precious memories, tucked securely in his crossed arms before they closed the lid of his coffin. She told me she wanted him to have his best memories with him when he arrived at the pearly gates. I hoped Grandpop remembered to greet mom when she arrived, her head of flaming hair waving around her shoulders. </div>
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I opened the car door to the gentle rustling leaves. I heard some birds off in the distance, flying away from the chill in the air. The stillness was comforting. I didn’t have to pretend I was all right, that life without my mother was acceptable or even bearable. If I listened hard enough, I could almost hear her laughter in the distance. She loved being here, walking in the woods and around the lake. She loved racing Angel, her little Yorkie, back to the house for a treat. Angel always won, but they both acted like it was ever a contest. Mom couldn’t bear to get another dog after Angel died. She never raced back to the cabin after that, preferring to take the time to count the leaves and take notice of every blossom as she walked past. Mom knew every tree, every bush and every flower. Mom knew every seasonal neighbor, who had kids, who were expecting kids, who loved who under the starlit sky and who wouldn’t be back next season. I could feel mom in the air. It was almost as if she had never died. </div>
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I gathered my groceries and unlocked the door. There wasn’t time to entertain my grief, I had to get everything inside and a fire going or it would be a very cold night. There were only a couple hours of daylight left. There weren’t any streetlamps to light your path. The sky was overcast so when the sun went down, night would fall hard. There is no darkness greater than the dark night of one’s soul, and I was surely going to face that tonight. I opened the door and expected to smell the musty odor of a dusty cabin. I didn’t think anyone had been here this past summer. Instead, I inhaled the familiar smell of lavender. Mom loved the lavender bushes outside the cabin windows. There were several pieces of lavender still hanging to dry, just where my mom had left them. The cabin remained untouched since the last time she was here. Her favorite sunhat hung from a nail by the door. Her boots and sandals were neatly placed underneath. Time stood still in the cabin. No one told it she wasn’t coming back.</div>
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I put my groceries away. There was a half gallon of chunky milk in the fridge, along with some rotted vegetables. I grabbed some Lysol and cleaned out the remnants of my mother’s last meal, now an unrecognizable mess. I threw everything out, containers and all. I put my bottle of vodka in the freezer, and opened a Sterling Hill pinot noir. I poured myself a glass, draining it without stopping for a breath. I poured another and quickly drained that as well. I started a fire and it wasn’t long before the heated tendrils reached out to touch the cool night air, warming it. I sat in my mother’s favorite overstuffed chair and sobbed with great heaving gasps. I wailed and let my grief release all the pain I had been holding in since my mother’s heart attack. I cried into my glass of wine, wiping away my tears on my sleeve until I didn’t have the energy to release one more tear. It was exhausting.</div>
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I went into her bedroom. An outfit was lain out on her bed as if she would be back soon to put it on. I picked it up and threw it in the fire. I went into the bathroom and her worn shirt was on top of the hamper. I picked it up, burying my face in it and inhaled deeply. It smelled like her. I took off my sweater and put her top on next to my skin. This is the closest I would ever be to her for the rest of my life. I put my sweater on over mom’s blouse. I opened up the medicine cabinet and threw away her old prescriptions. I picked up her brush and ran it through my chestnut hair like mom did when she was braiding it. I pretended mom was still brushing my hair. If felt good to pretend that just for a moment, it was her hand guiding the brush. I heard a knock at the door.</div>
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I went to see who would interrupt my solitude. I peeked out the window in case it was a nefarious sort. It was Mrs. Waterson, one of the few people who lived here year round. I don’t know why she would want to live here all alone since the death of her husband, especially since no one would know if she needed medical help, but it didn’t seem to bother her. I had barely opened the door when she burst through, grabbing me in a fierce hug. </div>
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“Oh honey, I’m so sorry about your mom. She was one of the good ones.” I lingered in her embrace. The Waterson’s were my summer family. “I haven’t seen you since the funeral. No one came up this summer and it just wasn’t the same without you all. I get it though, your mom loved being here and it’s tough to be around the things and people your mom loved so much. Want some company?” She asked as she breezed by me. I didn’t have a chance to tell her what I wanted was to be alone. “I’ll make us some tea.” She went about her tea making, ignoring the open bottle of wine on the table. I pulled out a couple of mugs for us, and mom’s mug too. It wouldn’t feel right to have a talk without her mug sitting at the table. </div>
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“Honey, what are you doing up here without your family, and on Thanksgiving for heaven’s sake?” She asked sincerely.</div>
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“I couldn’t deal with the family celebrating a holiday in which you are compelled to be thankful for something. This has been the worst year of my life. I have nothing to be thankful for and I’m not going to pretend I do.” I replied. I spooned way too much sugar in my tea. “Really, this year has sucked. My marriage is gone, my mom is gone and I almost had a baby, which by the way is gone! So tell me, what the hell do I have to be thankful for?” I said with far more force than I intended. </div>
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“Oh honey, you have had a time of it, no doubt about it. I’m sorry you’ve had such pain in so short of a time. I wish I could tell you life gets easier, but the fact is, life is damn hard. Just when you think you catch a break, you have a hard time catching your breath. Sap and I finished raising the kids, we paid off the mortgage and thought we could sit back and enjoy the lake and the grandkids. We did for a few months before the cancer came. Sometimes life just isn’t fair. Hell, most of the time life isn’t fair.” She patted my hand. “But you are right about one thing, you shouldn’t have to pretend to be thankful when you aren’t.” </div>
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Tears streamed down my face. Mrs. Waterson got up to get me a tissue. “I can’t do life without her. I can’t get up each morning and think I have something to look forward to, like I have a life, or goals, or anything that makes life worth living. I’m all alone! She left me alone!” I was surprised by the amount of anger I had welled up inside. </div>
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“I’ve known your mother since we were children and our parents came up to this lake together. I know she’s dead. My brain knows it but my heart can’t quite come around to that idea. Your mom has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I still think the phone ringing is going to be her, telling me about her next big idea. I look over to this cabin and I think of your mom just sitting in her chair, reading the latest Stephen King or Stephen Koontz book. When I saw the smoke swirling around the chimney I swear for a moment I thought it was her. I know she isn’t here, but it still feels like she is. I loved your mom like she was my own sister and truth be told, her death hit me harder than did Sap’s. The one thing I do know is that your mom did not leave you alone. She left you with a lifetime of her love and strength enough to get you through the rest of your life. People aren’t meant to stay by your side your whole life through. They are meant to pass through, and hopefully leave you a better person than they found. Your mom did that for you”</div>
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I pondered her words. I feel mom around me everywhere I go. Maybe it hurts so bad because I can’t come to terms with what my mind tells me is true. My mind says my mom is dead. She is gone. She’s not here. Everything else, especially my heart, tells me my mom is still with me. She’s in my every breath, my every thought. She’s in the air that I breathe. My nostrils smell her in the lilacs, her scent remains on her clothes. Society is telling me to move on, that she is gone but she is everywhere I am. There are remnants of her looking back at me in the mirror. My voice is her voice. I have her idioms in my speech. I catch myself saying her words and I do some of my daily tasks they way she did them, how she taught me to do them. How can she be gone? How can I move on? </div>
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“Well honey, I’ll leave you to your thoughts, but I can’t have you spending Thanksgiving alone with them. I’ll expect you over to dinner around 4pm tomorrow. Colton is bringing dinner. I know he’d love to see you again.” She got up, clearing the table of our teacups. She gave me another hug before she left out the door. I poured myself the rest of my wine. I was suddenly very tired. I felt as if I couldn’t keep my eyes open another minute. I downed this glass of wine as easily as the first and readied myself for bed. I decided to sleep in mom’s room. After all, in a way it is my room now. I drifted off to sleep with an ease I’ve not felt in months. </div>
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My mother appeared to me dressed in a flowing white gown. Her hair lay on her shoulders, moving slightly with the breeze. She was covered in yellow and white light so brilliant the sun paled in comparison and yet it didn’t burn my eyes. She held out her arms to me and I wanted to go to her but I was just out of reach. I yelled for her to come closer so I could reach her. I stretched my arms as far as they would go but she stayed just out of reach. She crossed her arms over her heart and then she drifted away. She never spoke, not a single word. When I awakened, I was crying, with tears streaming down my face. I didn’t know you could cry in your sleep. I had a happy life with my parents. I knew little of sorrow. My heart was broken, shattered. I was going to be shattered until my dying day. I continued crying into my pillow, in the very place mom’s head had once lain. I did not want to get up. I saw no point to it. I wondered if I could lay here and will myself to die. I read somewhere that’s what the Native American elders did. They picked a day and time to die, and on that day they performed some rituals with their family and took to their bed. They quietly died in their sleep so peacefully their blankets remained undisturbed.</div>
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All across the nation, moms were getting up to prepare a feast for family gatherings. There would be laughter, love and fun. Everyone would eat too much. Not me, not here and not today. Not ever again. I hadn’t laughed in months. When I smiled, it was forced. When my mom died, everyone was so nice, so caring. It was overwhelming when all I wanted was to be left alone. I had to go back to work the very next week and it was miserable to walk in the office with everyone staring at me with pity in their eyes. As the days went on, I walked into the office because that was what I had to do, what was expected of me. I went through the motions of living. The doctor said I was depressed and put me on an antidepressant, but it didn’t help so I quit taking it. Friends would call, inviting me out here and there but I declined all invitations. It wasn’t long before the phone stopped ringing. Everyone says it gets easier. When I go home at night, I still cry as if I’d just heard the news. When the phone does ring, I still expect it to be her. When I go to the mall, I think I see her in the women who pass by. It’s not getting easier. The grief isn’t passing. </div>
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I got up and dressed. I got some fruit for breakfast and pulled a box off the shelf. In it were decades of pictures. In this box was every person, every event important in my life. Here was mom and dad playing cards at the picnic table with the Watersons. Here they were fishing on a lazy day off the boat. Here were my brothers, sisters and me playing. I smiled without realizing it. These are good memories, precious memories. All my birthday parties were spent here, surrounded by all my summer friends. To think I used to hate the drive to the cabin. It seemed to take so long. It was too long to be cooped up with a bunch of kids picking at one another with too much energy and nowhere to spend it. </div>
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I was lost in memories when there was a knock on the door. It had to be Mrs. Waterson. She’s the only one who knows I’m here. I didn’t tell anyone else. I opened the door to her bright sunny face, cheeks flushed with the cool morning air. </div>
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“Good morning dear!” She said with a light cheery voice. “I brought you some coffee and home baked cookies.” She didn’t bring me some coffee, she brought the entire pot and the cookies were off a cookie dough roll bought at the local grocery. She wasn’t lying. They were home baked. She looked at me, waiting for an invitation to come in. She was too sweet to turn away. </div>
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“Of course Mrs. Waterson, why don’t you come in?” I asked. “I was just looking over some pictures. Coffee and cookies would be perfect.”</div>
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“Why don’t you call me Elsie, now that you’re all grown? Feels like we’re friends. Mrs. Waterson is too formal.” She said.</div>
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“All right, Elsie it is.” I went to the cupboards to get some mugs and sugar. “Do you like cream with your coffee? I’m afraid all I have is the powdered cream, I didn’t bring a lot of groceries with me.”</div>
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“No, honey. Just a little sugar is all I need, the real stuff if you have it. Never did like the thought of fake sugar.” She replied. “I know you probably came up here to be alone, and I’ll give you plenty of time to do that, but too much time alone isn’t good for anyone, especially when you are grieving.”</div>
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I raised my eyebrow and it did not go unnoticed. I put the mugs on the table and she filled them both. “I know you are grieving the loss of your mom, and truth be told, I’m still grieving the loss of mine and she’s been gone nearly twenty years. You don’t stop missing your mom, no matter how old you are when she passes. I promise you though, it does get easier but it’s real hard until that happens.”</div>
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“And how long until that happens?” I inquired. “It’s almost as fresh as the day she died. I feel as if I’ve become the walking dead. I’m not living, I’m existing.”</div>
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“It’s different for everyone dear. I don’t know how long it took with me. One day I was able to think of my mom and the memory made me happy instead of sad. Oh, I’m still sad sometimes and I still miss her, but I know we’ll be together again on the other side, whatever that other side may be. You have to let yourself grieve for her as long as it takes. Grief is something you just have to get through. No one can do it for you, and not many people know how to help. It’s the hardest thing to do and you have to do it alone for the most part. Now you, well dear, you got hit with the trifecta. You lost your mom, your husband and your baby. I wouldn’t expect you to bounce right on back from that. You didn’t just lose your mom, you lost the life you expected.” She said. </div>
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“I miscarried, it wasn’t like it was a real baby. I never held her. I don’t even know if it was a her. As for Tom, well, he doesn’t deal well if life isn’t perfect. When I didn’t get back up on the proverbial horse, he walked away. I wasn’t even surprised when he did. No one was.” I said. </div>
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“Maybe not dear, maybe you didn’t hold your baby, but from the minute you knew you were pregnant you had dreams of what motherhood would be, what your baby would be, and you expected to see your child grow up. Maybe you knew what a weak man Tom was, but you still expected to have children with him and to grow old by his side. That’s what we expect when we are married. We take comfort in knowing how our life will unfold. I was lucky with Sal, we had some tough times, but we made it through. Your parents were lucky, they kept it together through their tough times. Marriage is hard. You don’t understand how hard until you are tested and a lot of people fail the tests life throws our way. When you are building a family, you have the rest of your life planned out. Those plans are gone and now your future is a blank slate. That’s frightening. It’s made worse when you expected Tom to be there for you through the loss of your child and the death of your mother and he wasn’t.” Her words were comforting.</div>
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“No, and I feel betrayed. And I’m angry! I’m SO angry! I don’t even know what to do with all the anger swirling around inside of me and everywhere I go I have to be what someone else expects me to be. I want to scream, but if I started screaming, I might never stop.” It just came out. I didn’t even know I was angry until that very moment, but there it was. </div>
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“You can scream here. Go on! Scream! There’s no one around to hear, it’s just you and me.” She suggested.</div>
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I blushed. “No, that’s just silly.” I replied.</div>
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“Ahhhh!” She screamed out long and loud. The scream startled me. “Go on now, scream!” She demanded.</div>
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I screamed with her. </div>
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“Louder!” She yelled.</div>
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I screamed louder. </div>
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“No, from your stomach, scream it out. Put some effort into it!” She poked her finger at my stomach and I sucked it in and let it out. “That’s it, you can do it!” My voice was getting hoarse, but it felt good. I screamed until I ran out of air. It felt weird, and silly, and good. It felt good.</div>
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“See there?” Asked Elsie. “You screamed and you stopped. How do you feel now?”</div>
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“Strangely enough, I do feel a little better.” I said. “Would plotting revenge help? How about a revenge plan?” I was teasing, but a part of me wasn’t. </div>
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“You can think about revenge all you want, even entertain the ways you might hurt him, but never take action. It won’t help you heal. That’s what you need. It takes time.” She replied.</div>
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“But I’m all alone now!” I cried out with a fresh torrent of tears. Elsie got up to get me a tissue. She didn’t say a word, she just stood beside me, rubbing my back until I composed myself. </div>
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“The last thing you are is alone.” She said once I had dried my tears. “You feel alone because the one person you counted on to be with you through the miscarriage and divorce isn’t here to comfort you, but you are not alone. Your siblings lost their mom too. I lost your mom. You can share your grief with us.” </div>
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“You don’t understand, I had a dream about her last night and it seemed to real. It was so real I woke up crying.” I explained.</div>
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“Tell me about it.” She said.</div>
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I told her about the dream, how I was reaching to my mom who was always just past my reach. </div>
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“The meaning of that dream is clear. Your mother’s spirit is close to you, and always will be but if you want to reach her you only have to look in your heart. You carry your love for her there, and as long as you love her, she will always be nearby.” She said. “And even though you can’t see it, the lifetime of love she had for you, that she felt for you surrounds you still. Only her body has died, not the love you shared.”</div>
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I was surprised by just how much sense that made. Why couldn’t I see that before?</div>
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“Well, honey, I’ve got some things to do before Colton brings our feast. I’m always here if you need me and you’re the closest thing to a daughter I will ever have. I can’t replace your mom, no one can, but if you need me I’m here for you. I’ll see you at four o’clock then.” She said as she rose to leave. </div>
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“Yes, I’ll come over then, and thank you. I do feel a little better.” I said.</div>
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“No need to thank me, it’s what friends do. I’ve known you all your life and just because your mom is no longer with us doesn’t mean the friendship ends. Besides, I told Colton you were up here and he can’t wait to see you. It’s been a long time since you two last saw one another.” She said. </div>
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Mrs. Waterson, Elsie, walked out my door and it was true, I did feel better. I even felt like being productive. I cranked on my playlist and began to clean the cabin. Months of spiders and dust needed to be swept away, and it felt cathartic to clean. The next time I looked at the clock it was three in the afternoon. The day went by in a heartbeat. I needed to get a bath and cleaned up. I hadn’t seen Colton in years, and I didn’t want to look like something to cat dragged in. I drew the bath and tossed in the dried lilacs my mom had hung. The hot water drew out the scent and it was almost like mom was here. The smell of lilac wafted into the rising steam. </div>
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When I was a child, I had a crush on Colton. He was three years older and was the cool kid all the other kids wanted to be. He attracted people to him. He was always surrounded by boys and girls alike but he didn’t seem to know he was the king of the cabin kids. He was easy to be with, making everyone around him laugh. He read The Hardy Boys and I read Nancy Drew. We would argue who solved mysteries better, girls or boys. We never did agree which one that was, but it was fun to compare the mysteries we read. It took two boys to solve mysteries that one girl solved. Nancy Drew was the clear winner. </div>
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I dried my hair and put on some light makeup. I had to admit I was a bit nervous to see him again. I’d heard he had become a doctor, on staff at a hospital a couple of hours away from the cabins. He was engaged at one point but the marriage never materialized. I wondered what happened. I also wondered if the adult version of Colton was as handsome as I remember the younger version was. All the girls dreamed on marrying him one day, and we all practiced writing Mrs. Colton Waterson in our notebooks. He never seemed interested in girls as anything but friends. Many girls tried to make him their boyfriend, and every single one of them failed. The closer it got to four o’clock, the more nervous I became. I went to the freezer for a shot of liquid courage. It was time to go see my childhood friend. </div>
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I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous. Who was Colton Waterson now? Would he still have the boyish charm that captured the hearts of every girl by the lake? Would he have that easy sense of humor that made you smile without realizing you felt better? Would he have become hardened by all the tragedy life throws in your face? My heartbeat quickened and I felt my face blush. Even after all these years, I still felt my girlish crush. Before I could knock on the door, it swung wide open and Mrs. Waterson~Elsie~scooped me up in her arms with an enthusiastic hug.</div>
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“Right on time my dear! Come in, come in! Colton is in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on our feast. Here, let me take your coat. There’s a nice fire going, just right to take the chill out of the air.” She practically undressed me. I looked around the room. It hasn’t changed since my earliest childhood memories, save for the addition of photographs. I could see the age progression of Colton from birth to adulthood on the walls. He turned into a handsome man. Elsie changed the furniture around a little, but the house was frozen in time. It felt like home now just as it felt like a second home then. Mrs. Waterson felt like the second mom I’d always had. I’d forgotten how close we were. That’s what distance does, it separates you from people who matter. Your life gets busy and you forget what lies in the past, or rather who lies in the past. </div>
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The dining table was set with fall tableware and the centerpiece was a vase filed with huge sunflowers and baby’s breath. I am remembering now. Sunflowers were Mr. Waterson’s favorite flower. My mom and Elsie used to playfully argue which flower was best. My mom was argue that lilacs were the trumpets of spring, bursting out in glorious color and fragrance from winter’s long silence. Elsie would say that sunflowers were the salt of the earth, beautiful and life affirming because you could eat the seeds. This flower provided nourishment and could fend off starvation in the long winter months following. Mother would fire back lilacs provided something better than seeds, lilacs were the sign of hope and promise just when winter was ending. It was the signal of better days ahead. They made for good friends, these two. Mom saw the promise of life while Elsie saw the practical needs of life. Mom was the yin to her yang. How could Elsie find balance without my mom? How could she not be lonely now that Sal and mom were gone?</div>
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“Colton, our guest is here!” Elsie yelled. “Come out and greet her.” Colton stepped out from the kitchen. He was all grown up. He came over and embraced me in his muscular arms. He towered over me at 6’4” or so. His dark hair fell into his boyish face. He didn’t look his age. It felt good to be in his arms, like the world couldn’t touch me here. I clung to him, not wanting this moment to end. </div>
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“Let me take a look at you! I can’t tell you how happy I felt when mom said you were up here. It’s been too long since we’ve seen one another.” He said. “You aren’t that scrawny little girl anymore. Do you still like mysteries?” He asked.</div>
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I can’t believe he remembered. “Not so much anymore.” I replied. “I like to know how the story ends. I like happy endings.”</div>
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“Me too,” he agreed. That’s why I became a doctor, so I could help make those happy endings.” </div>
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“I heard you are a doctor, congratulations! But don’t you see an awful lot of suffering? Surely you see people who die. How is that a happy ending?” I wanted to know how he could stay so optimistic in the face of death.</div>
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“Happy endings aren’t always of the Disney variety. Sometimes a happy ending is getting to say goodbye to someone you love. Sometimes a happy ending is recovering after a tragedy. Sometimes a happy ending is the ending. There are all kinds of happy endings but yes, I do see heartache, pain and misery. I do my best to alleviate it when I can. I was so sorry to hear of your mom passing. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral, I was on call that night.” He said.</div>
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“I can’t believe she’s gone. It’s why I came up to the cabin why my family is celebrating Thanksgiving at Jake’s house. I couldn’t bear to see that empty chair at the table, her chair.” I hoped I didn’t sound as desperate as I felt.</div>
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“That’s understandable. I’m glad you are here. We can catch up a bit. Dinner is ready. There’s a chilled bottle of chardonnay on the table, help yourself while I bring out the food.” He went into the kitchen and came out with his arms laden with piping hot food. It looked delicious. I suddenly had an appetite. My stomach growled fiercely. I hadn’t eaten much in the last week. </div>
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Elsie sat down at the head of the table and I took my seat at the side. Colton sat down opposite of me. “I remember the first holiday without dad.” Colton said. “It wasn’t the same. I guess none of the holidays are the same but mom and I get together and celebrate as if they were. We’re all we have now. How’s the rest of your family? Mom gives me updates, so I know Jake is an electrician and he married his high school sweetheart. He has two kids, right?”</div>
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“Yes, he and Margie have a boy and a girl, with another boy on the way. Margie is due around Christmas. They just bought a house in Scofield. Margie is quitting her job at the law firm to be a full time mom. I can’t imagine her as the soccer mom type, but she says that’s what she wants. Patty is a flight attendant, but she is at Jake’s for the holiday. She has a boyfriend, but isn’t interested in getting married yet. James is getting his PhD in anthropology. He says you can’t get anywhere in the field without it but he is in Israel doing some type of internship. He couldn’t make it home for Thanksgiving. With mom gone, Jake and Margie have taken over as the heart of the family. They are the only ones of us that have a home.” I said. “The turkey is really good, so moist. Did you cook it yourself?” I asked him. </div>
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“Oh, no! I would burn a boiled egg. The past few years I’ve ordered Thanksgiving from a local caterer and brought it up here to mom. She makes me nervous living up here by herself but we spend the holidays together and I get up here when I can. I just reheat it. They really do a nice job, don’t they?” He asked. “And what about you? Are you still at the lab?”</div>
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“Yeah. We just accepted a new research study in neuropharmaceuticals. We are studying a new drug for dementia. I hope it works because if it does it will provide the first real breakthrough for Alzheimer’s. It’s exciting to be a part of it.” I said. </div>
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“What a coincidence!” Elsie exclaimed. “Colton just got his credentials in gerontology. He and some other docs are opening up a practice specializing in aging. He says there are too many biochemical changes in human physiology to treat us older folks the same as younger adults. We need docs who understand those changes. I’m so proud of him.” She leaned over and tossed his hair with her hand. </div>
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“Mom!” Colton said sheepishly. “Not the hair!” He tried to admonish his mom, but he took on a slight blush. He poured us all another round of wine. It was a good chardonnay, probably high end. It went down like melted butter.</div>
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“So what about you? What’s been keeping you busy besides being a doctor?” I asked. </div>
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“I don’t have a great deal of time on my hands to do much of anything else. I don’t read mysteries anymore unless medical mysteries count. Professional journals are all I have time to read. My vacations I spend with mom. We went to Greece last year and saw the Parthenon. Before that we went white water rafting in the Poconos. One year I took mom parasailing in the Bahamas and another we went zip lining in the Amazon rain forest.” He said. </div>
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I looked at him in disbelief. I couldn’t imagine this slip of a woman doing all those things. “Don’t give me that look. Mom plans the vacations and I just go along with her.” He laughed.</div>
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“It’s true” Elsie laughed. “I plan them all. If I left it up to him, he would have me on some senior cruise ship listening to The Backstreet Boys on tour. I’m not old enough for cruise ships just yet. Did your mom ever tell you about the first time we went camping?”</div>
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“I don’t think so.” I said. </div>
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“Oh my! She was something. She didn’t know squat about camping. Our junior high history teacher, Mr Price, had an outdoor adventure club and the highlight of the club was a canoeing trip at the end of the school year. We were both so excited. She asked Mr. Price if there was running water at the camp site. Mr. Price told her there was but he had a sense of humor and meant the running water was the Ohio River. She was dead serious, trying to plan for what we would need. Your mom took everything so literal back then. On the day we were to leave, she brought a tent and her supplies for the weekend to school. We got to the campground just before nightfall that Friday and set about making our campsite when it became apparent she had forgotten the tent at school. That was the first problem. Poor Mr. Price had to drive his camper into town to get a makeshift tent. He bought some plastic he hung over some rope he tied between a couple of trees and that was our tent. Your mom asked him where the fountain was. She brought powdered koolaid for us to drink. That was problem two. The running water that made the Ohio River was far too brackish to drink. Mr. and Mrs. Price gave us some sodas. She paused to take a couple of bites of her dinner.</div>
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Elsie was laughing as she remembered. I could imagine mom as a teenager, woefully ill equipped to be a camper. Mom always said her idea of roughing it was a hotel room without a coffee maker. </div>
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“I think I’ve heard this story before.” Colton said. “Don’t worry mom, I won’t give away the ending. There was a twinkle in his eye. Elsie hadn’t gotten to the best part of the story yet.</div>
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“We had arrived at the campsite around suppertime. Someone got a big fire going and most everyone brought hot dogs they stuck on a stick and held them over the fire. Not your mom, she brought ground beef to make hamburgers. She had this contraption like a sandwich cage to hold them over the fire. They were pretty good hamburgers, but I thought she was going to burn herself when the grease caught fire. We have very well done burgers but we didn’t care. We spent the night playing with our classmates, and at the end of the night we all sat around the campfire while people took turns telling scary stories. At one point your mom disappeared and didn’t come back for a long time. I thought she had gone to sleep. Some people brought chocolate and marshmallows to make smores and I was getting hungry. When I went back to our tent for a snack, I found out what she had been doing. Bringing snacks was my job. Your mom got into the Bugles and ate then entire box! She didn’t even leave me the crumbs. I was so mad at your mom I was steaming, but you can’t stay mad at your mom. No matter what she did, you just couldn’t stay mad. We went to sleep soon after that. Your mom fell asleep right off but I was hungry and I didn’t have any Bugles to eat.” </div>
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“We awakened the next morning by a bustle of activity. The bonfire was going and everyone was getting some breakfast. That was when I found out your mother brought eggs for our breakfast. Eggs! To cook over a campfire!” Elsie broke out into laughter and I caught myself laughing with her. </div>
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“So your mom decides she is going to use the cast iron skillet she brought to fry up some eggs but I decided to boil my eggs in another pan your mother brought. I should have been the captain of the camping trip because your mother didn’t have the first clue. I filled my pan with water from the river, the only running water around, and set it on some coals. I was half mad from starvation. I didn’t have a good supper, your mom had eaten all our snacks, and I couldn’t see how she was going to fry up eggs on an open fire. Several other kids were around the fire when Craig Tompkins blew his nose and threw the tissue into the fire. At the exact moment he threw the tissue, a little breeze picked up the tissue and it blew right into your mom’s eggs!” We all laughed. </div>
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“Your mom was horrified! She looked at Craig, who genuinely looked sorry, but she didn’t say anything. Her face said it all. Poor thing turned over the skillet. She wasn’t getting any breakfast. I almost felt sorry for her, but I was still miffed she ate all the Bugles. I did offer her one of my boiled eggs, but she didn’t want one. I know you mom, she had her heart set on fried eggs and that’s what she wanted. She kept me company at the fire. When my eggs were done, I cracked them open. They were gray, almost black! They looked awful. The river water looked clean enough, but my eggs were ruined. Neither one of us were going to get any breakfast today. We were going to go hungry, but we were far too excited to go canoeing to let it bother us. We helped pack up the campsite. Some of the parents were going to drive all our belongings and cars to the next camping site while we canoed down the river.”</div>
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“There was an informal race to see who could get to the camp site first. There was a set of parents in the lead, another set of parents in the middle, and Mr and Mrs. Price held up the back end. Neither your mom or I had ever been canoeing before, it was all new to us. We were never going to master the great outdoors. We couldn’t keep the canoe going straight, instead hitting one bank and the other. Mr. and Mrs. Price actually had to pull off to the side of the banks from time to time to avoid getting ahead of us. You know how competitive your mom is,” Elsie said as she nodded in my direction. “She was at her wits end knowing we were in last place. We couldn’t even keep the canoe upright. We kept tipping it and had to chase the canoe down the river to catch it. I swear we spent more time in the water than in the canoe!” Elsie was back in time, remembering the list of calamities that bonded two teenage girls to a lifetime of friendship. </div>
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“We finally made it to the campsite. We ate whatever was left, which wasn’t all that much. Mostly we went around and mooched off of other people. We all sat around the campfire telling scary stories, but everyone was exhausted so story time let up earlier than the night before. Your mom didn’t make it past the first story. She was sound asleep when I made it to our see through tent. Your mom looked like such an angel when she slept. You would never know what a mischievous little imp she was when she was awake. I went to sleep beside her and before we knew it morning had come again.”</div>
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“We didn’t have anything for breakfast, all our eggs were broken so Mr. and Mrs. Price took us to their camper for some cereal. We wolfed down three bowls each! Mrs. Price laughed, but we were starving. We hadn’t had a decent meal since lunch Friday at school. Mr. Price tried to give us some tips on rowing our canoe, hoping to avoid the long journey we had the day before. There was another informal race to reach the end of the line. Your mom was determined to give winning another try. We got on our swimsuits and shorts and shoved off in our boat.” </div>
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How had I never heard this story before? It sounded just like mom, who couldn’t be a camper if she tried. There are two kinds of people in this world, ones who can camp, and one who will always be city people, never far away from the convenience of city life. My mother was a city girl. She loved the cabin and being by the lake, but give her a Sunday at the mall and she was in her element. I couldn’t believe this was my mother going canoeing though. She hated water! That was something I didn't’ find out until I was nearly grown. My summers were filled with endless days and nights at the cabin and swimming in the lake. Mom took us swimming and made sure we had swimming lessons. Mom wasn’t a strong swimmer and wanted to make sure we could hold our own. There wasn’t a lifeguard on duty at the lake. Everyone was responsible for their own children. It seemed every few years, you would hear of a child drowning. We were well into our teens before mom would let us go swimming by ourselves. Even then, we had to have a swimming buddy. As we got older, mom quit swimming. She would sit at the edge of the water, but she didn’t go into the water any further than that. She never told me why she seemed to be afraid of the water, but she made sure all us kids enjoyed swimming, even if that was the last thing she wanted to do. </div>
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Elsie continued with her story. “We did much better the second day, we had more control over the canoe and could go long stretches in a straight line. Some of the twists and turns of the river gave us a bit of trouble, but we weren’t in last place. We even passed some other people. We were singing some songs, rowing in rhythm. There was a popular song a the time called “Rock the Boat.” We sang that, only your mom starting swaying side to side with the song. Rock the boat, don’t tip the boat over, rock the boat she sang and the boat swayed side to side. I started yelling at your mom to cut it out, I didn’t want to tip the boat and I certainly didn’t want to get wet but your mom was in the mood of the song and ignored my pleas to stop rocking the boat. Suddenly she rocked a little too hard and I went flying out of the canoe!” We all began laughing. Elsie was laughing so hard tears were coming out of her eyes. The harder she laughed, the more Colton and I laughed. </div>
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“Yes, your mom rocked the boat so hard I flew out of it, but not so hard it tipped over. I popped my head up out of the water to see your mother flowing several feet ahead of me. She was down to one oar and couldn’t control the boat by herself. It finally ran into the bank. She pulled it up onto land and swam upstream to help me capture my oar. By the time we got back to our canoe and on water again, we saw Mr. Price’s canoe flow passed us. We were in last place again. I was so mad at your mom I didn’t speak to her until we landed at the end of our trip. By then, the warmth of the summer sun had dried out my clothing and I was too tired to be mad.” Elsie told the story with such fondness, I couldn’t believe she had ever been upset with my mom. </div>
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I had been so engrossed in the story that I didn’t realize I had eaten everything on my plate. I didn’t have much of an appetite these days, so it surprised me that not only had I eaten an entire meal, but I wanted seconds. “Colton, could you pass me the stuffing please? Everything is so good!” </div>
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“Save some room for pie, “ he said. “They make an incredible cheesecake pumpkin pie, and their apple pie is pretty good too.”</div>
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For the rest of the meal, we each shared memories of my mother. I’d forgotten what a rich history she had lived. As we shared our stories, we laughed, we cried, we loved and we took some time to miss her. My mother was a larger than life personality. What we didn’t do was grieve. We celebrated the life my mother had, and we were so lucky to have had her for all the years we did. I don’t know how much wine I drank, but my head was swimming. We had been sitting at the table eating and sharing stories for almost four hours. Time had flown by. </div>
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Elsie got up to begin clearing the table, and Colton and I followed her lead. The conversation strayed away from my mother and I learned what Colton had been doing with his life. He spends a couple of weeks each year with Doctors without Borders donating his time and skills to areas in desperate need of medical care. He had a relationship with a woman named Ann and he had planned to marry her until she became pregnant by another doctor on staff. He didn’t have much time for dating and had tried the dating web sites without much luck. A golden retriever kept him company until this past summer when Buddy walked over rainbow bridge. He was working earnestly on setting up his new practice. We cleared the table and washed the dishes with a natural ease, as if we had been doing this all our lives. </div>
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“Well, I had better get going, I’ve had too much wine and too much food. Thank you Elsie and Colton, for such a lovely evening, and for all the stories of my mother. I certainly didn’t expect to feel so good when we were reminiscing. I didn’t expect to laugh, either. Really, thank you. This night meant more than you could know.” I said. </div>
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“You’re more than welcome my dear. If you want to come up for Thanksgiving next year, we could make this a new tradition.” Elsie replied.</div>
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“I don’t have to head back to the hospital until late tomorrow evening, how about coming over around lunch?” Colton asked. “We’ll have some leftovers and maybe we could take a hike? I’d love to spend some time with you before I go. It’s been too long.” </div>
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“Sure!” I said with butterflies in my bloated tummy. “I would love that.” I put on my coat. </div>
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“Let me walk you back to your cabin. It’s pretty dark out there and you never know who might still be around.” Colton said as he grabbed his coat.</div>
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“Really, I’m fine” I said. My heart skipped a beat and I felt a little flushed. What was I doing acting like a lovesick child? </div>
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Colton opened the door and the cool night air rushed upon our faces. It was exhilarating. My door was just a few feet away but I wished I lived on the other side of the lake. I didn’t want the evening to end. We reached my door and Colton lingered on the porch. Without saying a word, he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I had a wonderful time this evening.” He said. “Happy Thanksgiving!”</div>
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“Happy Thanksgiving!” I replied. I turned the key in the lock, opening the door. I almost fell into Colton’s arms, hugging him like my life depended upon it. It felt so good to be in the arms of a man again. I wanted to stay there but I slowly pulled out of his warm embrace. “See you tomorrow then?” I asked.</div>
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“Count on it!” he replied. I’m looking forward to spending more time with you. He turned and bounced down the stairs, as if he always walked on air. </div>
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I closed the door and leaned against it for a minute. It might be the wine, but my heart was fluttering. I could still feel how soft his lips felt on my face. I drew my hand up to feel the spot on my cheek he had kissed. The remnants of my school girl crush came rushing back as if my teenage self was just yesterday instead of over a decade ago. I took off my coat and danced a little to music only my feet could hear. I felt light and hopeful, something I had not felt for many months. I spent the rest of the evening in a trance like state, looking over the pictures of my childhood. I didn’t feel sad or alone the entire night. I went to bed and slept a dreamless night. I awakened in the morning wanting to see what the day would bring. I had expected a weekend of sorrow. Instead, I was having some fun. I almost felt a bit guilty for having fun when I should be grieving the loss of my mother. </div>
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The sun seemed brighter today, and I greeted the day with promise. I was looking forward to spending some time with my childhood friend and wondered why we had let time separate us. Time does that to so many people. Like Elsie said, people tend to come and go throughout our life. Often, they leave our life quietly and without ceremony. I put some logs in the hearth, there was a crisp chill in the air. It felt good to clean yesterday, so I set about cleaning out mom’s bedroom. My siblings had gone through the main house and I felt some guilt about not helping them. In fact, I felt angry with them at the time. They were right to clean her house and get it ready for sale, but to me it felt like a betrayal. We had been raised in that house. There was a lifetime of memories there and they were going to let a stranger erase them all. Every mark on the wall commemorating our growth, gone. Every nuance needing repair was repaired. The door to my old bedroom no longer groaned, the floorboard in the living room that creaked no longer creaked. The boiler system was dismantled and replaced with a cost efficient furnace. The kitchen was updated and modernized. It didn’t look like our home once my siblings got through with it. Freshly painted, it was eventually sold to a couple with two children and one on the way. Soon, they would be making their own memories in our old home. </div>
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I decided to start with her closet. I pulled out shirts and sweaters, and I saw mom in every one. Images flashed through my memory and I could place her wearing each article of clothing. I remember crying on this blouse the night I was stood up for prom. Jake ended up taking me that night. She wore this blouse the night my father died. With each piece of clothing came a memory. I gingerly folded up each one and put them in a plastic bag. They were going to be donated to the local women’s shelter. I had just finished the closet when there was a knock on the door. I looked at my watch and realized the entire morning had flown by. It was nearly noon! I wasn’t ready. I was barely dressed, I hadn’t brushed my hair or teeth. </div>
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I opened the door to find Colton standing on the porch with a picnic basket. “Good morning!” He said with a wide grin. “I thought it would be nice to have a picnic at our old spot up on the hill. What do you say?” </div>
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“A picnic? Isn’t it a bit chilly for a picnic?” I asked. It was warm for November, but it was November. </div>
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“I’ve got it covered.” He replied. “I have a thermos full of cream of turkey soup and another full of spiked hot chocolate. We have turkey sandwiches and some cheese. I have a tablecloth and a blanket if you get too chilly.” In addition to his picnic basket, I saw he was wearing a backpack. He did come prepared. How could I say no?</div>
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“OK, but I”m not quite ready. I was going through some of mom’s things and lost track of time. Give me five? Come in and have a seat, I’ll be ready in a jiff.” I said. There was no time for make-up. Running a brush through my hair and brushing my teeth would have to do.</div>
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“Tell you what, take ten. Mom taught me the best women were the ones worth waiting for.” He said with a twinkle in his eye.</div>
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I smiled back and rushed into the bathroom. I layered my clothing, putting on a cami, a t-shirt and then a sweater. I found my hiking boots, a scarf and a warm wool hat. I was as ready as I was going to get. </div>
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“Let’s go!” I felt an excitement stirring inside of me I haven’t felt in a very long time. This weekend was turning out to be so different than the one I expected. I thought I would be alone and crying the entire time. I didn’t shed a single tear when I was putting mom’s clothing into the donation bag. I was giving mom’s clothing away, but keeping the memories. I had plenty of mementos and pictures to keep her memory fresh and alive. </div>
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“Let’s go!” He said. </div>
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I stepped out into a day warmer than I expected. There was still a slight chill in the air, but the chill disappeared as we walked. It was as if no time had passed between us. We talked with the same ease we had as children. We shared our memories, and laughed at the adventures we had together. I had forgotten most of them, but as we talked the past reared back to life as if it had been waiting in the shadows to come out into the light once more. The past year, the heartache and sorrow faded into the background and I found myself truly enjoying the moment. His eyes sparkled in the sun, his smile was infectious. I couldn’t help but have a good time with him. We reached the summit of the hill and he reached around for his backpack. I felt energized and alive. </div>
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He spread the tablecloth on the ground, sitting on top of it. He motioned for me to sit next to him as he prepared our picnic. I shivered a bit when I sat next to him. He thought I was cold and pulled the blanket out, laying it across our legs. He poured us each a drink, and the hot chocolate was delicious. He continued to lay out our lunch, and I suddenly found I was starving. I remembered that I hadn’t eaten any breakfast. I ate my soup and sandwich with great enthusiasm. He laughed at me. “Well, I guess you have a healthy appetite!” He said with a smile in his voice. </div>
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“I forgot to eat breakfast.” I replied. “I honestly didn’t expect to have much of an appetite this weekend, but this weekend has been full of unexpected things.”</div>
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“You know, when mom told me you were here, I have to admit it was an unexpected surprise. I’ve thought about you now and then over the years, and of course mom keeps me in tune with the latest gossip. I’m happy we can spend some time together. It’s been too long. I’ve missed you.” He said, his voice becoming quieter. </div>
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“I’ve missed you too.” I admitted. “We were so close when we were kids, and then life took us in different directions.”</div>
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“I regret not keeping in touch with you. I got caught up in medical school and then life in general. I always meant to call you but then as time went on it seemed awkward. Then you got married and it didn’t seem appropriate.” He said.</div>
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“Yeah, we should have kept in touch. We shouldn’t let that happen again.” I replied.</div>
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“No, we won’t let that happen again.” He said as he stared deeply into my eyes. I could get lost in those cerulean blues. Neither of us spoke, each of us lost in our own thoughts. He leaned in and kissed me lightly on the lips. I swear my heart was going to beat right out of my chest. It was so loud I was certain he could hear it. I looked away nervously.</div>
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“I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable. I’ve actually wanted to do that since I saw you yesterday. This is me showing restraint.” His voice cracked a little. He was as nervous as I was. </div>
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“No, I uhm,” I didn’t know what else to say, so I kissed him back. Our lips touched one another and the electricity was undeniable. I wanted to strip off his clothes then and there, but there was a sweetness, a tenderness in letting our lips linger upon one another. </div>
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Our faces were so close I could feel his breath on my cheek. I felt dizzy. I leaned into him to steady myself. He ran his fingers through my hair. Neither one of us spoke for what seemed like an eternity. He sat up straight and took my face in his hands. “I don’t want to pressure you, or to rush you, but the truth is I’ve always loved you. I thought it was just a crush when we were younger, but seeing you again brought back all those feelings and they are as strong now as they were then. I let you go once before, I don’t want to lose touch with you again.” He said. His voice quivered when he spoke, unsure if I felt the same way. “I know it’s been a rough year for you, so if you need time, I can understand that, but let’s not lose touch again.”</div>
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A tear, and then another one escaped down my cheek. I was overwhelmed with emotion. I looked down. I couldn’t bear to let him see my face. I stammered “I had a crush on you all throughout my teen years too.” I looked up to see him smiling. He brushed the hair out of my face. He kissed me again, just as tenderly as the first time but with the passion he had been holding back. I was tingling from head to toe as I kissed him back. I no longer felt a chill in the air. There was no past and no future. There was only right now, this moment. There was no place I would rather be. He ran his hand from my face to the back of my neck and kissed me again, pulling me in towards him. I would have melted into him if I could. His kiss was filled with an innocence, with a patience I’ve never felt before. It was as if I was being kissed for the very first time. He ended the kiss by nibbling my upper lip, ever so gently. As he pulled away, I almost felt lost, as if part of me was pulling away with him.</div>
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“We’d better head back, it’s going to get real chilly real fast and we are out of hot chocolate and soup.” He said. We packed up our picnic without a word, each of us lost in our own thoughts. We walked back to the cabin hand in hand, neither one of us speaking. We didn’t need words when we were kids, and we didn’t need them now. Dare I say I felt happy? Hopeful even? Like all of the tragedy of the last year had melted into the past and all there was was a future, a future full of love, hope and promise? A future that no longer held the emptiness I’ve felt since my life fell apart? Mom always said a door never closes without another one opening, could this be that open door?</div>
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We arrived back at my cabin and he paused at the door. “I’ve got to head back to the hospital tonight, they are short staffed and the holidays are always busy. Can I call you?” He asked.</div>
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“Of course, of course, I’d like that.” I said shyly. I was like a schoolgirl in love for the first time instead of a woman who had been married and divorced. I smiled into his eyes and he kissed me once more, this time moving his kisses over my cheek.</div>
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“Awesome!” He said excitedly. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we can make some plans to get together soon.” He leaned in to give me another kiss before he practically leapt off the porch, taking the steps two at a time. I watch him until he got to Elsie’s cabin. He turned and waved to me before he ducked inside the door. I went inside my own cabin, my heart light. All the confusion and pain I had been feeling melted away. I no longer felt alone. </div>
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I spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening going through mom’s things. With each of her things I touched, a memory came to mind. Some of the memories were happy, some sad. Some of the memories were funny, others reminded me of times I was in trouble. I packed things into boxes, things I wanted to keep and other boxes for my siblings to go through in case they wanted anything. The last boxes were packed to be donated. Mom’s bedroom was in a state of organized disarray by the time I had finished. With each box packed, a little bit of sorrow was packed away with it. I healed a bit as I packed up mom’s life. My memories provided me with a life in review. Mom had a good life. She didn’t suffer when she died. Elsie was right, mom had left me with everything I needed to go on without her. I wished I didn’t have to go on without her, but that’s how life is. People aren’t meant to stay with you forever. They come into your life with gifts, lessons you need to learn, experiences you need to have to be a better person that you were before. I am a better person because mom was in my life. One day, I will be a better mother because of all she taught me. I will fill my daughter’s life with stories of this amazing woman. I will show her pictures so she can know mom as I did and though they cannot meet, my daughter will come to love her as I love her. I put the boxes in the car so I could head back to town first thing in the morning.</div>
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I walked back into the cabin after loading the last box and looked around. I breathed in the smell of lilacs, still strong even after I cleaned. Mom didn’t leave me. She would forever be in every lilac I would ever smell for the rest of my life. When her memory fades, as memories do, I will look at her pictures. When I want to talk to her, all I have to do is search my memories through the many conversations we had. Her truths are there, I simply need to remember and I will know what my mom would say to me. I grabbed a sandwich and my vodka. This weekend had been full of surprises. I thought I had lost my mother, but she was here all along. I thought my life empty, but I just needed to be reminded of the past to see how full my life could be. Elsie is here and she has always meant so much to me. I’ve always loved Colton, but now I will love him as an adult. My life with Tom wasn’t the life I deserved. I deserved so much better. I deserve to be happy and I would never have been truly happy with him. The door with Tom was closed, and the door with Colton had opened. </div>
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I finished my cleaning and went to bed. I slept hard and in my dreams my mother appeared to me again, looking like an angel. She reached out her arms to me and I reached out to her. This time, I was able to embrace my mother and I felt her love surge through me, filling up every place there was pain. Her love was all consuming, so there wasn’t room for sorrow. When I awoke, I awakened feeling peaceful. The sun was shining in through the dirty windows, and I could see the country dust dancing on the beams. I stretched out the night, preparing my body for the coming day. I felt the afterglow from my dream and gave myself a little hug. This time when I thought of my mother, I didn’t think of loss. I thought of the life we shared and I swear I felt my heart smile. I made it through the first Thanksgiving without her. It was time for new traditions, traditions which honored the past but celebrated the present. I made a vow to spend next Thanksgiving here with Elsie. I don’t know what Christmas will look like without my mother, but I’m ready for it. </div>
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I got dressed and said a tearful goodbye to Elsie. When my mother died, I thought my life was over. It wasn’t. It wouldn’t be the same, but as I drove back to my life I knew what Elsie said was true. My mother had left me with a lifetime of love.</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-90047659453310395602017-09-26T07:24:00.002-04:002017-09-26T07:24:18.078-04:00Today I Love Divinity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>I don’t believe in a traditional view of God. As an Atheist, I don’t think someone or something of omnipotent design would bother with the minutia of our insignificant lives. After all, you don’t see astrophysicists hanging out with high school dropouts, do you? Prayer is a concept of particular issue for me. If it is all part of some divine plan, then it has already been decided and an individual seems to think that saying a few magical words in their head either individually or in a group will appeal to a supreme being and convince he or she to change their mind. I do believe there is something larger than myself. If we are the supreme beings in the universe, then the universe is royally screwed. I cannot deny that every once in a while, it feels as if something supernatural has happened. This weekend was one such an event. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>As a part of my health challenges, I deal with profound fatigue. Some days are worse than others, but even small efforts can wear me out for days. There are days when I’m not sure which is worse, the chronic pain or the fatigue. Both leave me mentally and physically drained and challenges my ability to function. The anxiety which tortures most of my day presents itself in a myriad of symptoms, and agoraphobia is one of many. Just leaving my apartment for a quick grocery trip can tax my ability to cope and leaves me worn and feeling aged. I have been relying on the weekends for a reprieve, since most weekdays I have a doctor appointment or other pressing reason to leave my apartment. My case manager Kristin, who transports me to various appointments and errands has been very patient with the number of times I need to cancel a trip. Sometimes I am too overwhelmed to go out another day even though Kristin makes it as easy as it can be. Despite living in a building with several hundred of other people, I feel safe and secluded within the confines of my small space. It brings me comfort knowing no one or nothing can violate my space without my expressed permission. I can choose to participate in social media, or I can lurk on the threads. I have complete control to what extent I choose to socialize. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>When you live with that level of anxiety, even planning an outing you will enjoy is stressful. This past Saturday was one such event. My daughter wanted to take me to see “It.” Being a huge Stephen King fan, I really wanted to see this in the theater and be able to experience the horror movie larger than life and in surround sound. More than that, I wanted to spend some time with my daughter. I haven’t seen her in a while. I had to take the bus from Akron, OH to Canton, OH. It’s an hour and fifteen minute trip once I get to the terminal. She would bring me home, but I had to get to her. I had planned on taking the bus in early to spend some time with my best friend, who I hadn’t seen in quite some time either. When Friday came, the anxiety began to rear its ugly head. I retreated inside of myself and tried to get some rest in order to better tolerate the trip. I knew I would have fun, but pain and fatigue were going to be my unwelcome companions. I wondered if the fun would outweigh the misery. By Saturday morning, I was already worn out and stressing about canceling the trip.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>I awakened the first time around 2pm. I could have made the trip in early if I hurried and got myself together, but I could barely stay awake. I sent a text to my best friend letting her know I wasn’t going to make it. My daughter called me to see when the last bus was going to come in so she could plan which showing time would work out best. I told her I wasn’t feeling well, which was true. She did not want me to cancel. She played the guilt card. If there is a card to be played, that’s a good one. It works almost all the time. I fell back asleep. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>I awakened at 6:08pm and the last bus left for Canton at 6:28pm from the downtown terminal. I gathered my things as quickly as I could and ran out of the building. I didn’t think I could walk the distance quickly enough. I went to the bus stop outside of my building to text an inquiry of when the next bus was heading downtown. The reply was 7:07pm. I forgot the schedules were a bit wonky on the weekends. I was going to have to walk to the terminal. I looked at my phone and the time was 6:16pm. I had just 12 minutes. I started out walking as quickly as I could. I’ve never made it in 12 minutes before, but maybe the bus would be running a bit late. It happens. I had to at least try. I quickened my pace. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>I was breathless as I rounded the corner, near the first stop after leaving the terminal. I strained to see the bus number coming toward me. Nothing makes you feel old faster than a blurry bus sign coming at you. It wasn’t my bus. I didn’t think my bus came in this direction after leaving the terminal, but I kept the slightest vein of hope alive. I was really trying to make it. I didn’t want to disappoint my daughter, or myself. The next bus rounded the corner, and it wasn’t my bus either. My anxiety was rising with each bus I passed, knowing many of the buses were pulling out of the terminal after they all rounded up and waited for transfers. Surely the number 81 was among them. I made it to the stop and read the sign. As I thought, my bus didn’t come in this direction. It was a dedicated bus going south into Canton, a couple smaller cities away. It would be heading for the freeway. I was still blocks away from the terminal. I checked my phone. It was 6:28pm. My heart sank as I tried to figure out how I was going to tell my daughter I had missed my bus. I continued toward the terminal. It’s possible the bus could be late. I didn’t think it was much of a chance, but I wouldn’t know unless I tried. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>I rounded the next corner and I had the terminal in view. It was still a few blocks away, but the number 81 would be parked on the side of the terminal closest to me. There wasn’t a single bus stopped. The terminal looked bleak, quiet and desolate without a bus in sight and no visible sign of anyone else at the station. Discouraged, I sat on the curb, exhausted and in pain. In my hurry, I had forgotten to take my pain medication and pushing myself so hard to make the bus pushed the limitations of my body. I sat there wondering what was the best thing to do. I was close to the terminal, but at this point, I needed to admit defeat and go home. I was too tired to walk back so even if I had to wait until the next bus round up, it would be better than trying to walk back in failure and pain. I got up and began the first steps to returning home. I was disappointed. I had overcome all my excuses in order to meet my daughter, but I had set myself up for failure by waking up so late. Each step I took was heavier than the last.</i></b></span></div>
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<em><strong><span style="background-color: white; color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I got within a block and a half of the terminal when a single bus pulled in and parked where my bus should be. My heart skipped a beat and suddenly I was renewed with a fresh burst of adrenaline. Could it be my bus? I didn’t understand how it could be my bus, but I was too close to risk missing it now. I picked up my pace. The last several feet of the trip was a slight upgrade, and I felt gravity trying to push me down even as my goal might finally be within reach. I didn’t know if it was my bus, and I wouldn’t know until I reached it, but I had hope. I climbed that little hill, determined to get to the bus before it left its assigned slot. I got within a few feet of the bus and I couldn’t believe my eyes, it was my bus! How could this be? </span></strong></em></div>
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<em><strong><span style="background-color: white; color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Breathless, I asked the driver how much time I had before he left. I had 12 minutes, which was just enough time to go into the terminal and get a soda from the machine. Among other things I had forgotten in my quest to catch the bus, I didn’t bring anything to drink and I was mad with thirst. Although it was officially fall in Ohio, typically a time for cooling weather and fall leaves, it was in the upper eighties. I was sweated wet. I made it into the terminal only to see signs on all the vending machines “out of order.” The only vending machine operational was the candy and chips. If that was the worst of my night, I wasn’t going to let it bother me. </span></strong></em><em style="text-align: left;"><strong><span style="background-color: white; color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I had made the bus. </span></strong></em></div>
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<em style="text-align: left;"><strong><span style="background-color: white; color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I returned to the bus and paid my fare. I settled into a seat and relaxed for the first time since I had awakened. I began to fix my hair and apply a bit of makeup. I marveled at all the decisions I made to get me to this point. I awakened so late, I didn’t have much hope at all of making my bus but I got myself together and tried anyway. I watched as buses left the lineup and approached the first stop and I did not give up despite the evidence I was not going to make my bus. I continued on even after I saw the time on my cellphone, with mounting evidence I was not going to make my bus. I sat down in despair when I had the terminal in eyesight and saw the evidence of a vacant terminal. I chose to continue to the terminal to take a bus back to my apartment after clear evidence I had indeed missed my bus. I had made a series of decisions that despite the evidence in front of me, I was going to defy logic and give it my best shot. Because of my determination, I was on my way to see my daughter. I was going to see a movie I wanted very badly to see. Then I remembered the last time I made the trip to Canton. That time too, I had set myself up for failure. I left my apartment a little too late. I missed the bus to take me to the terminal by two minutes. I had to walk to the terminal and was unsure if I could walk fast enough to catch the Canton bus. I gave it my best effort and I had succeeded in making that bus as well. Suddenly it seemed as if divine providence had interceded on my behalf not once, but twice. Both times, against all odds, I caught my bus. It certainly felt like a guardian angel had intervened on my behalf. It felt as if divinity had intervened. </span></strong></em></div>
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<em style="text-align: left;"><strong><span style="background-color: white; color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></strong></em></div>
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<em style="text-align: left;"><strong><span style="background-color: white; color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Both times I had a good time with my daughter, simply having fun and building memories. Those times are priceless but in my misery, I forgot how precious those times are and how seldom they come along. I needed to be reminded my life cannot be about misery, it cannot be about fatigue, pain, and anxiety. Every day I cancel something I would like to do as I give in to the failings of my body, my spirit fails a bit with it. I need times of joy and laughter to replenish my spirit and mend my broken soul. Those are the times that will get me through the hours and days I spend in bed, too fatigued to move more than necessary, or in too much pain to desire a social experience. When you fight pain day after day, you begin to fear doing anything that may bring it on. It’s easy to forget joy when most of your time is spent in misery. </span></strong></em></div>
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<em style="text-align: left;"><strong><span style="background-color: white; color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So today I love divinity. When you look at the odds and all odds are against you, it would seem that something supernatural paved the way to success. Together with my determination, divine providence led the way to create memories with my daughter. I may not believe in a god, but I’m unwilling to discount a supernatural force when failure seemed like the only logical option.</span></strong></em></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-63229186541892758032016-12-15T17:59:00.000-04:002016-12-15T17:59:13.001-04:00Silent Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>This shadowy silence is all I see</i></div>
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<i>That lonely person is not me</i></div>
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<i>A lonely person isn’t me.</i></div>
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<i>My home has walls tall and wide</i></div>
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<i>There's no one by my side</i></div>
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<i>No one stands by my side</i></div>
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<i>I check the time on my phone</i></div>
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<i>It’s true, I am alone</i></div>
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<i>Silence, and I’m alone</i></div>
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<i>The decorations light my room</i></div>
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<i>The shadows predict not light, but doom</i></div>
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<i>Twinkle not, shadows doom</i></div>
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<i>My mind, my thoughts do not cease</i></div>
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<i>My home there is no peace</i></div>
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<i>Alone there is no peace</i></div>
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<i>Season of joy, season of light</i></div>
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<i>The joy I fake with all my might</i></div>
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<i>The joy I fake into the night</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>No one knows and no one sees</i></div>
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<i>The darkness lying inside me</i></div>
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<i>There is darkness deep in me</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>My heartbeat echos in my ear</i></div>
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<i>Silver and gold this time of year</i></div>
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<i>Silver and gold this time of cheer</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Reminding myself the day of week</i></div>
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<i>Company of those I cannot seek</i></div>
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<i>Depression looms and I am meek</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Depression looms and breathe I seek. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Tick tock, tick tock, goes the clock</i></div>
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<i>Minutes by the hour</i></div>
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<i>Time alone is my tower</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Go to sleep and feel no more</i></div>
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<i>Go to sleep and soul to soar</i></div>
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<i>Go to sleep and soul to soar</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Feeling pain, never more.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-63035354067378261982016-04-10T16:02:00.000-04:002016-04-10T16:02:05.195-04:00The Mangina Monologues<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Privy to the phone conversations of someone who doesn't know to keep his conversations private, I do what writers do....publish it. <div>
</div>
<div>
For brevity, there are some phrases he peppers in the conversation generously.</div>
<div>
You know what I'm saying? YKWIS</div>
<div>
Oh my goodness! OMG</div>
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I know that's right! IKTR</div>
<div>
He also prefaces many of his sentences with the teenage valley girl "like."</div>
<div>
My thoughts are in parenthesis and if I missed a word or two it will be replaced with "dildo" today. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh, guuuuuurl, IKTR</div>
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hmmmm, uh huh... like, I am a grown man, I'm too old for that. Like, YKWIS?</div>
<div>
Whatch you saying?</div>
<div>
Yeah, and like she don't know what she's talking about, not at all. YKWIS?</div>
<div>
I don't have time for that, I really don't. hmmmmm huh IKTR.</div>
<div>
Ain't nobody got to tell me how it is, YKWIS? It's like be an adult. That's all you got to do is be an adult. Like, there's no need for all that.</div>
<div>
hmmmm, I know what you're saying, uh huh...</div>
<div>
Ain't nobody got to be like that. Like, there was this one dildo (ears perking up) and it was so rude. The dildo done went and dildoed. YKWIS?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Break in conversation while I went to another area to vent with another room mate.</div>
<div>
We both agreed this gets on our nerves to no end. It breaks up the harmony in the house, where 7 of the 8 people get along, and then there is this....</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
uh huh....OMG! (He's in the bathroom talking on the phone. The echos make the conversation even louder.) Yeah, he did. Like when you know that's your dildo, you should take care of your dildo. (OK I heard it this time but now it's just funny) Guuuuuuurl...You know that isn't anybody else's dildo but your own, YKWIS? </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I try to stare him down as he comes out of the bathroom, but he pays no attention and keeps announcing his conversation to anyone in earshot. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Hmmm, yeah, like I don't ever play with my dildo like that. It's rude, YKWIS? RUDE! Well, maybe I should let you go, I know you're busy. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
The conversation was shorter today, and I missed the middle of it in favor of venting. I'll post other conversations from cell phones as I hear them, and people talk about their personal business in public. </div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-7493070386742488512016-04-10T15:42:00.001-04:002016-04-10T15:42:29.372-04:00The Mangina Monologues<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today's notes on the conversation I had to overhear from an adult, African American male. <br />
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<span data-offset-key="b3knr-0-0">Today in the Mangina Monologues....</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="cpev9-0-0">If you have to tell ppl "I know who I am, I'm not gonna let anyone else tell me who I am".....You don't know who you are and are enough of an idiot you won't hear it when others try to tell you. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="dasoe-0-0">If you have to tell ppl you "aren't a rude person." Trust me, you are most definitely a rude person. Considerate ppl demonstrate they are considerate through their actions, they don't take out verbal billboards. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="776qg-0-0">If you have to tell ppl you "do your job, I don't need anybody else telling me to do my job." You are not doing your job and it has come to the attention of someone else that they need to make you aware of it. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="13at-0-0">If you have to tell ppl you "know how to conduct yourself in a professional manner." Again....you don't and you aren't. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="ejjvk-0-0">You know what I'm saying?</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-35407243163754138592016-04-10T15:24:00.001-04:002016-04-10T15:33:45.663-04:00The Mangina Monologues<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>This is an actual conversation from an adult, African American male. It is my contention you give up the right to privacy if you can hear every word. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
These are the Mangina Monologues</div>
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I sat by the door of my bedroom and listened into his conversations. He did not know I listened. I made every attempt to document the conversations exactly, but there were some things I didn't catch. I filled in the conversation with what I imagined it to be, so it might not be entirely accurate. I could only hear one side of the conversation. (In parenthesis is me thinking)</div>
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In the interest of brevity, there are two acronyms included because he says them so much: YKWIS is You know what I'm saying? and IWS is I was saying.</div>
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I'm not going into detail with her, but I am going to let her know she hurt my feelings, I mean that would hurt anybody's feelings. She doesn't get to know about me, you know what I'm saying? I'm just going to tell her she hurt my feelings.</div>
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(His feelings are hurt daily, this is news???) Pause while other person talks....he's letting someone else get a word in edgewise.</div>
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But they did hurt my feelings that one time. YKWIS? I mean like, I was so mad and they told me not to do it but....other party interrupted.</div>
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(If they told you not to do it and you did it anyway, you are a moron)</div>
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It's like I KNOW who I am. I guarantee I know who I am. YKWIS?<br />
They said I'm evasive and shit and I'm not evasive at all. They need to get a grip and know who I am, because they aren't going to define me, I'm like not letting that happen.</div>
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I'm the type of person that I'll let so much go, but I'm going to hand wag my fancy self all up in their face and let them know who I am and I'm not who they think I am and I'll tell them who I am so they don't think I don't know who I am YKWIS?</div>
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(I may have embellished that a bit)</div>
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Like, I'm so over it YKWIS? It's not worth it. People say I wear my heart out on my sleeve (who are these ppl he speaks of?) but I'm a nice person and I'm not going to stop being a nice person just because someone else wants me to change YKWIS?</div>
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Then I was like she was all up in my BF the other day and I was like "Bitch, you don't even know" and I got up in her face. No, it was the other day in Cleveland. That bitch don't know what's right or what she got herself into when she got up into me. I don't play like that YKWIS? and yeah, I'm fighting for my life and the I told her "you're using your BF to get to me and I'm not having it. You know, I was like we are not having this conversation right now, we are not. You are so child like and I can't talk to you on that level. Then she said I was a fucked up drama queen who can't mind his own business, and she said I'm like all into creating drama because I like ppl feeling sorry for me. I said How DARE you! And I'm at work and you're breaking up with your BF and you are trying to get to me through him and that's some shit. NO, just no, it's not happening And I didn't even go into detail with all her shit, I wasn't going to tell her about her shit either.</div>
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Pause</div>
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(I can't figure out who's BF is doing what or who is trying to get to who and who is breaking up with .....he is rambling so fast this guy has some issues going on there)</div>
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No, me and her cannot have a conversation and she's still here judging me (Is he talking about me now? I think he is.) and still she has no place to judge me or anyone but she's acting so childlike, she talks behind my back (yes I do <blushing>) still, who is she to talk YKWIS?</div>
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No, there should be no place *sigh* It's just a bad situation. I'm not going for it, I'm just not. But there not going to see what she's doing, she's no better therefore I don't know what I'm going to do, I don't. I can't talk to her *sigh*</div>
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3-4 min quiet, he's letting someone else talk. I think he's talking about me. I moved his Axe products around in the bathroom to create the illusion someone might be using them.</div>
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I'm not gonna</div>
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more quiet</div>
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I should be there in a way, YKWIS?</div>
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quiet</div>
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It's like fucking, I'm not sorry, why should I be sorry? Like, you know who's coming in the game? uhm hmm...hmmm....yeah and you know I'm watching out for my door. YKWIS?</div>
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Oh Goodness....he laughs</div>
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Right...he goes to the bathroom</div>
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(You don't really want to know what I hear during this, I actually didn't want to hear, but I was seated at my door and I didn't want the chair to move and him figure out I was listening)</div>
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Yeah *sigh* Oh goodness They didn't get anybody with that though, they only got them when they put panties on their head at work. It was unprofessional, YKWIS? and he was wearing the green panties and I really wanted the green panties but then when everybody got caught with their head panties in the baking area it wasn't cool. I wasn't in on that so they can't do me like the others cuz that's not what I'm about, you know? (I may have embellished, the boys were making noise and I missed some bits.)</div>
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Well, you gots plans for that? Don't they get confusing? You have to learn all those systems, I just don't know. There's lots of stuff you gotta learn.</div>
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yeah</div>
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yeah</div>
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(How hard can it be to learn to put panties on your head?)</div>
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Actually, that's totally Bill's party, totally.</div>
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uhm hmmm...yeah.....</div>
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Wait a minute, just hold up, Didn't that woman just have a baby for her daughter or something? Yeah, I know that was her. I didn't know old ppl could do that. How they be having babies that's their grandbaby? I just don't know.</div>
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Going back to his room...while he mansplains the gestation of babies in old women. I didn't know I could stay in my seat without getting up to smack him upside the head. The only thing worse than mansplaining is gay mansplaining.</div>
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You say what now?</div>
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Oh, OK...how was it her own son?</div>
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You know she's trying to pass, ans she don't have the dark skin.</div>
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Oh really?</div>
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I said did she get contacted? No. I'm just asking, Did they? hmmmm.....</div>
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I still haven't called that girl on if this is a real relationship. I said guurl...I know you couldn't be meaning me cuz it's like I didn't give her no reason and I'm not playing that way. I mean like</div>
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(what way does he play?)</div>
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yeah....hmmmm....yeah.....what''s her name? I guess she's gonna represent like who she is. It's not like she's got a body, I mean look at her mom....uhm....hmmmm....yeah.....she's trying to do her thing. And I'm like even around his parents (what the hell? How did we get here?) It's like he's so negative, he's always got to be doing something to cause attention, even if it's negative attention. Some ppl are just like that, they don't care what attention they get.</div>
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(Pot, Kettle,Black)</div>
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hmmmm uhmm...laugh</div>
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Yeah so IWS so he is in the wrapper (is this the new slang for in the closet?) and then he catered more to girls YKWIS? Yeah, so once they found that out</div>
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Oh...cute....yep</div>
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There's no way out of this for him, oh my goodness!</div>
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I don't care about her, she's representing and she don't have no reason. And she's just talking on her end (she can't talk on your end, you fill up that space and more) but she's brown, she ain't black but she's playing it up and representing like she is YKWIS? Guuuuurl, don't I know it?</div>
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That's what I'm saying, OK?</div>
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(My head is spinning, I have no idea what he's saying)</div>
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Thus concludes the Mangina Monologues for this evening. Tomorrow night's performance hinges on how much I can dip in his conversations.</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-70673263469768689782016-04-09T20:38:00.000-04:002016-04-09T21:40:07.564-04:00Immigrants Stole My Welfare, Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX237210570" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX237210570" paraeid="{8f82303d-eebe-401e-ac64-837dcf2a70e8}{136}" paraid="1268786634" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I was raised in a Republican family, with Republican </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">family </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">values. My dad was a blue collar worker who was raised with old world German </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">traditions</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">. There's very little room for play, you worked hard and work is its own reward. He worked as a supervisor at the B & W plant in Barberton, OH. B & W and PPG were the two largest employers in our town. Almost everyone was employed at one or the other. The biggest lesson I learned growing up was that life was not fair, no matter how hard you worked, or how smart you were. I had three younger brothers, and despite working hard, I would never measure up to their penis. Family values meant the man was God in his own castle and everyone else was to follow his lead. That wasn't going to work for me; I wanted more for myself. In the end, I still wound up getting married at age eighteen to someone my family considered acceptable. My dad and Ron got along well. They got along so well, that my dad blamed me for leaving the marriage. He all but disowned me when I applied to welfare. I asked for his help, but he left me to sink. In his </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">mind, he</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> thought if he made life hard enough for me, I wouldn’t leave this deserving man. When I left Ron, it brought out all of the resentment of his own two failed marriages. He and Ron joined forces to make life as difficult as they could for me, in the hopes that I would see my failure and return to be the dutiful wife. Intentionally making life harder for someone never brings about the results the oppressor is hoping to achieve. It is the unspoken mantra of the Republican party base though. If you make life hard enough for someone, they will tow the line. Nothing worthwhile is ever achieved without suffering. </span><span class="EOP SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX237210570" paraeid="{8f82303d-eebe-401e-ac64-837dcf2a70e8}{147}" paraid="1438040352" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I worked managing a beer and wine store. I had worked my way up from being a cashier and I lost that job due to my husband. It was ironic since I was the one who got my husband his job. The owner said he couldn't keep the both of us because Ron was whining to the customers and the vendors about his relationship with me. It was creating a problem as the owner was receiving calls complaining that they didn’t want to hear about Ron's problems. Instead of addressing this with Ron, he fired me. His logic was that at least if we ended the marriage, Ron would have a job to pay child support. He would give me a good reference, but I had to go. He also though if I was dependent upon Ron, I might work harder to make the marriage work. He didn't say </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">that, but</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> in his reasoning for firing me, he offered to counsel me on being married. I declined his offer. Shortly before I was fired, one of my customers gave me her number. She thought she had a job that would be perfect for me. It was with a chain in a city just south of where I lived. They needed a personal shopper for their upscale clientele. Women were becoming more than a supportive function in the workplace, they were rising among the ranks into very busy positions. They didn't have the time nor inclination to shop for </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">themselves</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">. The position required a month long training session in </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">Connecticut</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">, and four trips to Paris each year. I was in heaven. I called her as soon as I was dismissed.</span><span class="EOP SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX237210570" paraeid="{8f82303d-eebe-401e-ac64-837dcf2a70e8}{153}" paraid="1836522843" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I interviewed with the owner of the store, and was offered a position. The training session was scheduled within the next six weeks and the plane ticket and reservations were made. Unfortunately during this time, my marriage became unbearable. I frequently pretended to be sick in order to avoid having to do anything with him. More </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">often than not, it wasn't a pretense. I was lying down in the bedroom when he walked in. He pointed his finger angrily in my face. He wasn't yelling. If he had yelled, I wouldn't have been afraid. No, he pointed his finger in my face and said very quietly and with a suspenseful resolution "I should fucking kill you. I should blow your fucking head off." I don't remember what he said next, but of all the times he threatened to kill me I knew this time he was serious. Thank God we didn't have a gun in the house or this might have had a very different ending. I made sure not to create any further friction that evening. I made arrangements to leave him in the next couple of days.</span><span class="EOP SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX237210570" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX237210570" paraeid="{8f82303d-eebe-401e-ac64-837dcf2a70e8}{177}" paraid="845391652" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">While I was in the Battered Women's Shelter, I followed up with my friend about the job. I needed to know the details of my start date so I could make arrangements to care for my children. The job offer had been rescinded. She had received a call from my husband, wanting to know where I was. Of course she didn't know, but he went so far as to threaten her if I had any further contact with her. That was enough for her to shy away from including me in this amazing life. She didn't want to deal with the drama. </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">Suddenly, I</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> had no home and no employment future. Part of leaving my husband was the confidence I could earn a living and provide for my children. Because of him, that was gone. Still, I knew a lot of people in the beer and wine industry, I was certain I could find employment somewhere in there, possibly with a </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">distributor</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">. After just a couple of calls, I knew this wasn't going to be an option either. He had poisoned or threatened any contacts I had. Since we were both in the same industry, we knew the same people. </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">He</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> told anyone who would listen that I was mentally unstable and he was trying to get me </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">committed</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> when I left. He also told them I had an affair with one of the distributors, a married man with a set of </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">triplet</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">s</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">. He expanded upon this falsehood to say I had become pregnant by this man and had an abortion without his consent or knowledge. He played the victim well, telling everyone he wanted me back and would forgive me. They only had to tell him when and if they heard from me. Every door I </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">kno</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">cked</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> upon, he had knocked on before me. If the other person expressed any allegiance toward me, gave any indication they would not cooperate with his pleas to let him know if they heard from me, he suddenly turned from victim to someone who threatened those who dared</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> sympathize</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> with me. He </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">alien</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">ated</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> me from not only potential employment, but allies as well. This tried and true Republican girl had to do what no respectable Republican would lower herself to do; I had to apply for welfare. </span><span class="EOP SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX237210570" paraeid="{8f82303d-eebe-401e-ac64-837dcf2a70e8}{184}" paraid="1223979764" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I'm not even sure if it was my idea. I don't think that would have been my first thought, but as door after door was closed to me, my options were running out. I thought what all good Republicans thought; that people on </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">welfare</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> were black and lazy. That certainly did not apply to me. There was a social worker at the shelter who pulled me aside, inquiring about my plans moving forward. I told her what my husband had done. She let me know that was very common with abusers. They systematically blocked any form of support so that women had no choice but to return to them. That didn't make a lot of sense to me. As hopeless as my situation was, his actions only made me more determined to leave. Why would I return to someone treating me like this? I never thought to ask myself why I would stay with someone who treated me like that. Good Republican girls stand by their man and their marriage. I had family values. As I spoke with the social worker further, it became increasingly clear it was the only door he couldn't close. If that was the only way I could get my girls safe, then welfare was the way I was going to go.</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="EOP SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX237210570" paraeid="{95c1a565-68b5-408a-a7af-7d2631497a50}{43}" paraid="197164518" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">Applying to welfare was difficult because I needed documents I didn't have. The social worker helped me to get what I didn't have, and the process began. She also helped me to apply to Stark Metropolitan Housing, so I could have a place to live. That is one program which is gone. It used to be if you were in the Battered Women's Shelter, you were </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">expedited</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> to the top of the list. You bypassed others who may have been waiting months. As the waiting time grew, homeless </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">people no</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> longer were able to bypass others who had been waiting. I was lucky to be homeless at the right time. As I am finding out </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">now, securing housing is a monumental task. I can't say for sure, but if I had not been able to secure housing, utilities and food for myself and the girls, I might have gone back to him. I filled out the necessary paperwork and I would soon receive my first welfare check. I was able to get a checking account in order to deposit the monthly stipend. Other women in the shelter were not able to get a checking account so they relied on check cashing places to access their funds, which they then took out money orders to pay rent and utilities. They would often lose 5% or more of their checks paying for this service. When every dollar counts, 5% is a lot to pay. As I was about to learn, being poor isn't cheap. </span><span class="EOP SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> There are any number of fees and surcharges you have to pay for no other reason than you are poor. </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX237210570" paraeid="{cabf724b-ac1e-4d1c-80b1-dd87b1778eed}{137}" paraid="1416735152" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">During the first couple of weeks in the shelter, I had access to a car. We were making car payments to my brother for a car he had purchased, but couldn't afford. I soon found out my husband told my brother to report it as stolen. I don't know if my brother did, but I made sure to get the car back to him immediately. From that moment on, I no longer had transportation in order to seek employment. I was still determined that welfare be a temporary condition. I may have been in denial, but I wasn't one of THEM. I was the reason welfare was part of our system, and I wasn't going to raise my children on it. In the space of a few days, I had become homeless, lost a job, lost my transportation and had all avenues of employment cut off from me. We were living in a shelter and the first few days we were in the dorm section with other families. My daughter and I shared one bed, while the eldest daughter had a bed next to us. I was terrified. I can honestly say I can't remember a time since when I was that </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">fri</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">ghtened</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">. By the end of the first week, we had our own room, but living in a shelter wasn't easy. </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX237210570" paraeid="{aa0ede92-fa9c-4560-85fb-b3f60ac6ead7}{153}" paraid="173939745" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I had to take the bus everywhere I went, with two small children in tow. There were no babysitting services in the shelter, and other residents could not watch each other's children. That meant searching for a job was impossible. The social worker was trying to impress upon me the last thing I needed right now was a job. My first priority was to my daughters, and in stabilizing their life. I didn't see how I could do that without being able to provide for them, but the rules of the shelter were not </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">supportive</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> of seeking employment. Besides, all the things I needed to do in order to stabilize my life, the rules I had to follow to stay in the shelter, and the paperwork I had to return to social services was taking up all of my time. The little time I had during business hours was taken up by the mandatory counseling I had to attend in the shelter, and I enrolled my children to receive counseling services as well. We were all assigned chores which had to be done by the close of each day. I didn't object to the chores, but you had to have your children at your side and well behaved while you did them. I had no time to search for work. I vowed to myself I would get a job just as soon as I was out of the shelter. </span></div>
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<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX237210570" paraeid="{aa0ede92-fa9c-4560-85fb-b3f60ac6ead7}{153}" paraid="173939745" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I was approved for emergency food stamps and that was when food stamps were actually printed and stamped paper issued by the government which were distributed in </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">pa</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">cks of $1, $5, $10, $25, $50 and $100 booklets. The cashier removed the number of food stamps for the purchase. The only ones allowed to be loose were the $1 values. They allowed those loose so that cashiers could give them as change, but if the remaining change was under a dollar, they gave you cash. Each month, your food stamps were distributed during certain days depending on your last name. You could not go get your food stamps before the date opening on</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> your last name. </span><span class="EOP SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> You could go on dates after, but not before. The site was only opened a limited number of days during the first two weeks of the month, and only open during designated hours the last two weeks of the month. You never wanted to go the first hours your day was available, because the line would often ring out of the building and down the block. If you could hold out until the next day, you wouldn't have to wait so long. </span></div>
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<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I took the bus to the food stamp </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">distribution</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> site and found my </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">place</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> in line. I felt as if they were all staring at me. I was nicely dressed, as were my children. My hair and makeup were neat and pretty. This was in stark contrast to the people waiting in line with me. I looked at each one in </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">judg</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">ment</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">. I saw women who were shabbily dressed, and poorly kept. They had blank looks on their faces as if they were resigned to a fate in hell. That's what it felt like to me; like I had suddenly entered the gates of an alternate dimension in which my hell was to be in the welfare line. There were old people in the line and I felt sympathy for them, but even so some of them smelled. I didn't care how poor you were, you didn't have to smell. My nose was upturned in more ways than one and I had a lot to learn about why poor people smell. I suppose what surprised me the most was the mix of people I saw in line; not all of them were black. As I </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">looked around the room, I noticed only a third of the people waiting were black. The rest of them were white, like me. </span></div>
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<span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">For so many people congregating in such a small room, there was very little conversation. There were some people there who had come in with others and they conversed. There were some in line who recognized others who picked up their food stamps on the same day</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> and they caught up with one another. The rest of us stood in the line of shame, trying hard not to admit we were waiting in line for food. I had never </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">seem</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> so much shame in one room in my entire life. This was not what I expected. I expected some type of a party, with low lifes picking up their handouts. I looked around the room with trepidation. If truth be </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">told, I</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> was scared out of my mind to be in the same room with low lifes. It was almost as if I expected to catch the disease of poverty simply by being in the same room. I wasn't like them. I would never be like them. I kept my head low, my nose up and my thoughts to myself as I approached the window. I handed the lady my identification and she counted back the number of food stamps I had been awarded. In between each stack of booklets was a pink card stock paper separating the booklets. The cashier had them piled neatly up off to one side. I asked her if we could have some of them. I thought </span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">there</span><span class="TextRun SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> might be something we could make of them to play some type of a game. My girls loved those stupid little cards and spent the rest of the night making up games to play. I wasn't the only one who had lost so much. My children didn't even have toys to play with. The only toy they owned was the pink cards we picked up in the food stamp line. </span><span class="EOP SCX237210570" style="font-family: "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-89951017227212495362015-11-14T19:02:00.003-04:002015-11-14T19:02:43.382-04:00Sex and Pussy; The Final Chapter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{64fdf7f8-d836-4bd9-8b06-000b68ace372}{159}" paraid="190225395" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">This next part shaped how I defined my sexual behavior to date, and how I would view it in the </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">future. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> warn you, it deals with sexual abuse, specifically, my father. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> had remembered the first part and consoled myself it had stopped with oral sex;</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> it had stopped at age six because my grandfather put a stop to it. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> could go into all the reasons I pieced this story line together, but it comes down to one thing; I needed to believe someone had saved that precious little six year old girl. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> needed to believe my childhood wasn't a nightmare. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">The</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> recurring dream/memory of the devil beside my bed was a frequent night terror. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">It</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> bothered me I couldn't remember much of my life</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> but I had come to accept this was how it was. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> kept wondering why I couldn't remember</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">though. </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">It</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> bugged me and I tried </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">to</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> find the answers in family </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">pictures. All I saw in pictures was the members in my family who sexually assaulted me. My father wasn't the only one, but he certainly carried the most influence when you talk about shaping sexuality and relationships toward men. I couldn't find any memories when I </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">stared</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> into the pictures. All I saw in them was pain. </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> wanted to</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> remember</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">, but you can't make the mind accept what it isn't ready to acknowledge.</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="EOP SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{64fdf7f8-d836-4bd9-8b06-000b68ace372}{179}" paraid="2057460786" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I can't remember what day it came flooding back, but I remember where I was and what I was doing. I was in the basement of the marital home getting laundry out of the laundry chute. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> don’t know what I was thinking, but suddenly the </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">light bulb became illuminated in my mind</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> don't know why I didn't see it before, why I didn't put the pieces together. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">There</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> never was a devil beside my bed, the devil </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">had </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">always </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">been </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">my father. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">As </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">the shock of th</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">is new</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> realization wore off, </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I saw </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">my mind shattered like a fragmented mirror.</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> I saw</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">m</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">y father c</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">o</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">me out of the shadows of nightfall, his face </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">falling </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">into</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> eyes of my six year old self. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> saw </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">the</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> evil smile he always had when he was about to assault me, I smelled the stink of beer on his </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">hot </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">breath. I felt his hands jerk my legs together, squeezing them tight. I closed my eyes as I heard the zipper on his pants and I squeezed my eyes tighter and tighter when he pulled down my panties and stuck his penis in between my legs. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">He</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> never </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">penetrated</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> me, I guess some pedophiles have their limits. Maybe he justified what he was doing because it wasn’t technically sex. Who knows what goes on in the mind of someone so damaged they have to extinguish the spirit of another human being, particularly that of a child. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I can't say I remember the rest. I believe that's when I checked out of myself, why I thought I had fallen asleep after the devil approached my bed. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">Now I knew why a larger part of my memory began when I got my period. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">He</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> stopped at the point when I was physically able to become pregnant. Every shattered piece</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> of my memory was being put back together and my life was making sense. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> had my memory back and it nearly destroyed me. </span><span class="EOP SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{64fdf7f8-d836-4bd9-8b06-000b68ace372}{190}" paraid="756173470" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">The magnitude of what I remembered ripped through my soul. I couldn't stand. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> fell </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">into a </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">heap on the basement floor, screaming, crying, sobbing harder than I ever had in my entire life. No one had saved me. I endured my father's assaults for years on end. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">He</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> stole my precious memories, stole my innocence and set me up for a string of promiscuous encounters, so fractured I would have sex as a poor substitute for the approval of a man. I wasn't anything unless a man wanted me, desired me for sex. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> had no sense of self outside of sex and spent most of my life wondering why, trying to claim some sliver of self esteem, some independence from the approval of men. I degraded myself for an approval that never came. Nothing filled the void my father left. </span><span class="EOP SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{64fdf7f8-d836-4bd9-8b06-000b68ace372}{198}" paraid="366957274" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I have never been as shattered as I was that night. I truly did not think I would survive it, and I almost didn't. I don't know how long I lay on the cold floor, it was Christmas time and the cement chilled my bones but I didn't </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">pay it any attention</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">. After I had spent my grief, I picked myself up and went to bed. The next days were a blur. I tried to keep it together for the holidays and I couldn't. I attempted suicide. I was completely </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">an</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">d</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> utterly broken</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">. I was devastated at the length of time the abuse went on, I was crushed the people around me didn't protect me and I was in awe I had hidden it from myself for so long. My mind was trying to tell me, but </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I couldn't comprehend what had actually taken place</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">What </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> had remembered prior was bad enough. </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">All those years of night terrors about the devil and I never put the pieces together. All those years I spent in pain, struggling with depression, all those years feeling empty and worthless culminated to this moment. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> was so very lost, so alone and there</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> didn't seem to be a way out. Not even my children were a comfort to me. All they saw was their mother in pieces, and not understanding what was happening to me they rejected me for ruining their Christmas. They blame me to this day, but I never don't think I ever told them why I tried to kill myself or what was happening during that time. I felt betrayed by them because they responded to my pain with anger instead of compassion. They wouldn't talk to me for a long time after that.</span><span class="EOP SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{64fdf7f8-d836-4bd9-8b06-000b68ace372}{203}" paraid="254592902" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">It took a long </span><span class="SpellingError SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat-x; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">long</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> time to come back from the memory returning, from the rejection of my children and to come to terms with my childhood. I stopped dating, and lost all interest in men. I quit flirting, and did all I could to become unattractive and invisible. </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">Sex was the last thing on my mind and I chose to become asexual. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I wrapped myself up in work to avoid dating. I thought I had finally come to a comfortable place in my life with sex and men when my world spun out of control</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> with the return of my memory</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">. I no longer felt comfortable with sex or sexuality. I became celibate. I wanted nothing to do with men or sex. This went on for some years. I acted like men didn't exist. If men flirted with me, I didn't notice. I coexisted with them in a professional capacity, but I made no effort to socialize with them.</span><span class="EOP SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{64fdf7f8-d836-4bd9-8b06-000b68ace372}{205}" paraid="1185925290" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{64fdf7f8-d836-4bd9-8b06-000b68ace372}{208}" paraid="290600486" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I healed, eventually. I'm glad my memory returned, as painful as it was. There had been an empty space deep in my heart, my soul had been splintered and I didn't know why or how to fill it. The return of my memory closed that hole. It didn't happen overnight, but gradually, bit by bit. I don't have night terrors any longer and the devil doesn't torture me. I haven't seen him since. I tried to have casual sex, knowing I was in no place for a relationship but I simply wasn't interested. It felt mechanical, something I was doing because it seemed like the thing to do. The passion was gone. I had no desire to repeat the performance.</span><span class="EOP SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{64fdf7f8-d836-4bd9-8b06-000b68ace372}{210}" paraid="1674835375" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{64fdf7f8-d836-4bd9-8b06-000b68ace372}{213}" paraid="42830445" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I've had one short term relationship since then, and it was a relationship I knew would not last. It has been more than a decade since the memory returned and I remain celibate for the most part. I still desire sex, and mast</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">u</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">rbate frequently but I have no desire to seek out a relationship with a man. I remain hopeful that a man will enter my life to break through the walls I have in place, but I know it would have to begin as a friendship. I can't think of men in terms of relationships or sex any longer, it is too frightening even now. Healing isn't recovery. I don't think people </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">can </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">recover from something like this. The scars run </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">too </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">deep</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">, the damage irreversible. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="EOP SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{64fdf7f8-d836-4bd9-8b06-000b68ace372}{215}" paraid="904915611" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{64fdf7f8-d836-4bd9-8b06-000b68ace372}{220}" paraid="51574671" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I think I have some to a place where I have the healthiest attitude about sex than I ever have possessed. I know who I am, what I want, what I expect and that I am no longer willing to trade it to fill some void left within myself. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">Even though I am c</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">elibate</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">, I watch the evolution of sexuality in our society with great interest. Through this, </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I came to understand I am most likely bisexual, but because of religion and societal expectations I will never realize it in any real form. I have let go of preconceived judgments regarding sex and have come to see sexuality as fluid rather than set within a narrow range of parameters. I've learned there are many reasons to have sex, all of which are valid and there are reasons not to have sex. I am happy being celibate, but I do miss intimacy. I know I don't want to go back to casual sex, but I'm not sure I can deal with a relationship. I will always hold out hope for a kind, gentle soul to enter into my life, someone I can share a life with and build a future, but if it never happens I can still be happy. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">Despite</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> what I have remembered, I am at peace with it. I spent most of my life trying to define what sexuality was, what place sex had in my life and how to use it as an extension of myself only to come to a place where it isn't important anymore. I don't have to spend any more time searching for myself. I was here all along.</span><span class="EOP SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{1e32d254-c3be-49d2-97f2-adb1abd6b6aa}{42}" paraid="455463825" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{1e32d254-c3be-49d2-97f2-adb1abd6b6aa}{46}" paraid="1379550289" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Several things influenced the dark and hidden subject of sex and </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">pussy. </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">My</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> sheltered and abusive childhood, religion, faulty sex education in high school, the shame of having a period, of being a woman. There were the</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> expectations of being a wife and mother in a </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">patriarch</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">al</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> marriage which defined what "good" wives do to service their </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">husbands. </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> learned what it was to be raped and I learned I sometimes had sex out of fear instead of true desire. I have learned a lot about what consent truly means and I understand there were times I had not given consent, but rather I gave in to pressure or expectations. It wasn't rape, but it wasn't consent either. Having actually been raped, I understood the difference. </span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I have learned some people may be born to a strict definition of sexuality such as being straight or gay, but I suspect the mass majority of us are bisexual as I see a fluidity in sexuality. Had we not all been oppressed by damaging views of sex, we might express ourselves with greater freedom. I believe the vast majority of humans see some shame in being attracted to the same sex, so we do not admit the truth even to ourselves. Being bisexual is different than being gay, and I think people confuse the two and carry with them a secret shame they might be gay. I am not a </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">lesbian. </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> prefer sex with men, but I did </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">have</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> a threesome once which involved another </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">woman. </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> didn't have sex with her, but there was some degree of sexual play within that encounter. I have come to understand we were created to be sexual creatures and heaping shame into sex does us all a great disservice. There are all kinds of sexual expression, and if done between consenting adults there is nothing wrong with any type of it. Just because S & M and bondage aren't in my playlist, doesn't mean the people who enjoy it are doing anything deviant. </span><span class="EOP SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{e8c0f50a-9a47-4e94-b48a-aba0f9bd78a4}{249}" paraid="873540906" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">Sex is expansive and we have no</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">t cracked the surface of what drives us and in determining who we are attracted to but our first influence in developing sexuality and attraction lies within our</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> childhood, determined by our parents. I spent years acting out the abuse from childhood, not understanding what it was I was pursuing or what void I was trying to fill. A woman's self esteem is a major component in determining how much she will assert herself during sex, and also determines how she feels about exposing her body to another person. Sex doesn't begin and end with our genitals. It begins at birth and if we live a full life it never ends. I don't believe sex has ended for me, but it has taken a rather lengthy time out. I don't have issues I need to play out with sex. I'm not sure what the future holds for my sexuality personally, but I remain willing to explore it with someone I care about. It has been an epic journey of discovery, and learning to let go of the shame surrounding being a sexual woman. I gave up the myth of my golden pussy and it allowed me to understand sex through wiser eyes. That single understanding alone gave me permission to let go of shame, and ended the confusion and disappointment I felt if I guy didn't call me again. It wasn't me, it was him. </span><span class="EOP SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX43288979" paraeid="{a9ce3f21-7fb1-4773-b2c5-271e51c7bef3}{240}" paraid="1223242710" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">Everyone's journey through sex will be different from mine but we all explore sex with some type of baggage. We all carry some degree of guilt or shame at least for some periods throughout our lives</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">. It's what religion and faulty sex education instills into us. My journey is still being written, but after five decades I can say I have finally come to a place where I understand myself and my sexuality with a clarity I could not have achieved had I not went in search of answers. Getting my memory back </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">nearly</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> destroyed me, but it didn't. It explained my sexual behavior and why I felt empty with some of my encounters. While I am satisfied with my sexuality and expression at long last, I know there are few rules and limitations with </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">sex. </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">For</span><span class="TextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> now, celibacy is what I enjoy and that it is also nothing to be ashamed </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">of. It is rather poetic I have come full circle. I have gone from searching for my value in sex, to finding I have value without it. This is the perfect ending to my journey for now. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX43288979" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-89681088810199481682015-11-07T04:43:00.000-04:002015-11-07T04:43:55.659-04:00Sex and Pussy; A Journey Through the Decades Part 12<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I've never been a big fan of porn. I don't have any ethical or moral problem with it, but the industry itself relies on the exploitation of people, </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">particularly</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> women. Most women who get into the business are broken, and most of them beyond repair. A great many of them were sexually assaulted as children, and or horrifically abused. For a very few, it is an expression of their sexuality, a path or process of empowerment. For them, it is a rebellion, an ownership of sexuality in a society which goes so far as to place laws and limitations on women who choose to embrace sex. Those women I admire, and it is those women who are bringing about change within the industry. Change is slow though, and it will be decades before porn can be a part of our culture without also being inherently </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">derogatory</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> to it. That is the problem I have with pornography, and why I have trouble viewing it without also </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">feeling</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> badly someone is suffering </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">exploitation</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> to produce it. I understand men are visual creatures and some men rely on pornography to enhance a sexual experience. I have no problem with this in theory. I would share the experience with a partner if that was something he needed. The problem with my husband was he was not sharing the experience with me. I tried to express this to him, but he acted like a boy caught looking at a Playboy by his mother. He said he wouldn't do it anymore. Wanting to come to terms with our relationship, I allowed myself to be placated by this compromise, without trying to delve deeper into his reasoning, especially why he would rather tell me he wouldn't engage in it as opposed to sharing the experience with me. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">For a while, life went on. I lived behind my rose colored glasses and our sex life, the intimacy we once shared continued to decline. I tried to comfort myself by telling myself all </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">the things</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> we tell ourselves when we don't want to admit the truth. "We were going through a phase." "This is just how things are after you have been married for a while." My friends asked me why I didn't have an affair, but I thought he deserved better than that. I wasn't getting what I needed from the relationship. I missed the </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">intimacy</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> and sex had become a chore. There were times I would get him off so I could get to sleep or move on to something I wanted to do. When we got a computer, we had hellacious fights because he would view porn on it, and the computer was accessible to the entire family, even the girls. Porn sites would leave icons on the computer, some would leave cookies you couldn't get rid of and my husband was too illiterate to erase the browsing history. I wouldn't show him how to cover his tracks, either. I was infuriated my daughters were being exposed to his pursuits, but I was even more furious he quit making love to me and used me like a doormat. There wasn't any tenderness any longer, there was no effort to please me, I was a wet hole he used when he got horny. He would stare at those images rather than try to create something meaningful with me. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX142316749" paraeid="{d7355426-09d8-4ff8-8605-cd04f6db772f}{218}" paraid="1170909020" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">This rejection devastated my self esteem. I tried marital counseling but I was the only one interested in building a relationship. </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">He</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> barely talked. He didn't participate. We quit after a few sessions. I knew then our marriage was doomed, and I didn’t have a clue why. This process was a slow dissection that happened over a few years, and with it went </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">my self</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> esteem, the image I had of myself and I lost touch with my own sexuality. I not only did not feel attractive, I didn't believe I was sexually viable. After all, if my husband preferred porn to a real live woman, what hope did I possibly have? Now I understand this was his problem, not mine, but back then I took the shoulder of the blame. I have this </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">tendency</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> to take an unfair burden of blame. It goes back to control. If I am at fault, then I have the power to fix it. I was determined to fix it, even though it was costing me who I was as a woman. It was a fight I would lose and it would take a very long time for me to understand I could not have saved the marriage because I was the only one in it. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX142316749" paraeid="{1a74e890-4230-4101-97e7-3a928177bf5b}{135}" paraid="1801560995" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">The marriage </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">collapsed</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> and so I set about trying to repair the shattered remains. I was working all the time, struggling to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table but I wasn't meeting anyone. I tried the bar scene again, but it was full of the same broken souls, twenty years older. I tried internet dating and ads, but wasn't prepared for the misogyny I was subjected to in the replies. I wasn't prepared for the lies and manipulations, for the men who wanted to use me, or for the men who wanted to cheat on their wives. Even with my experiences, I wasn't prepared for any of this. I tried to weed through it, I tried to be careful but I did not want to deal with what men my age wanted from me. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX142316749" paraeid="{089102e6-80ba-4827-ae47-e4086fece147}{215}" paraid="1698559217" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I set clear boundaries, and most men crossed them. Those were the easy ones to delete. If they pressured me to talk to them on the phone or to meet sooner than I was comfortable, then I knew they would have no problem increasing the pressure to do other things I didn't want to do. One thing I learned from being single and accepting sex in exchange for something else was that it always left me feeling empty. You can't let a man have sex if you are trying to trade it for something else. I wasn't willing to go back to bartering my body. I wanted more this time. I wanted a </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">relationship</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> and wasn't willing to barter sex in order to find one. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX142316749" paraeid="{26552baa-ebae-4579-a34f-445586c898ac}{231}" paraid="852313161" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
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<div class="Paragraph SCX142316749" paraeid="{26552baa-ebae-4579-a34f-445586c898ac}{234}" paraid="973187102" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I thought I was careful. I was honest and straightforward in what I expected and what I wanted in a partner. I exchanged emails with a fellow. I can't remember his name but I'll call him Stan. He was a </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">superintendent</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> of a public school system in Pennsylvania. He said he was in the process of divorcing his wife but that the marriage had been over for some time. I could relate to that. He seemed to want the same things I did, he said all the right words and we had talked for some length of time. I agreed to travel to PA to meet with him and have dinner. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX142316749" paraeid="{4dcfa408-3d17-4b43-9f4a-3716be9aee17}{216}" paraid="1040353210" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I wore a cute pair of sweats to drive in and brought along a really nice retro style dress. He was a little older than I was but I was open to anything. When I was close, he called and told me he left the garage door open, I was to pull in and he would close the door. He said he had a reputation and didn't want his neighbors gossiping about him. That was suspicious. When I got there, he arrived at the door in a pair of old and tattered sweats and was much older than he told me he was! You would think he would want to make a good impression and at least have dressed for my arrival. As I </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">approached</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> him, all I could smell was old people. He reeked of old people. I decided then and there I would make it through dinner and that would be the end of him. I entered his home, and asked if he had a computer. I wanted to check in with my friends, a part of the safety measures </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> was putting into place. He did and while I was logging on, he massaged my shoulders. That was too much too soon. Then he tried to talk me into having dinner in the privacy of his own home. That was also a resounding no. It was bad enough I was subjected to an </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">uncomfortable</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> dinner, but I was not getting a good feeling about this. I suddenly knew why I agreed to sex with some men, even though it really wasn't what I wanted. Fear. I was afraid in saying no I was going to be hurt in ways I didn't want to be hurt. I was getting a little afraid that was going to happen here, but I </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">wasn't</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> the child I was before. I wasn't going to barter sex so I didn't have to be afraid, either. I told him I wanted to change so we could go to dinner and asked him where I could get dressed. I was apprehensive. I went into the room and closed the door, wondering if there was a hidden camera somewhere. The creep meter was swinging off the edge. As I looked around, I saw jewelry and perfume, the signs a woman was living in this room. I asked him about it and he said it was his wife's bedroom. She was off at a conference for the weekend. They were getting a divorce but were living together until the divorce was final. That was the last straw for me. I assumed when he said he was getting a divorce that they were living separate lives. They had separate bedrooms, but that is far from separate lives. I gathered up my things to leave and told him he shouldn't call me. There were too many lies. He became </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">ag</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">itated</span><span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> and his voice rose as he tried to justify his lies, to explain them away. He started to threaten me and suddenly thought better of it. He tried to block my attempt to leave when I reminded him people knew where I was. If he wanted to keep his </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">reputation</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">, he would let me leave unharmed. </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"> He moved out of the way. The entire drive home I thought I had dodged a bullet. I was very grateful my friends wanted to know my every move. They had his full name, address and we had done a background check on him before I went. Too bad you can't do a background check on being a douche. </span><span class="EOP SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX142316749" paraeid="{3edeef20-d7fc-4104-8793-44d52e95a4f5}{95}" paraid="1052436077" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I learned something important from him though. It's a shame I felt sleeping with a man was better than being hurt if I didn't. It puts a whole new perspective into the rape culture conversation and I wonder how many other women felt it was better to endure sex rather than to be hurt? Would I have been raped if I declined? I will never know, but I do know this time I wasn't willing to barter potential safety in exchange for use of my body. You can't call it rape if you are trying to avoid potential harm, but you can't call it consent either. A woman should never feel obligated to have sex in fear of the man getting angry enough to hurt her. That's as </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">gray</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> as a </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">gray</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> area gets. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX142316749" paraeid="{bcfa62b9-d087-4490-b7ff-ed9c02f0ee98}{217}" paraid="1469560624" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I did not have good experiences with my ventures into online dating. Men there are not shy of being abject pigs. I tell them I will not engage in cybersex or sex talk and they do not hold their contempt for my boundaries back. I am clear on what I want and expect and they don't hold their despise for me back on that matter either. I am honest and straightforward and get called names for it. Some men went so far as to write pages of their thoughts on the kind of woman I am. I think they must send them out like form letters to discourage confident, assertive women from venturing out into the online dating field. It worked, I wasn't ready for that kind of negativity and hostility. I did have a couple of really good connections, which ended abruptly when I told them I wouldn't sleep with them the second time we went out. I was clear I wanted a relationship, but they thought they could charm me into a hookup. One guy seemed to be on the same page as I was until I mentioned I was an Atheist. He was shocked and offended. It was on my profile, I wasn't hiding anything. I'm thinking of giving online dating a try again, maybe after the holidays. I know what to expect now, and my spirit isn't as fragile as it was after my husband left. I'm in a better place. I'm stronger, and more self assured in my sexuality. </span><span class="EOP SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX142316749" paraeid="{51eb5369-a6bd-452d-a9bf-2cedd7f17c5d}{52}" paraid="921291526" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;" xml:lang="EN-US">I went into dating thinking that was what I should do. It was a mistake for many reasons, and I'm happy now a relationship did not develop. It would have been another failure. I wasn't in any kind of a place to choose someone who would make a good partner for me. I had a lot of healing to do from what my husband had put me through, and I was about to take a massive hit I never saw coming. I thought I had remembered what I needed to about the sexual abuse I had endured as a child. I could not have been more wrong. The next memory to break through would shatter my growing sexuality, and bring it to a screeching halt. You can't grow what you haven't healed. </span><span class="EOP SCX142316749" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: normal;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-84940297242804808052015-09-12T22:25:00.000-04:002015-09-14T21:15:56.638-04:00Sex and Pussy; A Journey Through the Decades Part 11<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{b0ec5f18-9d92-438f-9168-c4979609427b}{64}" paraid="76168622" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I recommend everyone be loved with an abandoned passion at least once in their lives. Passion is fier</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">y</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, hot and intense. Most of the time it burns out and leaves us hurt, but damn is it worth the ride. Once in a great while, it transforms into a deep and abiding love. That's the fairy tale we all seek to find. It's rare and we are willing to make any sacrifice, pay any price in order to have it. Along the way, we set ourselves up for one hurt after another trying to transform the wrong person into the ultimate love.</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> After a few of these, we will never find what we are looking for because we have invested too many times in the wrong ones. I had the passion, </span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">and was</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> loved with Marty and Gordon but they were not the right man at the right time. We were in different places in our lives. It hurt immensely to separate from them, but I wouldn't have changed the experience to avoid the pain. If I learned anything in my time with them, this was the most important lesson of all. Sometimes the relationship ends and it is painful, but the pain was worth the love I had while it lasted. </span><span class="EOP SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{bd56df2e-04f3-462c-8681-81ed92ca6256}{245}" paraid="713508938" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I no longer felt shame with sex, but I wasn't willing to own my sexuality. I had to justify it somehow, so I wouldn't look in the mirror and see a slut or a whore reflected. I couldn't accept sex is a natural and healthy part of being an adult. To deny ourselves sex makes about as much sense as denying ourselves medical care or food. Sex is as necessary as food, water or companionship. </span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">There are vital hormones released during orgasm, and they serve to perform many functions for our body. There are as many reasons to have sex as there are drops of water in the ocean, and all of them are valid. I had learned a lot from Amber, she was important in my sexual growth and in accepting myself as a sexual human being. She had</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> been a prostitute and told me a lot of stories about what men did with her. Some were pretty bizarre. She doesn't have a healthy perspective on sex, but neither did I. Between the two of us, we were meeting our perceptions in the middle and we were becoming better people as a result. Sex is complicated, and there is a lot to figure out about it. I think keeping our children in the dark and having a "just say no" attitude is profoundly harmful. It has taken me my entire adult life to unravel the damage done by religion and abstinence programs, and I still have such a long road ahead of me to understand what human sexuality means. The discussion has begun thanks to people speaking out about their own experiences. I think it is incredible. </span><span class="EOP SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{f999ef69-1731-4267-a1b9-db6619df02ed}{123}" paraid="480414021" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I was about to enter into a new sexual realm, the threesome. Marty wanted to have one, but he wanted another woman and we couldn't agree upon a partner. In no way was he about to allow another man into the mix. Part of the reason we couldn't agree on another partner was because I truly loved him. I never wanted another woman entering into the intimacy I shared with him. When I love someone, intimacy means I will share sexual acts with them I would never share with someone on a hookup. There are also things I will do with a </span><span class="SpellingError SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat-x; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">hookup</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> I would never do within a relationship, and bringing a third partner into sex was one of them. I can't share a man I love when it come to something as personal as sex. </span></span></div>
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<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{f999ef69-1731-4267-a1b9-db6619df02ed}{123}" paraid="480414021" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I was getting a reputation for dating younger men, and part of that is because younger men do not have the expectations men my age seem to have. Men my age treat women as their responsibility. Sadly, they expect women to fulfill the role of a dependent but frequently and massively fail as their role as the protector, the provider. Some are even angry women function in the role of a dependent as they place them in that role. Those same men then complain how women "use" them. The hair on the back of my neck stand up and my arms burst out in goosebumps when I hear a man complain of being used in the same breath he offers to pay for something for me, even if it is simply dinner. I know this is a man who expects to be repaid in some way for his "kindness." They don't seem to understand if they help a woman, it cannot be with the expectation of some type of a repayment. It is an impossible position for a woman to find herself in. Younger men do not seem to have this paternal idea of a relationship. The younger men I have been with treat me as an equal, even as they pay for the dates. They don't seem to expect a sexual repayment nearly as much as the older men. It allows me to feel easier within the conversation, and my time with them is spent getting to know them rather than trying to figure out how to keep myself safe. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{6e184f4c-093c-4e6d-be12-ebbb1a46f253}{20}" paraid="1463062042" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I met two guys in a bar one night and I couldn't make up my mind which one to go home with. I suggested as a "joke" I should go home with them both. They agreed! Then I got nervous. I had never been in a threesome before and I didn't know how that was going to work. It actually worked out pretty well. I had two men totally devoted to my pleasure. I didn't have to worry about if I was going to get something out of having sex (some men think only of themselves) because when one was tired, the other was not. The only thing I had to think of was which one I paid attention to since there was only one of me. They figured that out between them. They had a playful rivalry between them and I was the reward. We were a sandwich and I was the meat. It was fantastic! The sex was a great deal of fun, even without an emotional attachment. This was the first time I had sex exclusively</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> for the adventure of it. I didn't trade pussy for anything other than the experience. It was absolutely liberating! I didn't have that empty feeling afterwards like I did when I traded pussy for comfort or solace. I left the house with a smile on my face, satisfied I was a sexual adult. It was the first time I felt like a complete sexual woman, owning what I did and unashamed I did it. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{0e418957-1aa8-4efc-a81c-05ae6b5d4c08}{221}" paraid="992925423" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I still fell into a patriarch</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">al</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> mindset within relationships. This made it difficult for me to own my sexuality at all times, and nothing would prepare me for the sexual devastation my second husband was about to rain down on me. </span><span class="EOP SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{30e971d7-f727-475f-aa36-50e2ab321fa3}{138}" paraid="1995477978" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I met my second husband through Amber. He was her next door neighbor. I dismissed him at first because he was in no way attractive. In fact, he was downright ugly. He was no one I would consider dating, and I never really did. He snuck into my life by playing on the pretense of being a good guy. Amber, Eddie and I were the Three Musketeers in the bar hopping realm. We went out almost every weekend and had a great deal of fun. One night he dropped me off at my house and he kissed me. I had no idea he wanted to be more than friends. I kissed him back and he was a wonderful kisser and was filled with passion I would not have guessed he had. He was a shy type of a person, always hanging back and unassuming. He wasn't in any condition to drive back to his own house, so I offered him a coke. I was so shaken up he kissed me, and more so by the fact I liked him kissing me that I went down to the basement to get him a coke and never came back. When I finally crept back up the steps, he was asleep on the couch. I covered him up and went to bed. In the morning, he was gone. </span><span class="EOP SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{e6d83379-4868-4d2f-8c32-a8087d6772b6}{153}" paraid="197868833" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">He came over more often after that, acting like he was interested in my family, like he wanted to be a husband and father. I began to look past his looks and more into who he was. I thought he would make a good father and husband, which was what I needed from Gordon and Marty but the one thing neither of them could be. Over time, I didn't see how ugly he was any longer but how kind and gentle he was when he was with us. Eventually, we took it to the next step and had sex. We were in a relationship. We started building a life and a family. We would begin to build a future together and for a while, I had everything I ever could have wanted. </span><span class="EOP SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{cdd91ced-f14d-406b-b5b7-23d6e104a6fb}{153}" paraid="720123538" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I'm glad the first time we had sex it was dark because the man was hung. Had he whipped that puppy out in the light of day, I would have told him hell no. I have no idea how he fit inside me without hurting me. The first few years, sex with him was incredible. He was passionate and what he lacked in experience and imagination, he made up for in enthusiasm. Sex was pretty much the same thing all the time. He didn't like trying new things, and everything I did to introduce something fun into sex was met with a slow burning anger. I had no idea he was angry, but he would make me pay for any initiative I took in making sex more enjoyable. He would refuse to do anything around the house, or deny me something when I asked. He would withhold his affection. Once, I set up a hotel date for us. It took a great deal of planning. It was a fantasy date. I went to a bar alone, he would come in and pretend not to know me. We would go back to the hotel and have a grand old time, at least that was the plan. I put a lot of work into it. I got to the hotel room early, had cheese, crackers, champagne and fruit to eat along with some other enticements. I brought a mix tape of my favorite sexy songs and made a trip to Victoria's Secrets. I didn't want anything to go wrong and I was excited to have a night with my husband revolving entirely around sex. </span><span class="EOP SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{6812dd36-e32c-4af1-8189-7edbdd5d2b02}{167}" paraid="161565054" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">When he got to the bar, I was surrounded by male admirer</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">s, all younger than him and handsome. It all started out as planned, he bought me a drink from across the bar and I went over to thank him. We played like we didn't know one another and I slipped him the hotel key. I left to go get ready. I waited. Then I waited some more. After over an hour, he finally walked in the room, mad as hell. He went to the wrong room and the key actually worked! He walked in on another couple sound asleep, and climbed into bed with them. I thought this was hysterical and I was laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes. He was not amused. He had just come from the manager's office trying to find out which room I had rented. This led to a huge fight. The first thing that set him off was coming into a bar and seeing me talking with other men. I tried to explain we were only talking, but I couldn't reason with him. Then he accused me of giving him the wrong room number. This was a wonderfully planned evening which turned into an epic failure. I was upset he couldn't get into the fantasy, though he agreed to do it. I couldn't understand why he was so jealous I was talking to other men in the bar when he knew nothing was going on and I was going back to the hotel room with him. I couldn't wrap my head around how this failed, but it was one of many bitter disappointments to come. </span><span class="EOP SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{6aabb4c1-b249-4c61-aeb6-88440740240e}{171}" paraid="787598567" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">When I tried to introduce somethin</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">g new into our sexual relationship, </span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> it was always met with suspicion. I didn't pick up on it, attributing his reaction to his traditional values background. There is a techniq</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">ue</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> used to manipulate the prostate during intercourse which causes violent contractions </span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">and very intense sensations during intercourse. Men usuall</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">y go wild over it. When I tried it with him, he freaked out. Apparently I am supposed to ask him before trying anything he wasn't used to doing. OK, I learned that lesson. It would take a lot out of the spontaneity of the moment though. It would also make it less likely for me to try anything in the future. </span><span class="EOP SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I think he </span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">thought I was having an affair. He hated me going out with my friends and was passive aggressive to me when I did. I always paid for having fun with my friends for weeks afterward. He would be cold and dis</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">tant to me, not doing anything around the house or talking to me.</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> Once when I went out with Jennifer, I was having too much fun and called him to come pick me up. I couldn't drive home. Drinking, dancing and having fun</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> also makes me extremely horny so I practically attacked him as soon as his car pulled up. </span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">While he was driving, I was unzipping his pants. He wasn't objecting, and I told him I couldn't wait until we got home. I went down on him, but I wanted him inside of me. I made him pull over into a church parking lot. I fucked the hell out of him. He was not impressed. He was pissed. He was mad I went out in the first place. I said "Aren't you happy I come home wanting you so badly I can't wait?" He said "no." He didn’t turn me down, either. He was slowly isolating me from any life outside of him. I knew if I went out with friends, he would be a bastard to me for a</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> long time after. Our sex life, friendship and intimacy inside the marriage continued to deteriorate. He had pretended to be someone he wasn't and couldn't keep up the charade. He wasn't as sexually adventurous as I was and he only knew one way to have sex. He wasn't interested in me having anything creative or interesting brought into our relationship. Though we never discussed the number of partners directly, I don't think he had more than a couple of partners and was increasingly threatened by the experience I brought with me. Of course, experience meant I was a slut, and in being a slut I wa</span><span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">s becoming increasingly unworthy of being his wife. </span><span class="EOP SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX204088229" paraeid="{8d62692e-9f39-4fb6-a763-8a372a58beca}{191}" paraid="208789593" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I also read a lot. One thing experience taught me was there was no one way to have sex. There was an entire world of sex to be experienced and I was eager to try much of it. I preferred to try it with my husband, and because I was married multiple partners were no longer an option. I bought the Karma Sutra. I devoured it, wanting to bring intimacy and sex with my husband to a new level. He didn't want any part of it. He refused to read it and resented any new techniques. Sex was slowly dwindling, and with it intimacy. I couldn't accept my marriage was becoming sexless and unfulfilled. One day, I found a bunch of pornographic magazines he had hidden. I was furious. He didn't seem to enjoy sex with me, but he was lusting after other women. It was a blow to my self esteem. I could never look like the images in the magazine. I never told him I masturbated regularly even with having sex with him, but I was now painfully aware he would rather masturbate to those images than to have sex with me. I never masturbated to avoid having sex. I masturbated in addition to having sex. He was rejecting me for paper images. </span><span class="EOP SCX204088229" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-50286706773063154862015-09-02T02:18:00.001-04:002015-09-02T02:18:03.093-04:00Sex and Pussy; A Journey Through the Decades Part 10<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I had learned a lot through those blurry one night stands. I learned how empty one night stands are, and most</span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> are not very satisfying in any meaningful way. I would come to find out later a nuance to them, but while I was trading pussy for comfort, the sex itself was the price I had to pay. Because I wasn't invested in it, I often </span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">felt empty afterwards. I also learned there were a lot of men who are really bad at sex! I don't understand how you can be that bad at it, but I lied to several men about how great they were. There were also a few who were really really good at it, and I learned quite a bit about sex from them. I had dated some men and had been hurt they never called me again. Now I was the one not calling them. I wouldn't give them my number, but I would take theirs. </span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I threw the paper out the window driving home. I never gave a thought to how they would feel about it. It wasn't revenge;</span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> I couldn't bear the pressure a relationship would create in my life. I had enough to deal with trying to survive. </span><span class="EOP SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX246428459" paraeid="{521155d6-177e-439d-a2b8-77244186cec9}{92}" paraid="1202291851" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">During this time, I was learning all kinds of things about sex, some of which I never really wanted to know. I explored some S & M and </span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">bondage and learned what "fisting" was though I declined to try that particular offer. It was amazing how many ways the human body derived pleasure and achieved orgasm! I was starting to learn more about homosexuality and lesbianism, and though it fascinated me, I stayed away from experiences involving anything that might involve the possibility of that activity taking place. I couldn't image why people would want to participate in sex with the same gender. I was a bit disgusted at my own pussy, and I couldn't imagine going down on a woman. I had an odd attraction to them I couldn't put into an explanation, but I wasn't yet ready to find out about it either. </span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I was learning about group sex, but declined those offers as well. I still viewed sex as an intimate and private activity, but private was about to take on a new twist with my next boyfriend, a</span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> man I was to fall deeply in love with. </span><span class="EOP SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX246428459" paraeid="{c903568a-71f0-4b3a-8c6d-af7dc42e4003}{184}" paraid="1026171250" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I met Marty in an unexpected way, by taking the city bus. My car had broken down and I wanted to go visit Amber. I always sat as close to the driver as I could. To me, it was safer and less people bothered me. Marty looked a bit like Gordon, (who resembled George Michael) and he really looked a lot like Ronnie Brooks of Brooks and Dunn. I was instantly and wildly attracted to him. He had a shyness, a gentleness to him. He wasn't too shy to flirt with me and ask me for my number in front of a bus full of passengers though! I refused to give it to him, but I did take his and I called him the next day. It was the start of yet another exciting and painful relationship. I almost married him, but it wasn't meant to be. When he wasn't at his day job, he played drums in a band called "Blazing Country." I would go to see him play often. </span><span class="EOP SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX246428459" paraeid="{246593d3-7c44-46a3-873b-01e55f8a633d}{97}" paraid="686297285" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">We went out quite a bit, and we had trouble keeping our hands off of one another. It was an intoxicating relationship, to say the least. It was also a bit risky, which added to the excitement. We had sex in several parking lots mainly because we just couldn't wait any longer. Soon, sex in cars in the middle of crowded parking lots wasn't going to cut it. There was a bar that had a couple of pinball machines in a small alcove off the main room. I doubt we were the only ones to play more than pinball back there, but it was thrilling the first time he took me from behind while I was jerking the machine around to get the high score. He made me lose that ball, but I didn't seem to mind. I was a bit surprised and scared someone would see us, but I wasn't going to stop him either. After that, I always wore skirts or loose shorts on my dates with Marty. I wanted to be ready for any opportunity and that little alcove provided one of our favorite public places to have sex. Sex just took on a whole new dimension I had never imagined, and it was more exciting than I could dream. </span><span class="EOP SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX246428459" paraeid="{60bbb3cb-e239-4cfa-a51a-3225cb6866ba}{204}" paraid="937173414" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">There weren't any limits to the places we could have sex, all it took was a little creativity. We even had sex in a park, in full view of other people and children playing nearly. It seems the motions of thrusting aren't required to have an orgasm. I simply sat on his lap, my skirt covering what we were actually doing. We pretended to talk, whispering all the dirty things we wanted to do to each other later. We caressed each other's faces, played with each other's hair. </span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">We were a bit nervous when the police made a sweep through the park, but no one seemed the wiser. The pressure and sexy talk created a gentle, slow orgasm. It was an unique type of orgasm, but I was finding there were as many types of orgasms and sexual satisfaction as there were techniques. Not all orgasms have to be the funny face, curl the toes, crumpling heaps of exhaustion kind, though those are a great deal of fun too. This kind was a slow and gentle tingle throughout my entire body, it felt like a gentle orgasmic breeze on the inside. </span><span class="EOP SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Marty was up for about anything, and I had a great deal of fun using some of the techniques I had learned during my one night</span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> stand phase. Although he never asked, I'm sure he wondered where I learned the things I did. I even added a few new tricks to my catalog since I desired to bring him as much pleasure as possible. He loved it when I gave him oral sex, as I seemed to excel at this particular thing. I think his favorite was when I brought champagne into the bedroom. I would hold a sip in my mouth when I went down on him and the bubbles did a little something extra</span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. He wanted to return the favor, but I never really liked oral sex being performed on me. Sometimes it was OK, but maybe I never had a partner talented in that area. Mostly, it was boring</span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> but I put on quite a show for him. I knew he wanted to bring me pleasure as well, so it was important he thought he was. Marty was one of the best partners I ever had. </span><span class="EOP SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX246428459" paraeid="{1b82470d-618e-437e-8695-c42f2cdc9735}{150}" paraid="578349564" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Sex in public brought a new dimension to my pussy. Suddenly my pussy could be naughty, and it was wonderful! I had always thought of naughty as being something bad, but there was a thrill in getting caught. We never were, but it was thrilling to think we might. Sex with Marty could be normal, too. Normal meaning just lying in bed. Some of the best Sunday mornings I remember was simply making love to him, without a lot of fanfare or imagination, just basking in the warmth and comfort of our bodies joining together. He came over one night upset, and just wanted to be held and listened to. Somehow, this led to some</span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> of the sweetest sex I ever had. It wasn't passionate or consuming. It was slow, silent and we took simple pleasure in the touch of each other's skin. </span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Sweet was not something I had ever ascribed to sex before, but that's what it was. Maybe it</span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">'s what comfort sex should be, and what I needed when I traded it with the one nighters but then again none of them loved me like Marty did. The wide variety and types of sex I had with him made for an intense relationship, and anything that intense is destined to burn out. My relationship with Marty lasted on and off for years, until one day I woke up to realize we had lost touch. </span><span class="EOP SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX246428459" paraeid="{da2039e2-9d32-49a0-b37e-1cb33f635cb5}{191}" paraid="241005705" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Marty taught me how glorious sex in a loving relationship could be. Though parts of it were painful, he didn't treat me with the disregard Gordon had. We eventually drifted apart, even though we loved each other immensely, we wanted different things at that time in our lives. I had children to raise. He could barely raise the ones he had with his ex-wife. He wasn't father material, and he wasn't prepared for the specific challenges a day to day relationship with me had. It was the right love at the wrong time. Had we been in different circumstances, I'm certain it would have been a love for all ages. I still have fond memories of the time I spent with him. We didn't often fight, we didn't end the relationship on a sour note. We simply drifted apart. It is because of Marty I can be happy being alone today. I was loved in the most magnificent way a woman could have been loved. It is really true what they say, it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. Though the relationship could not be sustained, I am a better person because he was in my life. Marty taught me what true intimacy was when it</span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> was connected with sex. He taught me how sex deepened a connection and added dimensions to a relationship, something you can't teach someone else;</span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> it has to be experienced with someone else. I have never achieved that level of intimacy with anyone else, nor have I ever been loved as completely as I was with Marty. Sex didn't have to be connected to love, but it reaches unimaginable heights when it is. </span><span class="TextRun SCX246428459" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-36742362969873169192015-08-29T19:48:00.002-04:002015-09-02T01:04:09.776-04:00Sex and Pussy; A Journey Through the Decades Part 9<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="Paragraph SCX235271612" paraeid="{281f54a2-5cc4-4a60-aa27-8e8acca31c33}{145}" paraid="1931663199" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I was learning a lot about pussy, none of it I was willing to cop to. I remained religiously pious, only allowing my pussy to be used within a relationship which had the potential to lead to marriage, though none of them ultimately did. I still clung to the deep hope that Gordon and I would eventually be a couple, after he grew up some more. My religious piety was about to take a turn to the dark side, as my self worth would plummet from recent revelations. The newly found memory and Ron's escalating abuse of both me and the girls were setting me on a path of self destruction.</span><span class="EOP SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX235271612" paraeid="{281f54a2-5cc4-4a60-aa27-8e8acca31c33}{152}" paraid="1831479061" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The girls were becoming increasingly reluctant to go on visitation. They were so terrified of visitation, my eldest hid in a closet, curled up in the fetal position and begged not to go. There wasn't anything I could do, they wouldn't tell my why they didn't want to go, but seeing my seven year old daughter that terrified was causing me great concern. When they would go off on their weekend for visitation, I would head off to the bar. I had to do something to ease the pain of their absence. I could not imagine what he might be doing to them to cause them such fear. I had them in counseling as well, but they weren't telling the counselors anything at this point. I remained at the bar the entire weekend, going home only to sleep, change clothing and apply more makeup. I spent my time dancing my troubles away.</span><span class="EOP SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX235271612" paraeid="{281f54a2-5cc4-4a60-aa27-8e8acca31c33}{165}" paraid="1953004591" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">One weekend, the pain was more than I could bear. </span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">S</span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">ome guy paid me attention all night long and I didn't want to go home yet again. The silence was deafening, even in my sleep. It had an accusatory sound to it. I wasn't protecting my precious girls and the accusations were reverberating in my head. I couldn't do it. I went home with him, this time trading pussy for comfort. I don't remember participating much in sex, but it was the first time I learned w</span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">hat</span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> "going in the back door" meant! It really hurt, but I let him do it anyway without complaint. He even had a room</span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">mate</span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> and they had separate beds in the same bedroom. The roommate wasn't there, maybe he hung a sock on the door. I didn't care what he did. My body no longer felt like my own. I spent the night with him and he wanted me to stay with him the next day. I declined. I went straight to Amber's house, disgusted with myself. I was now officially a "slut." </span><span class="EOP SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX235271612" paraeid="{281f54a2-5cc4-4a60-aa27-8e8acca31c33}{175}" paraid="1202332546" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I walked into her house and burst into tears. She asked what was wrong and I told her I had a one night stand! I was devastated. I had officially become the dreaded slut. She smiled and said "let's go get some pie." Amber taught me </span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">a slice of pie with a good friend can make you feel better about anything. By the time we were done with our pie, she had me laughing. She didn’t</span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> have the same religious piety regarding sex that I did. </span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> I'm not sure her viewpoint on it was entirely healthy, but she was sexually healthier than I was. At least she didn't feel the shame I did about it. This one night stand was the beginning of a descent into many one night stands. I couldn't handle the demands of an actual relationship, but I wanted comfort in the arms of a man, even if it was only for a few hours. I learned my pussy wasn't golden at all. In fact, to my shock and surprise, every woman had one. Any man could find it whenever he wanted. All he had to do was to find a soul splintered and damaged enough they were willing to trade it for a few hours of attention. That became my life for a while.</span><span class="EOP SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Gordon was still calling me intermittently, and I was still hanging onto the fantasy love would one day conquer all. There came a time when my girls told me just enough about what was going on that I decided to go on the run. I moved and left no forwarding address or phone. I intentionally didn't let Gordon know where I was either. </span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">That effectively ended his hold on me. I could finally go about and live my own life, free of the fantasy. </span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I have never left a forwarding address since, though these days it is much easier to find someone. If you are online in any capacity, you will leave a digital footprint. My address here i</span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">s</span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> available online for anyone to see. They shouldn't be allowed to do that. I never gave permission for it, that much is certain. Had that been the case nearly thirty years ago, I would have had a much more difficult time of disappearing. </span><span class="EOP SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX235271612" paraeid="{281f54a2-5cc4-4a60-aa27-8e8acca31c33}{193}" paraid="1179001536" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">This was a dark time for me. I was learning just how worthless I was, because I was taught that my pussy was what defined me as a woman. Here I was so desperate for comfort I was giving it away to anyone who offered it to me. I didn't want it to blossom into a relationship. I was learning to separate sex from love. It would still take me a long time to come to a complete resolution of this, to come to a place where I could own my own sexuality without shame. That's what I was taught, that if my pussy wasn't owned by one man, then there would be shame. The sexual assaults reinforced that my pussy really wasn't mine at all. I was completely worthless, and that is how I felt. I couldn't find a middle ground between worthless and religious piety with regard to my precious and dirty pussy. I had a lot to learn and it would take years of healing from the childhood sexual assaults and the rapes in order to come to an understanding of what my sexuality was, and how to be comfortable with it. </span><span class="EOP SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX235271612" paraeid="{281f54a2-5cc4-4a60-aa27-8e8acca31c33}{201}" paraid="827911432" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Now I have to digress a bit here, because there is a secret I am keeping regarding my sexuality. I was also attracted to girls. It started in junior high. There were a couple of girls in school I thought were just beautiful. I wanted nothing more than to run my fingers through their hair, to stroke their face, to hug them. I knew nothing about sex then, I just thought they were exceptionally pretty. I wanted to be near them, to soak up the flowery smells in their hair. All I knew was girls weren't supposed to be attracted to girls, so the thought of dating one wasn't even on my radar. I didn't know what this meant, but it was going to play out in later years. My attraction to girls didn't stop at junior high, there were some in high school as well. It would be a lifelong attraction I couldn't begin to act upon. I usually learn things pretty quickly, but since sex was shrouded in such mystery it would take me a lifetime to learn that sexuality is more fluid than set. I have come to think</span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> we are all born bisexual, but how we grow, develop and perceive our sexuality and gender as well as genetic factors will eventually determine our sexual orientation. Some of us weren't born to any sexual orientation. We followed the sexual path we were given. </span><span class="EOP SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX235271612" paraeid="{281f54a2-5cc4-4a60-aa27-8e8acca31c33}{211}" paraid="3056971" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I can't tell you how many partners I have had over my life, but it has been more than I can count on two hands. Once I hit thirty, I decided that wasn't important any longer. There were other things human beings needed, and sex was one way to get them. Sex serve</span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">d</span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> a multitude of purposes, not just procreation or love. </span><span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Love could be a sexual expression, or as in the case of my children, it didn't have to be. Sex could be done with or without having to love someone or want to be with them. I was also beginning to believe we were not meant to be monogamous creatures, but polysexual. I was conflicted. I wanted a monogamous partner, but I couldn't imagine having a single sexual partner throughout my entire life. I've learned so much from having multiple partners! I was still religious, and the observations I was making regarding sexuality did not align with what the church was teaching. It seemed to me the church didn't know much about sex and pussy at all. Amber was trying to get me to see sex not in any religious format, but as an activity, much like going swimming or shopping. I was a long way away from that. </span><span class="EOP SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX235271612" paraeid="{281f54a2-5cc4-4a60-aa27-8e8acca31c33}{218}" paraid="1491201536" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Once I came out of my depression, and my girls were safe, I decided to ignore the conflicts I had with my pussy. I was a master at hiding things from myself; it had become an art form, really. So that's what I did, I ignored it. It brought a measure of peace to my life, and allowed me to maintain a piety pussy if not a golden one. Piety was something I determined, not the church. I had begun to break free of the constraints upon my pussy the church imposed on me. I had found out there is no such thing as a golden pussy, like I had been taught in school. Pretty much everything I had been taught in sex education was a lie. I had spent a significant part of my adult life trying to live up to the lies we were taught, and all it caused me was pain and conflict. It was time to break new ground. </span><span class="EOP SCX235271612" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-44591521576870144352015-08-26T19:01:00.000-04:002015-08-26T19:47:16.349-04:00Sex and Pussy: A Journey Though the Decades Part 8<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">The recovered memory sent me reeling, but I had thought it was the worst that happened to me. This is another coping mechanism, to deny anything else had happened and to marginalize the pain I was in. I told the counselor I thought my grandfather had "saved" me from further abuse after I told him what had happened. I suppose I had to believe someone had saved me, otherwise the truth would be too horrific for me to deal with on top of everything else. My subconscious knew better, and my confusion regarding sexuality and religious piety would bear proof of this. It was proof I was unwilling or unable to </span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">acknowledge</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX91258892" paraeid="{e3c0449a-8f54-4595-8cc0-6c9ca1ee0ecb}{101}" paraid="2027817429" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I had this reoccurring nightmare/memory. In it, I remember being a child going to bed at dusk, just as the sun was whispering it's gentle goodnight to the horizon. Like that summer July day, I can see the coming of nightfall clearly through the window. I am in my bed when a shadowy figure walks from the left side of my bed to the end of it where it pauses for a little while. I equate this figure to the devil as a child. I am terrified. I am so terrified, I cannot move, I am frozen in fear. As a child, I prayed to God fervently for safety. I kept repeating "The devil can't harm children, the devil can't harm children." I repeated it desperately, hoping it was true. As the devil came closer to the right side of my bed, I could feel the heat from his body. As he leaned over closer to me, I could smell the stink on his breath. The devil remained in the shadows, I never saw his face. As his face came within inches of mine, I passed out. I would always awaken the next morning as if nothing had happened. In</span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> my little girl mind, nothing had happened. Jesus saved me because I recited Psalms 23, verse 4. It is the most recognized verse in the entire bible; though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. I was afraid. I was so terrified, I would not see or know the face of that evil until three de</span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">cades</span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> after he appeared at my bedside. It would affect how I saw myself, my sexuality, my self worth and how I used my pussy, but I didn't remember anything beyond that one memory of me as a six year old child. I clung to the unsubstantiated belief that my grandfather had saved me from further sexual abuse. I had to believe I was saved from worse horrors. I had to believe in a hero and that God had answered my desperate prayers. The devil cannot harm children. </span><span class="EOP SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I clung to religion during this time, like the lost clutching the final unraveling thread from the rope just before falling to their inevitable death. Religious piety shaped how I viewed my pussy, and how I justified it's use outside of marriage. I had serial monogamous relationships I subconsciously hoped would lead to marriage. With Gordon, I had hoped the relationship would eventually end in marriage, because doesn't true love conquer all? I clung </span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> to the night Gordon professed his love for me. I used it as a glimmer of hope this</span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> is where the </span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">relationship would</span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> end up. I simply had to give it time. I wasn't yet divorced, so time was the one thing I had to give. </span><span class="EOP SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX91258892" paraeid="{009b9d06-a6ab-4c6f-9fa4-25861e52c49d}{154}" paraid="1799694322" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">This was a very confusing time for my pussy. Amber had some points regarding sex I couldn't rebut</span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. Pussy was a tool, useful to gain many things, not the least of which was money. I didn't understand it at the time, but using my pussy was the only path I knew through which I could become loved. I didn't care about money, I wanted to be loved. I was soon to find out yet another use for pussy, safety. </span><span class="EOP SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX91258892" paraeid="{59b53902-1582-46b4-a28a-5f0c193688d6}{7}" paraid="989599291" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I was dating a number of men, so many I couldn't keep track of them all. At this point, I was dating three Mikes (it's a popular name) and the only way I knew the difference was to ask them how work went that day. It's how I kept them apart, to know which one was calling me. One day, a fourth Mike entered the picture. This Mike came from a rather unexpected source, my soon to be ex sister in law. I can't recall where Denise met Mike, but they were friends. He had heard a lot about me, none of it good. I suspect he wanted to engage in some covert work for my husband. He called me and we talked for a little while, but I couldn't determine which Mike he was. Finally he asked "Do you know who I am?" Embarrassed, I had to admit I did not. He told me and I nearly hung up on him, but he convinced me to talk to him a little while longer. He told me I was nothing like he expected. He started calling me every few days, and we would talk for a long time. We had a lot in common. He was going through a nasty divorce as well. He may have initially contacted me to be a spy for my ex, but my charm soon convinced him to jump the fence. He began to tell me what Ron was planning, and it was terrifying. He offered me safety and security against those threats, and we soon began to sleep together.</span><span class="EOP SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX91258892" paraeid="{602b60a5-3ea1-47fd-89a3-d757c7451b36}{47}" paraid="1556535958" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I didn't love Mike, I knew that much. Mike had resources to help me with my divorce from Ron and he seemed to be a powerful ally. My pussy ensured he remained my ally and not Ron's. One Friday, he told me of Ron's next plan on terrorizing me and</span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> he came to get me out of town for the weekend. At least, that's what he told me. Now I am not so sure he wasn't using my terror and the real violent acts of Ron to gain an access pass to my pussy. I suspect we were both using each other for something. His parents had a cabin on the shores of Lake Erie, and we would be safe there. It was a nice enough weekend, but Monday came and I had to return to real life. The threats from Ron continued, and since the rape I had more reason than ever to be terrified of Ron. Mike's useful</span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">ness as a spy in Ron's camp came to a close one day when Ron called me and asked to speak to Mike. Ron knew Mike had jumped the fence and was on my side. I can only imagine how frustrating that must have been for him, but it certainly made the potential for violence escalate. I needed someone willing to protect me, and Mike was the only one volunteering for the job. I equated safety and protection with love. It is clear I had no idea what the ideology of love consisted of and what it meant. Although I didn't love Michael as I loved Gordon, I thought there were other types of love which included the need to be safe.</span><span class="EOP SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX91258892" paraeid="{ef64bd2e-3900-4628-bfdc-268ca836576c}{185}" paraid="521624397" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I was so desperate for his protection, I willingly gave up my pussy to him though I didn't love him and had no real attraction to him other than security and safety. It was the first time I began to realize pussy didn't have to be about love at all. Amber was right. Pussy was merchandise to be negotiated. Men wanted pussy, and women traded it</span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> for a number of reasons. I was still unwilling to admit (even to myself) that I didn't love Mike. It is only in hindsight I can clearly see I used my pussy to garner safety for myself and my children. I didn't know it, but Mike only provided safety against Ron. It didn't mean he was safe. In the coming weeks, I was to learn a great deal more about Mike's own divorce. His wife Kim was probably not the slut he made her out to be. They had a son together name Joey, and she was keeping him from seeing his son. This touched a nerve with me, as I could not imagine Ron keeping my girls from me. My girls were my whole life. They were the reason I kept on living. I would have certainly killed myself had they not needed someone to protect them. </span><span class="EOP SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX91258892" paraeid="{9b64cbda-2865-4077-a426-c192f771197e}{77}" paraid="711049556" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Mike's divorce proceedings from Kim were even more acrimonious than mine were from Ron. At this point, I had no idea Ron was harming the girls during visitation. I naively believed all of Ron's violence and anger was directed at me. When Mike told me Kim was on the run from him to keep Joey from seeing his father, I believed him. When Mike stalked Kim to find out information on her, I accepted this as a normal part of getting divorced because that's what Ron</span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> was doing to me. My view of normal was shaped by how I was treated by my father and by my relationship with Ron. </span><span class="TextRun SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Mike had never raised his voice to me, much less laid a hand on me, so when Kim accused him of domestic violence, I believed Mike when he told me it was all a lie. When she pressed charges, I believed Mike when he told me she was being vindictive. I was still very much into denial about spousal abuse. Though I was going through the same thing myself, I believed Mike and blamed Kim. It was an easy sell. I wanted to believe Mike was the victim. It created a bond between us since I felt like a victim myself. We broke up after Mike was sentenced to two years in prison and he left to serve his sentence. Now I know it is very difficult to get a two year prison sentence from domestic violence. I truly believed he was being set up by his ex-wife. My counselor had her work cut out for her. I had narrowly escaped becoming Mike's next victim, all because I wanted to be safe. Being in the midst of domestic violence myself, I couldn't see it when it was right in front of my own eyes. It wouldn't be until years later that I realized Ron never raised his voice or laid a hand upon me until after we were married. Though I was selling my pussy for safety, I was far from being safe. </span><span class="EOP SCX91258892" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-82194184653355912282015-08-17T22:57:00.000-04:002015-08-17T23:27:17.287-04:00Sex and Pussy; A Journey Through the Decades Part 7<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="Paragraph SCX216035475" paraeid="{9a9918e9-67dd-4da6-b97e-717944b7a63b}{58}" paraid="1597814712" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Not long after the rape I went to the Canton City prosecutor to discuss bringing charges. I didn’t have hope for actual charges being levied against Ron since I had waited to report the rape, but I didn't expect the answer I received. The prosecutor told me he wouldn't pursue charges. It wasn't that I had waited a couple of weeks or so (that's how traumatized I was, I couldn't begin to discuss it until then) but that we were still legally married. Even though we were separated, divorce papers had been filed and I maintained a separate residence with Schedule A visitation, he maintained a legal right to my body according to the prosecutor. That was somehow more shocking than being raped. Being raped by my husband didn't surprise me, but that answer certainly did. He wouldn't even look me in the eye when he said it, and promptly dismissed me after. I tried to get a discussion on the matter out of him, but he wouldn't listen. He left the office and told his secretary where she could reach him. I sat there momentarily, stunned. His secretary asked if I was all right. I said "no" and told her what had happened. She just shrugged her shoulders. I don't think she believed me any more than the prosecutor did. After all, I was a bitter wife trying to gain an edge in the divorce. A rape never happened. </span><span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX216035475" paraeid="{6f73dfe5-90c4-44f8-aae1-ff8a9a812ce2}{154}" paraid="325855561" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">With the unfairness of the world spinning around me, I went on with life. The anger of the rape itself is long past, but as I write this, the anger from the prosecutor's response remains. It isn't fresh, it's a long simmering ember. I wasn't believed, I had no rights and it was vindictiveness which drove the complaint, not the fact I had been raped. Was there no end to what abuse Ron could legally get away with? The custody battle for my children was overwhelming and expensive. I had an accident settlement and every penny of it went toward ensuring the children's safety.</span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> I paid the attorney monthly from some cleaning jobs I had. Every extra penny I had went to the attorney. I spiraled into a depression which made living very difficult. Even now, my pussy was not my own. I considered suicide, but every time I looked at my children I knew I couldn't condemn them to a life living with a rapist. I had no idea he was molesting them. Later I would learn the pussy of a child does not belong to them either as I learned what he had been doing to my girls and I remembered what had been done to me. </span><span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX216035475" paraeid="{a8ae4069-1d97-46ae-af4a-ed1495f049e9}{46}" paraid="1752915435" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Life went on, despite the trauma. The memory of the rape remains vivid nearly thirty years later. The pussy never forgets an assault like that, and it has a better memory than I do. Repeated rapes does something to your sense of self worth. I had broken up with Gordon, and I meant it yet again so I stopped sitting next to him in class. Unknown to me, there was someone else who was watching me. His name was Mike and he was in my abnormal psychology class too. </span><span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX216035475" paraeid="{5122d796-2f63-4889-84dc-df224b918266}{212}" paraid="1508517996" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Mike waited a little while after I stopped sitting next to Gordon to start talking to me. He asked me what classes I was signing up for in the coming semester, we sat together in the cafeteria and we developed a little friendship before we started seeing each other. I seem to be attracted to dama</span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">ged</span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> men. Mike was living at home and he described a terrible home life. He also disappeared a great deal of time and wouldn't tell me where he was. He said he worked for a detective and was doing surveillance. Sex with Mike wasn't as adventurous as it was with Gordon. Gordon taught me a lot of new things, "going down" on me being the least of them. Mike was pretty standard, though his enthusiasm for sex made up for his lack of imagination. One day, he stopped by my house unexpectedly and without a word grabbed my hand, led me to the bedroom and pushed me up against the wall. We had sex and it was pretty intense. It was the first time I had angry sex. He wasn't mad at me. He said he had gotten into some pretty deep stuff and he didn't know what to do. He had just had a fight with some of the people he was involved in. To this day I don't know what he was doing, but he never brought it to me. I certainly don't think it was detective work, nor do I think it was legal. This was to be another on again, off again kind of relationship. In a way, these relationships suited me since they weren't as emotionally intense but they still caused me a lot of pain and anguish. I didn't know what to do with them, or how I was supposed to protect my pussy. I began to wonder if it needed any protection at all. I seemed to be doing perfectly OK with it, and I hadn't fallen into the hell-fires of damnation. </span><span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX216035475" paraeid="{a81bb2dc-ceee-417f-ac83-e7902b3897fa}{71}" paraid="532510219" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Meanwhile, Amber and I continued to have talks about sex and pussy. She always referred to her vagina as pussy. I couldn't say the words vagina, pussy or any of the other descriptions. I simply said down there. I was coming down off my religious piety one grain of sand at a time, but I would have a very long way to go before I could accept sex was a natural part of adult life which was </span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> nothing to be ashamed of. I deluded myself into thinking I had real relationships with Gordon and Mike, which is how I justified having sex with them. I was also ignoring the fact I enjoyed sex immensely, not willing to admit it to anyone but Amber of course. When Mike disappeared the last time, he stayed gone but Gordon was different. He continued to float in and out of my life for a while to come. I let him use me and my pussy as an open door policy. There was one thing abstinence only classes had right; open door policy results in shame. I began to feel ashamed I let Gordon use me in this way, though I didn't know that was what was happening. I still equated my golden pussy as an expression of love, and love hurt. Amber was trying to get through to me love had nothing to do with it, but I couldn't give up the Disney dream. I still believed Gordon and I loved each other and maybe we did, but being used didn't make me feel good and sex was no longer the same with Gordon as what it had been at the start. Years later I would come to find out my pussy wasn't the problem. It was my sense of self worth.</span><span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX216035475" paraeid="{4edebf15-b11d-4d84-9e28-03c715ea870c}{13}" paraid="531755346" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Self worth has a lot to do with sex and pussy. Those women who have very little self worth tend to view pussy as a way of affirming they are worth something, because we are taught the value of and wicked allure of pussy. Women who have been sexually abused as a child by someone who is supposed to love them do equate sex with love. It is how we are taught what love is. If you are a good person and love someone, you have sex with them. A child always sees a parent as a good person, no matter what the truth may be. It takes a long time to shatter that image of the parent. </span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">After the rape, the counselor was getting a little closer to pulling out the information from me. </span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">More and more pieces were coming together and I started to remember a little bit. The fog was lifting, and the result would send me into a tailspin and it would take some time to recover. </span><span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX216035475" paraeid="{01de0702-b415-492c-9f89-c51c34697bac}{237}" paraid="309653691" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The day I remembered a tiny bit of what my father had done was enough to send me underneath the counselor's desk and it took her a long time to coax me back out. She had comfy chairs and sofas in her office, and she rarely sat at her desk. She sat with me, as if we were friends chatting about our lives instead of a professional digging into my mind. She never "planted" any ideas in me, as was popular in the time, but let them come out in fragments. She never told me where the fragments were leading and it left me confused as to what they meant. All she would say was the memories would come in their own time. She was working with me on my self esteem, and letting men use me. My entire self esteem was built upon how sexually desirable I was to men. I had nothing outside of it. I would learn this is common in women who had been sexually assaulted throughout childhood, and sometimes in women who had been repeatedly raped. In childhood, sex is equated with love. In repeated rapes, you learn you aren't worth anything outside of your pussy. </span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Fortunately, I was her last appointment of the day. </span><span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX216035475" paraeid="{5e83435d-831a-4967-8b2c-eda0f8f95be9}{123}" paraid="178027246" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I can talk about the first part of the abuse. I have lived with the memory much longer, since my twenties. I have come to an understanding of it, an acceptance of where it was in my life and what it meant. I did not remember the rest of it until I was in my late thirties and early forties. The final part of the memory was so traumatizing, I have only told two people the extent of it. One of them was a counselor. </span><span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX216035475" paraeid="{06683363-4767-4788-9a05-900c1fcaa956}{233}" paraid="142695024" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">One week w</span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">e were discussing the picture I drew of the hallway in the farm</span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">house</span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. The fog had been lifting. I remembered an old refrigerator in the hall where my dad kept some of his tools, and where he kept his pornography. I remember sneaking a look at them once, although getting into this refrigerator was strictly forbidden. I added a picture of my dad and me, my curly little head was all I saw in it. The addition was as if I was seeing the image from above, not at eye level, like the spider was. The week after I drew my dad and I into the picture was when the memory came back. </span><span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX216035475" paraeid="{5532bdc2-68bf-4bcb-9382-f00c8aad2fc5}{152}" paraid="560163191" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">One day I bounced into the farmhouse living room, a happy little girl coming in from playing outside. I don't remember what I was doing, only what happened next. My father was in the hallway with a certain look in his eyes. I froze, knowing what that look meant, and what was going to happen next. He crooked his finger at me, motioning me to come to him. He didn't say anything to me; I knew what he wanted and I was afraid. I remained frozen, although my feet started moving toward him. I didn't want them to do it, they did it all on their own. Everything seemed to be happening to someone else, it held a dreamlike quality, even in the memory. As I got closer to my dad, he unzipped his pants. I took his penis into my mouth and started doing what he wanted. The memory was clear; this wasn't the first time. I was six years old, I wasn't turning seven until December of '69. </span><span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX216035475" paraeid="{4c176a2a-1417-4c1a-80d1-6b6e8555edc6}{224}" paraid="1015620161" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">From there I separated from my body and floated away. This is called dis</span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">sociation</span><span class="TextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">, which was why I drew my father and me from an aerial view. It was how I saw what was going on. My spirit was flying up above me, waiting for it to be over. As I recounted the memory to my counselor, I referred to myself as "the girl" the entire time I was disassociated. While the girl was forced to perform oral sex on my father, </span><span class="SpellingError SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat-x; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> watching how brilliantly the sky shone in crystal blue hues, and how the fluffy white clouds decorated it with the glorious yellow glow of the sun. It was a beautiful day out. The was a light cool breeze which whispered against my skin when I was playing. My spirit saw my mother coming in the front porch, off the kitchen. She was humming. My spirit was panicking, screaming at the girl that my mother was coming! Mother would find out and she wouldn't love us anymore! I screamed and screamed but the girl couldn't hear me. My mother walked in and caught the girl and my dad. There was a scream, and my mother ran into the bedroom, crying. My dad zipped up his pants and in an instant I was back in my body again. My dad didn't say a word as he glared at me, as if I had done something wrong and I had. He warned me never to let mom find out or there would be trouble and she wouldn't love me anymore. I tried to warn them, I screamed but they didn't listen and now I was in trouble. He went out through the kitchen and I looked at the calendar. I stared at the picture, and July 1969 for a long time. It was a pretty picture, a landscape with flowers. I walked over to the sink and stared at the spider. Though it scared me a little when I drew it, I had no fear in the actual memory. I turned on the cold water (we didn't have a water heater in the farmhouse) and it pattered away, up the wall and out of sight. I looked in the mirror at the bad, bad girl. I lathered up from a bar of Ivory soap and washed my father's cum off my face. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX216035475" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-48132545253428128742015-08-14T16:39:00.002-04:002015-08-14T22:43:48.893-04:00Sex and Pussy: A Journey Through the Decades Part 6<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I was in love for the first time in my life. It wasn't the school girl crush I had on Ron. It was borderline obsessive and probably would have been obs</span><span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">essive</span><span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> had I not had children to care for. I wanted to spend every waking moment with him. We sat together in class and he waited for me in between our other classes. I was having the experiences I should have had in high school. Amber told me what she knew about sex, and it was plenty. She didn't see sex as an emotional connection. She saw it as power. She saw it as a way to get what she wanted. Like me, she had been sexually abused, but we didn't talk much about that yet. Sexual abuse changes you forever, in ways no one else will ever comprehend. Some of the changes are straight out of a book, while others no one could predict. Amber saw sex as something she could use. I never once heard her say she actually enjoyed it, nor did I ever hear her term it as "making love."</span><span class="EOP SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX102968558" paraeid="{9260710e-4f19-43f0-bb03-586ac30c976e}{160}" paraid="324226505" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I can't remember the first time Gordon and I had sex, but it was the first time in my life I had been made love to. He was gentle, tender and kind. He paid attention to me and my body. It was also the first time a man performed oral sex on me. I didn't know men did that! Amber had a lot yet to teach me I suppose, she never said anything about it. </span><span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> I went with it, but I didn't like it. He seemed to like it and I acted like it did too. As I lay in the afterglow, I didn't know what to feel. I didn't know what I was supposed to feel, but I felt wonderful. I still didn't know if we were in a relationship, but I wasn't worried about it either. I was simply happy. I was opening up sexually in ways I never knew possible. I doubt Gordon loved me at this point, but it didn't matter. </span><span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Nothing mattered but how I felt in that moment. There were to be many more moments like that with Gordon. </span><span class="EOP SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX102968558" paraeid="{f81e115f-115c-421e-a1cb-d46a8c006305}{155}" paraid="345411636" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Sex just wasn't any one way with him, like it was with my husband and like it was with Mike. Mike was always twelve degrees above passionate, no foreplay needed. I was to learn from Amber this was what was known as "fucking." Well, that explained a lot about my relationship with Mike. I had no desire to be with him outside of fucking him</span><span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. With Gordon, I was vested in him and the blossoming relationship. I learned to use sex as a tool to get what I wanted from him, and the only thing I wanted was more time. I loved being with him. It didn't feel like I was trading or bartering my pussy, I loved his</span><span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> touch, the scent of his body. I loved him being inside of me and I loved how his hands felt caressing me. I used sex to spend time with him after he had already said he was busy doing other things. Gordon was a party boy and I had children. I couldn't be in his world and still be a good mother. We both knew the relationship could not lead anywhere, but seemed unable to break up with each other. I was willing to wait until he got over this phase he was going through. </span><span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">He was fairly fresh out of a divorce himself and I still wasn't legally divorced.</span><span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> Gordon was confused about a lot of things and somehow this made him more attractive to me. I thought I could be his strength, his anchor, his port in the storm of life. </span><span class="EOP SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX102968558" paraeid="{cb6dabd9-6ce6-484b-a6cb-7e5bcb2fde96}{240}" paraid="1149438974" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The day came when I offered him sex and he said "no." We had broken up, but I wanted to lure him back in. I was still desperately in love with him. I came to realize I was trading much more than my pussy to be with him. I had begun to trade myself as well. We had an on again, off again relationship. I was there whenever he needed me to be, and when he didn't need me, he was with someone else. This was the first hint my pussy wasn't as magical as I thought it was. It certainly wasn't enough to keep a man, and as I was finding out, I wasn't enough to keep Gordon. I thought if I was there enough, if I was good enough, me and my magical pussy would win out in the end. After all, isn't that what we are taught? I lived in a fantasy world carefully crafted by romance novels and Disney movies that true love always conquered all. I was finding out that like abstinence only teachings, there were other lies to be uncovered. How many more lies about life was I to discover? How much of my life was built on lies? I knew Gordon loved me. He told me and I felt loved by him. If I was just patient enough, we would be together in the end. It was a painful lesson to learn. The balance in the relationship with Gordon was beginning to weigh in as more painful than pleasurable and even a Disney ending couldn't comfort me. </span><span class="EOP SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX102968558" paraeid="{8af05f0c-5947-465c-acbb-81c6f2e96404}{105}" paraid="1169730541" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I became Gordon's shelf pussy. That didn't feel very good. He only called me when he wanted it, not to be with me, not because he missed me (though that is what he said) and not because my pussy held some powerful mojo. I didn't feel like that infamous dirty tissue, I felt used. I somehow justified allowing myself to be used because I still had a faint glimmer of hope I would have my fairy tale ending. I wasn't sleeping with anyone else, but one day about a week after we had been together he called me to tell me I had given him crabs. I was grossed out. I didn't know such a thing existed! I assured him he could not have gotten them from me, but he insisted I was the only one he had been with recently. His new girlfriend Karen had broken up with him about 3 weeks or so prior. I didn't know anything about crabs, but I was about to. I shaved every bit of hair off my precious and potentially infested pussy over some white paper, looking for any inhabitants. There were none. I then scrubbed it until it was sore, just in </span><span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">case any might be hiding in one of the many flowery folds. Once I got back to school, I looked up crabs in the library to find out it took more than a week for gestation. It took about three weeks, about the same time period he was with Karen. Karen had been cheating on him. I wasted no time telling Gordon, thinking this new information would making him come running back to me. I was wrong, it didn't. I still couldn't give him up, and he couldn't seem to let me go, either. I remember talking to him on the phone, begging for him to just let me go. I needed him to tell me it was over, tell me he had no feelings for me so I could move on. He couldn't. I cried for days. </span><span class="EOP SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX102968558" paraeid="{504cd014-8027-4b77-90d9-773c367f9f85}{218}" paraid="664795388" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">During this time, the violence with Ron was growing in frequency, the threats were almost constant. One day when he was supposed to have the girls, he called me, speaking calmly, rationally. This was a change. It gave me hope we could resolve this like adults and move on. He asked if he could come over, to iron out the details of the divorce. I agreed. He had no intention of ironing out anything. As we were talking, he said "I don't think I could ever take you back now." I thought this was an odd thing to say, especially since I didn't want him to take me back. I knew better than to provoke him by saying he disgusted me to the very core of my being, his touch made me want to vomit or that I cringed at the thought of it. I simply replied "You don't?" No, he replied. He walked over closer to me and bent down to kiss me. I turned away and tried to change the subject, creating some physical distance between us. He closed in, this time grabbing my arms forcefully so I couldn't back away. He tried to kiss me again. Again I turned away. He didn't stop, pushing me up against the wall. </span><span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">He had me pinned. He kept kissing me, and I kept turning away, protesting, telling him to stop. His hands went underneath my blouse, roughly playing with my breasts. I knew I was in trouble. At 6'4" to my 5'4", he outweighed me by nearly a hundred pounds. He already had me pinned against the wall. I was going to be raped, and I knew it. </span><span class="EOP SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX102968558" paraeid="{8a71f1c3-7af8-4b75-8ca6-48997528ce92}{95}" paraid="2130510904" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">He threw me down on the floor with such force the impact almost made me pass out. I might have hit my head on the coffee table on the way down, I'm not sure but I had to fight to remain conscious. I wasn't going to let him take me easily. He managed to get my jeans off in the skirmish and when he finally did penetrate me I stopped fighting. It was over. I lay there as if dead, and it was how I felt, dead. I finally knew why I had fled to the bathroom crying years earlier. He had raped me then and many times after that inside of the marriage. It was the same way I felt now, and there was no other explanation for what was happening. I was being raped. When he was finished, he told me how no one would want me now. I was nothing more than a slut and I deserved what I got. He spat in my face as he zipped up his jeans, then he left me on the floor. I was unable to get up on my own. </span><span class="EOP SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX102968558" paraeid="{8b471924-87c1-4719-813f-f793686b0bc9}{49}" paraid="738574622" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I don't know how long I lay there, I can't remember having any thoughts. I existed there in that space, that period which had become frozen in some sort of a time freeze. There was nothing. I didn't even bother trying to dress myself, to make myself more comfortable, to change positions, nothing. There were no tears this time, I was beyond tears. After a while, I got up and took a bath. There was no conscious thought about this, either. My movements were mechanical, as if programmed into my brain, hardwired by centuries of evolution. I got dressed and went to bed, where I stayed until my children were returned to me. I can't remember having a single thought the entire time. </span><span class="TextRun SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">There was nothing. I was nothing. My movements through the rest of the coming days and weeks were mechanical, forced. There was no single moment when I came back to being something. It happened slowly, as if in a fog. It cleared a little each day, and didn't fully dissipate for years after. </span><span class="EOP SCX102968558" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-23859747215411198932015-08-11T20:11:00.001-04:002015-08-11T22:43:37.941-04:00Sex and Pussy; A Journey Through the Decades Part 5<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="Paragraph SCX11942804" paraeid="{c816a589-ff96-4fa3-8d7f-1be2cce3ad3d}{51}" paraid="1927911221" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">At this time I would be remiss if I did not introduce the sexual abuse I had suffered. It played a part in the development of my sexual identity, I cannot deny it did not. There is no trigger warning here, though there will be later if I can finally write about the details of it. I'm not promising I can, I've tried before and haven't succeeded. At this point, I had remembered something happened, but not what. I had a strong suspicion my father was involved, but I wasn't certain of this, it was just a feeling. I was in counseling, but memories were vague and fragmented at best. I remember something about the summer of '69, when I was 7 years old, but not the beginning or the end. I remember looking at the date on the calendar in the hallway of the farmhouse connecting the main house to the kitchen. It was a very old farmhouse and it was common for the kitchen to be a separate building. The hall had been built some time later. I remember going to the end of the hall to the sink, and inside the sink was the biggest spider I had ever seen! End of memory. I knew there was more, and that it was something significant, but I wasn't able to pull it out. I remembered something else as well. Someone had done something to me under water, not during a bath, but in the lake where we swam on the farm. I didn't know what or who, but it is why I hate swimming to this day. The counselor had me drawing lots of things, whatever came to mind and this was supposed to evoke memories. It helped, but what is buried so deeply isn't easily discovered. It would be more than another decade before I knew the full extent of it. I'm not sure I do to this day, but I know enough of it that I am not tortured by the nightmares any longer. I have resolved enough to have healed. The scars remind me it was real, it happened and I didn't just make it up from a childish and overactive imagination. </span><span class="EOP SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX11942804" paraeid="{289fe283-28b2-4772-b3a9-41a473d0ffe7}{211}" paraid="1980316573" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">That out of the way, now is the time I would fall in love for the first time in my life. I had entered into Stark Technical College, on my way to becoming a nurse. I was sitting in my Abnormal Psych class when he walked in. I have to admit I was impressed but he was skinny. Ron had been skinny so I decided I wasn't dating skinny men. He looked a lot like George Michael, a passionately wild pop star crush I had. Still, I paid him no attention in class, but I watched his every move. He had captivated me but I wasn't going to admit it. His name was Gordon Lane Brooks and I had captivated him as well. </span><span class="EOP SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX11942804" paraeid="{b1dd7dce-13b3-482d-99d9-0f1976a91b75}{211}" paraid="542590151" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">One day after class, Gordon</span><span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> asked me come with him to a nearby park.</span><span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> Price park was lovely, and it was a quiet and peaceful break between classes. He had a red camaro and I felt amazing to be riding in it with him! When he got within a few feet of me, the sexual electricity and tension was as intense as it was with Mike, but I wasn't going to act on it because after all, I was a lady with a golden pussy. It wasn't proper. I had to wait for him to make the first move, and I honestly didn't know what my response would be. I suppose it would depend upon when he would make his move, if he made one at all</span><span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. I had no way of knowing if he felt the electricity burning between us, or if it was just me. </span><span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Thanks to Amber, I was educated on the third date rule. The rule was, if you like a guy enough to continue dating him, sex was expected on the third date. This was confusing to me, because in my mind if I had sex with someone, we were in a relationship. This seemed awfully risky to have sex with someone without a relationship commit</span><span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">ment. I didn't even know if the park was considered a first date, since it was an impromptu invitation after class. This dating and sex business was fraught with rules and expectations I knew nothing about. I never dated in high school, my husband was my first and dates consisted mostly of hanging out with his stoner friends. I tried pot, but it didn't do anything for me. I didn't understand the attraction. Amber was my sexpert, so as long as there wasn't a fundamental moral high ground I needed to perch upon, I followed her advice. </span><span class="EOP SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX11942804" paraeid="{a5a88784-2335-4c46-8c59-890c2dedf51c}{6}" paraid="373189467" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX11942804" paraeid="{a5a88784-2335-4c46-8c59-890c2dedf51c}{10}" paraid="1570842622" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The hour or so in the park went well. We didn't really talk a lot, instead just enjoyed relaxing and watching the ducks from the shores of the pond. It was nice to lay in the grass and not worry about something, and simply enjoy the moment. It was bliss. I tried not to act too much like a school girl in love, but I don't suppose I succeeded. I think he loved my naivete</span><span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. I was quite innocent for being twenty five years old. Mike remained a dark secret, that mirror image of morality so if the subject came up, my husband was my first and only sexual partner. I told the lie so many times, there were moments I actually believed it myself. Gordon treated me like the lady I was, he didn't even try to hold my hand though when our hands accidentally brushed against each other, my heart beat so loudly I was sure he could hear it and the butterflies in my stomach made me dizzy. I was sure I was going to faint if he actually touched me. When he dropped me back off at school, he asked me to go to the ballet with him. I casually (so I thought) accepted! I was gliding on clouds the rest of the day, and every day after until the weekend. So much for not wanting to date another skinny guy, I was in love and I didn't even know it yet. It was love at first sight.</span><span class="EOP SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">He picked me up to go to the ballet. Thanks to my friend Chris, who owned an upscale boutique clothing store, I always had an outfit to wear. Her hand me downs were clothes out of magazines. They were ahead of fashion for our little Canton, OH town and always different for the culture of the city. I always stood apart from the crowd and I loved it. She picked the dress and the accessories and I have to admi</span><span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">t</span><span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, I felt like Cinderella going to the ball. He admired my flushed beauty and we were off for the evening. He opened the car door for me, and he held my hand as we walked to the theater. My heart was fluttering and I was lightheaded. Blood rushed through my veins, I could barely breathe </span><span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">and I could barely contain my excitement, but I tried to remain aloof and seemingly unimpressed. </span><span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Gordon impressed the hell out of me. He was a gentleman, and treated me with class and respect. No one had ever treated me so well, not any of the dozens of men I had dated, no one. I can't remember a thing about the ballet, Gordon sat next to me and held my hand. The world stopped and this was all I knew. </span><span class="EOP SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX11942804" paraeid="{ffa2a926-69e6-4995-ab28-620c9852ddd1}{134}" paraid="842360930" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The ballet was finished and we went for dinner afterward. I don't remember anything about that, either. All I remember was his smile, the twinkle in his blue eyes, his laughter. I remember how he didn't seem to want to be near me without touching some part of me, and with every touch my pussy longed for another. There wasn't anything sexual about the touches. He would brush a stray hair out of my face, stroke my hand, rub my arms against the cold air conditioning while he wrapped his suit jacket around me</span><span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. I didn't think I would survive the night, and if I should die during dinner, I would have had a blissful death. We shared desert and the night was coming to a close. </span><span class="EOP SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX11942804" paraeid="{c2719f90-92ee-4302-abc2-2ad381c8ec1e}{194}" paraid="1923891622" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">He drove me home and it was filled with anticipation. I wanted him to take me, but I didn't want him to take me either. I wanted the anticipation to last a while longer. I wanted him to kiss me but didn't know if he would. I wanted to invite him in for "coffee" now that I knew what this meant but didn't want to appear forward. It was very confusing. I didn't understand why women were at the mercy of what a man might do. The suspense was exhilarating! What I wanted and what I ending up doing might be two very different things. My head was spinning and my heart was pounding. Gordon would be the first lover I had since the marriage ended. I loved how sophisticated that sounded. I was worldly enough of a woman to consider a lover. We got to my home and he walked me to the door. His eyes burned into mine and the moment lasted forever. He said he had a really good time and wanted to see me again. I said I would like that. He leaned over to kiss me. I tried to hold back my passion, to reign it in to something ladylike but I didn't succeed very well. All he could say was "Wow, you have been taking my breath away all night." He turned to leave and I stood and watched him drive away until I couldn't see the car. His cologne lingered in the night air. I was frozen and couldn't go into the house until the last drop of him drifted into away toward the stars. Even the stars were twinkling with excitement tonight. When I finally did open the door, I collapsed against the back of it, unable to walk another step. </span><span class="EOP SCX11942804" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-54286298779674405342015-08-10T20:31:00.001-04:002015-08-10T20:31:59.388-04:00Sex and Pussy; A Journey Through the Decades Part 4<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="Paragraph SCX121170212" paraeid="{97df9436-1db1-4739-8f56-67997d9ea6c1}{144}" paraid="2091241862" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The next stage of my journey would begin after I left Ron. He never knew a</span><span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">bout Mike, but he suspected something. He actually accused me of having an affair with someone else named Mike in the plaza, someone everyone has strong suspicions was gay, although he had a constant entourage of women following him at all times. I found it amusing. The next phase of my education was about to begin, and it would be with someone I met in the Battered Women's Shelter. She would be my best friend for years to come, and we remain friends to this day. </span><span class="EOP SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX121170212" paraeid="{97df9436-1db1-4739-8f56-67997d9ea6c1}{149}" paraid="1970543746" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">We arrived at the shelter on the same day. She had just come from a wedding with her three daughters in tow, and I had my two daughters. We became fast friends, and had an inexplicable bond from the start. She was much wiser to the world than I was, more streetwise, she knew more about men, and she knew a lot more about sex and wasn't afraid to share what she knew. She never pushed me into anything, but rather told me of her experienc</span><span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">es, her thoughts and perspective on the matter. I was extremely conservative, which is a nice way to say I was a prude. Between abstinence only class and Sunday School, I was ruined. I truly believed morality depended upon the restraint of my sexuality, accepting the consequences of a man exerting his sexual rights and keeping sex inside of a committed relationship. I didn't believe sex had to wait until I had a golden band on my finger, but I still had to be in a relationship. I had already soiled myself with Mike. The mistake I made was in thinking this was morality. I was to learn through the years what morality really means to the people who proclaim to espouse it; morality is the ability to keep a secret. I would come to find out most people were having sex, many of them outside of their marital vows, and many women had more than a handful of sexual partners, whether or not they admitted it. Morality was an mirror image </span><span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">which shattered</span><span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> when the lies were reflected back. It had nothing to do with God, or anything, really. </span><span class="EOP SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX121170212" paraeid="{f2814637-a049-4568-9815-d69e431fa807}{59}" paraid="1455594970" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Divorce was freedom! For the first time in my life, I got to date a variety of men. I went to dinner with all kinds of men, and there was rarely a weekend I didn't have at least one date. What I didn't understand is the reputation I soon got from friends and family. Apparently, I wasn't allowed to go out with more than one man at a time without getting the dreaded "slut" added to my name. I asked them "Do you think I sleep with anyone</span><span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> I have dinner with? I thought it was a date, not prostitution." They all had the same reply. I owed a man something for taking me out to a restaurant not of my choosing, for eating food and drinking wine he purchased (and sometimes I didn't have the luxury of choosing that, either) and maybe seeing a movie or going clubbing afterwards. If that were the case, I'd rather have the money. I had bills to pay and was living on a thread rapidly fraying. I couldn't consider prostitution, but in hindsight, I certainly would have made more money. Dating was not a good business move for my future, but at least my soul and morals would remain intact. </span><span class="EOP SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX121170212" paraeid="{5a03f4ce-aa50-4dee-a723-c60491e585c8}{108}" paraid="1842527700" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Never having really dated, I didn’t know that allowing a man to come into the house after a date meant sex. I really thought it meant he wanted to spend more time with me, because after all, I was just that fabulous to be around. I spent the afternoon one day at a Christmas Show downtown, full of crafters selling what they had made. The entire day consisted of how he wanted a woman just like his mother and asked such very important questions like "Can I knit?" I spent the entire day assuring him I was nothing like his mother. What a waste of time. I can't remember if I said he could come in when he brought me home, but he came in. I really doubt I would have asked him after such a terrible day. He wanted to neck, and I suppose because I "owed" him I went along. When he tried to clumsily reach up my skirt, I told him a very firm "no" and pulled it back down. He had me pinned down. I tried to get him off of me, but he was too big. He dry humped my over our clothing. Clearly, he wasn't very good at this because it was over before I could mount a decent protest. He left a spot on my skirt and left. I was disgusted. Fortunately for me, that was as close as I ever came to being date raped. I didn't know such a thing existed. I thought rape was something that happened with a stranger. </span><span class="EOP SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX121170212" paraeid="{3581b3c9-81dc-4de8-8340-4c04093a7b95}{135}" paraid="741010034" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Amber was giving me the benefit of her advice, but very soon after leaving the shelter she found a boyfriend and he quickly moved in with her</span><span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. Dating wasn't something she wanted to do. She reaffirmed I was not the slut people seemed to think I was. I knew that, but it was nice to hear her say it, to support it. Dating was harder than I thought it would be. There were a lot of expectations I knew nothing about. I thought a date was going out and getting to know one another, not a series of steps with the end goal of sex. I was learning that's not what men expected. I loved getting dressed up to see what the night brought me. What I was finding out was that since I was getting a divorce with two young children, I wasn't seen as a woman, a human being. I was seen as someone looking for a baby daddy and until some fool took me up on it, I was to be used. I was married, I had done what I thought was right and protected my precious pussy and I still ended up being the dirty tissue they warned me about. I was used goods and though a lot of men wanted me, none of them seemed to want to keep me. I finally understood why the girls in high school were popular with the boys. </span><span class="EOP SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX121170212" paraeid="{e7c70377-11f2-4452-a1c0-9db80570e7e0}{118}" paraid="1003668343" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Amber was trying diligently to show me my pussy was neither golden nor precious, but I refused to listen. What worked for her was fine. I was in awe of her knowledge and attitude, but attitudes like mine don't change overnight, and they don't change easily. It would take a long time before I was to wipe the gold plating off my pussy and actually enjoy being a woman, but I was on my way. Dating would not last long until I met my next relationship, and the next, and the next. It was serial monogamy, but it would allow me to hold onto the illusion that my pussy was golden, special and that no other woman on the face of this earth had one just like it for a little while yet. Yes, I really thought like that. That's what abstinence only and church teaches women. I was going to hold on to whatever dignity my pussy had left in it, whatever promises it had left in it and</span><span class="TextRun SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> offer it up to the next man who would come to rescue me from the shame of being a divorced woman. </span><span class="EOP SCX121170212" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-51924899997501037272015-08-08T19:05:00.000-04:002015-08-08T19:21:02.627-04:00Sex and Pussy; A Journey Through the Decades Part 3 <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">My failed marriage taught me a great deal about sex, but my golden pussy remained as mysterious as ever. I had learned a lot</span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> about it, especially with regard</span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> to</span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> orgasms. I had yet to learn what the hell a G-Spot or a clitoris was, and I had a lot to learn about men's implied ownership of that particular part of my body. I understood men seemed to own it and </span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">though I hadn't yet come to the realization I had been raped in my marriage;</span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> I didn't understand why I didn't own it. It was a part of my body. I had yet to learn how many types and forms of sex there were, and which ones I would like. My pussy still felt like it was golden and special since that was what remained in the abstinence only teaching. The damage that course did was to take the better part of three decades to overcome. Abstinence only teaching does far more than teaching women men own their pussies. It teaches us sex is something they enjoy, we have a duty to ensure they enjoy it, and we are completely responsible for the consequences despite the fact it takes two people to participate. </span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">It is not a shared responsibility. </span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">It teaches us we owe men sex anytime they bestow upon us the slightest bit of attention or effort, but that sex should be used as a reward for marriage.</span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> It is the carrot we use to lure men into giving us the all access pussy pass, the wedding ring. The engagement ring can be used as a conditional promise of the wedding ring, thus giving a man the right to ask for sex, but not quite owning the golden pussy. </span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">While I would sometimes hear a sound bite or two which helped to give some thoughts to my growing collection of thoughts, I wondered how women learned these things or came to those conclusions. Sex wasn't something you talked about, and it remained mired in shame for me. </span><span class="EOP SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX118823575" paraeid="{4e7d82dd-0d6e-4b52-aedc-9a81ce39e586}{216}" paraid="163813093" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I felt absolutely no guilt or shame over my affair with Mike. I didn</span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">'t know why. I should have felt guilt. I had cheated on my husband. I had broken my marriage vows and had become a tainted woman, but I had learned far too much to feel the guilt. I didn't even feel shameful. Mike gave me far more than exciting, clandestine meetings. He opened up the possibilities of what sex could be, a glimpse of what it was supposed to be. He taught me sex was something of a skill and that it wasn't just something that "came naturally." To be good at it, you had to learn what pleases the other person and to push your boundaries into exploring ways to have sex other than the missionary position. The day he took me into the back room of the store was one I will never forget. I consider that day the true day I lost my virginity. We had sex standing up, it was consensual and not only did I want it to happen, I found it to be something I immensely enjoyed. The glow of that encounter lasts to this day. I have no desire to be with Mike, he isn't someone I would want in my life now. He gave me a gift, a cornerstone with which to build the inner core of my sexuality. </span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I had read about the feelings women should have with sex, but I had never experienced any of them with my husband. I had begun to think of those stories as fantasies, like the elusive unicorn. When I read them, my pussy throbbed with longing and desire, but what I knew of sex was disappointing that longing. The books</span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> and stories had made me come to resent sex because it felt like it was a big lie being told to trick women into relationships. Mike showed me it was not a lie. The unicorn was real, and it was fanfuckingtastic! </span><span class="EOP SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX118823575" paraeid="{a849e242-8b24-49b1-8fc4-de1d047f51cc}{112}" paraid="229250906" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">It was an interesting dichotomy. Sex with my husband felt shameful, dirty. I felt less of a person because of it. Sex with Mike affirmed myself as a desirable human being, it felt right and it felt empowering. It was a different kind of empowering than what was taught in abstinence class. That taught m</span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">e sex was a negotiating tool, and women had the golden cow. This kind of power didn't feel like a negotiating tool. It felt like something I owned, free to dispense as I saw fit. It wasn't something to be sold, negotiated or traded for something else. It felt like I had a gift</span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> I could give to myself at the hour of my own choosing. I had no idea how this could be. Shouldn't the opposite be true? Shouldn't sex with my husband affirm my femininity, my identity and my worth? I realized my husband was either a closeted homosexual or bisexual (I hadn't heard the term bisexual at this point) but sex ed did not prepare me in any way for having sex. It didn't prepare me for the responsibility of it, nor did it prepare me for the complex and contradicting set</span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> of emotions it would elicit. It had not prepared me in any way at all. It seems criminal to call it sexual education. The only thing I learned of value from it was about sexually transmitted diseases, and those were things that happened to other people, people who "slept around." Isn't it interesting bad things always are problems "other people" face? </span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="EOP SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX118823575" paraeid="{e0275552-2d38-4b59-bbbb-596b58cad3b8}{239}" paraid="1797158764" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I was learning so much, but I was soon to find out there was an enormous amount of information I still needed about sex and how it applied to me. I needed to know how it affected me in ways I could not imagine, but that the same information would also conflict with new information as it </span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">becomes available. While sex ed should not teach these things to children, I felt unprepared for sex as a person, and I felt cheated by what I was taught as a woman. Sex ed class was a profound betrayal of what it meant to be a woman, a sexual human being, and how my pussy could be used to enhance the experience of being a woman. Sex ed's only teaching was how it was to be used to gain a foothold into marriage, and how we were damaged for life if it was used for any other purpose. This cripples and traumatizes young women. Not being a man, nor having had any enlightening conversations about men's experiences and growth through sex, I can't offer any perspectives on what it does to men. My opinion is that is damages men in similar profound and expansive ways. If I felt I was being taught they were owed sex, it affects the way they are taught to treat women. It places them at a distinct disadvantage as women learn this isn't true, it creates conflict where it didn't need to happen and leaves men just as confused about their sexual roles as we are. They are left angry at women, </span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">when we are only trying to figure it out, not deny them what they believe are their rights. We only know how we feel when we are treated as objects and possessions. We aren't trying to </span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">emasculate</span><span class="TextRun SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> them, we are trying to navigate a world on information built on lies. I think in many ways, they aren't trying to subjugate us, but also trying to navigate a world based on the lies they were taught. It sets us up for conflict, disappointment, bitterness, dishonesty and anger. I believe most of the problems which lie between men and women begin with the lies we are taught in abstinence only class. </span><span class="EOP SCX118823575" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-9192466909294631482015-08-07T21:02:00.001-04:002015-08-10T20:32:19.867-04:00Sex and Pussy: A Journey Through the Decades Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{10a5fcbe-85c8-478d-b084-cd1d15864575}{100}" paraid="1764557973" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">In the early years, especially prior to marriage, I never refused sex with Ron, though I didn't often enjoy it. It was just something we did, like going to the movies and it</span><span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> was always over pretty fast. I can't remember when he first asked me for a blow job, but I adamantly refused. I couldn't believe what he was asking me! It was certainly gross and unsanitary. Why would I want to put me mouth upon something he pissed out of? It didn't make any sense, I had certainly never heard of it before and it wasn't going to happen. It took a while for him to convince me, and I made him scrub that sucker clean before I would even attempt it. It wasn't "just like sucking on a Popsicle." A Popsicle was cool and refreshing. This was boring and I couldn't wait for it to be over. He let this sit a while until I got used to the idea before he told me he wanted me to swallow when he was done. Exactly what was I supposed to be getting out of this? Swallowing wasn't anything that gave me any benefit, either. It was salty, slimy and I didn't see the point. Sometimes, he would push my head down there, and not let me back up until I did what he wanted. This wasn't my idea of fun, and sex was supposed to involve the precious golden pussy. I felt used. </span><span class="EOP SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span><br />
<span class="EOP SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{6adf2866-f5bc-4e6d-9c2e-6633f35fad8c}{115}" paraid="225634087" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Life goes on as it does, and I got used to it. Sometimes I would do it because it was quicker getting him off and I didn't want sex. Sex was always the same, and it was always missionary style. Sex was so dull and uninteresting, I didn't understand for a second why women would want it in the first place. It was a chore, something I did to keep him happy. The marriage wasn't good, but the daughter I had gave me great joy. I forced myself to be happy with the life I had, and to make the best marriage I could even though by now I knew I didn't love this man and never would. I read back on what I wrote about him, how I felt about him in high school and sadly realized I had silly high school ideas about what love was. I never wanted to marry him in the first place, but I didn't see any other choices if I wanted to be a respectable woman. He was the one who ruined the golden pussy. </span><span class="EOP SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{80b21f74-066e-4e93-baac-eaf0bfac7068}{51}" paraid="548961454" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<br /></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{80b21f74-066e-4e93-baac-eaf0bfac7068}{54}" paraid="1443793712" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">There came a day when I didn't want sex, I didn't want to appease him with a blow job, I just wanted left alone that night. He cajoled, he enticed, he begged and still I said no. When that didn't work, he took what he wanted. I fought a little, futile. He didn't seem to care. He did his business and when he was done I fled to the bathroom, locked the door and wept. I didn't know why I was crying, why I felt such intense shame or why it mattered. I felt like the dirty tissue they always warned me I would be, and I was married. My own husband made me that dirty tissue. For the first time in my sexual life, I felt worse than I did the night I lost my virginity. My husband wanted to come into the bathroom, he didn't know what he did wrong. He had no clue, and neither did I. I knew what rape was, but I also knew a husband couldn't rape a wife, so it never entered my mind for a second rape was what I was feeling. I took a shower and went to bed, exhausted and defeated. His touch was never the same after that. My skin crawled at the mere thought of it. I recoiled when he did touch me, I became stiff when he hugged me and waves of nausea would ripple through my body when he kissed me. When he "made love" to me, I didn't fight it, I</span><span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> died. I died each and every single time after that. I never wanted to be divorced, but I was dying every day I stayed in the marriage. One day, there wouldn't be anything left alive. My pussy was my enemy and frankly I didn't understand what it was good for. </span><span class="EOP SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{5d7b99b1-dd9b-43e7-b451-5518ddc51a7c}{46}" paraid="363299013" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<br /></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{5d7b99b1-dd9b-43e7-b451-5518ddc51a7c}{49}" paraid="586050785" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">And still the days went by. He felt my disgust and asked for sex less and less. This was fine with me. One day while taking a shower, I pulled down the shower massage and rinsed off, lingering in between my legs. It felt good, comforting, tingly. I needed comfort and tingly was a sensation I had never felt before. The tingly moved out from between my legs, and this wave of pleasure started in my toes and flew through the rest of my body, ending in some sort of an epileptic convulsion. I was breathing heavily, trying to catch my breath, yet I had done nothing strenuous. It lasted seconds and forever all at the same time. I'm a little dull at times, but even I knew I had experienced my very first orgasm, and it was discovered quite by accident. Nothing my husband ever did came close to making me feel like that. Now I knew why my pussy was golden, why it was powerful, and it was stunning its glory. After that, I became the cleanest person alive, sometimes showering 3 times a day. </span><span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">After years of slowly dying, the world suddenly had a new perspective. My husband didn't know what the fuck he was doing. I had to find out more about sex and the golden pussy. </span><span class="EOP SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{b13ba48d-89da-4da7-886e-6ae9d931f53a}{255}" paraid="1401479353" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<br /></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{93daf18d-2b38-4357-8abd-6611571a1b8a}{3}" paraid="1348043082" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">This was a problem since I was married. I flirted constantly, affirming my value as a sexually desirable object, but it meant nothing. There was never any follow through, never anything but a playful essence to it. I was managing a retail store in a small plaza when one day a fellow from the computer store came in to buy some snacks. The sexual energy was immediate and intense. I had never felt such a strong and urgent attraction to anyone in my life. He came within a few feet of me and the hair stood up on the back of my neck, my skin tingled with the anticipation of his touch and butterflies fought the walls of my stomach, sending quivers down my spine. My legs went weak, and I felt I needed the support of something to lean on anytime he entered the store. I tried not to flirt with him. I didn't know what I was feeling, but it was more than I could stand. I couldn't explain it. No one had made me feel like this before and it terrified me. </span><span class="EOP SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{7a5785ec-5df1-4ae0-a536-4da55b0c9b42}{246}" paraid="1052749416" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<br /></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{7a5785ec-5df1-4ae0-a536-4da55b0c9b42}{249}" paraid="235000523" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I didn't know where it was going, but I didn't have to wait long. Nothing provocative was ever said between us, no endearing words, no playful double entendres. He walked into the store one day during a slow time. He said nothing to me, he just grabbed my hand and walked me to the back room. I asked what he was doing, what he wanted, but still he said nothing. When we got to the back room, he kissed me hard and with a passion I had only read about. My head was spinning, but I kissed him back with a passion I didn't know lived within my flesh. Our hands were all over one another, our clothes in a scattered disarray on our bodies. I had a dress on. As his hands slid up my thighs he ripped off</span><span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> my panties and thrust into me with all the force and passion of his kiss. I don't know how long it lasted, but the climax was exquisite. We got our clothing put back together, walked out of the backroom as if nothing had happened and went on with our day. After that, we met as frequently as we could, having sex at every opportunity. There was never any talking, I know nothing more about him than where he worked, I never had his home phone number and I never wanted to know more about him or have a relationship deeper than what already was. It was pure, animalistic, thrilling, exotic sex. I finally knew what all the books were talking about, and why people were so afraid of sex. It was magnificent! I knew I had much to learn and the days of my marriage were dwindling fast. The affair ended just as it began, without words and without any clear reason. </span><span class="EOP SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{f07993cf-ab49-4d4b-9186-c413dab32433}{24}" paraid="810789488" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{f07993cf-ab49-4d4b-9186-c413dab32433}{28}" paraid="264763672" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I first learned on homosexuals as an adult. I can't remember what the first realization was that men had sex with other men, there was no "ah ha" moment. I didn't think much about it except like my first reaction when I heard about blow jobs, it was "gross." Other than that, it</span><span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> didn't affect my life so it was</span><span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> filed under things to be observed. I heard a lot of things being said, but as sex education had taught me, not everything I heard could be believed and what you were taught isn't always reality. I never imagined homosexuality would enter my world head on, forcing me to deal with my marriage on an</span><span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> entirely different level. Homosexuals, whatever the debate may be, were someone else's problem. I had enough of my own. </span><span class="EOP SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{c14019e7-a8b1-439a-9738-41a578796d97}{68}" paraid="1089318105" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{c14019e7-a8b1-439a-9738-41a578796d97}{71}" paraid="602941623" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I was pregnant with my second child when my husband insisted I go out shopping. I didn't get it. I wasn't feeling well and I had no money. I didn't know where he expected me to go, how I was supposed to shopping without any money, but he thought I should get our for a couple of hours and "window shop." He thought it would be good for me. I had been feeling down and there was little joy in my life. It seemed I had little choices at home, he often and easily became violent. I didn’t' know why he wanted me out of the house, but it seemed like a good enough idea. I wandered around </span><span class="SpellingError SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat-x; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Massillion</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">, OH, but it was a small town without much in it. Canton wasn't far away, but I had no money and even less energy. I came back home about an hour after I had left. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{9b2f3c65-a7cf-47ae-9fa3-185ad83472a3}{203}" paraid="1234649159" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">As soon as I walked into the house, I knew something was wrong. It was painfully, deadly quiet. It was the kind of quiet where the air was heavy with pain. Ron was nowhere in sight, and it was a two bedroom trailer. I told my daughter to wait in the living room and I walked step by step down the hall, to the bedroom. I felt like I was in a dream, like real life was someone else's life and I was the screenplay in it. I opened the bedroom door and I saw my husband and our very married friend Ken naked in the room just before it was slammed in my face. I went to the bathroom door to our bedroom, and that was slammed in my face as well. I started crying, hysterical, really. Of all the things I could have imagined, my husband in bed with another man wasn't one of them. I wasn't mourning the death of my marriage, I wasn't jealous, I couldn't tell you why I was crying. In retrospect, I was crying because I knew I was in a marriage with a homosexual and I was pregnant. I was trapped with no way out. At least I knew why he was so bad at sex though. </span><span class="EOP SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX29231360" paraeid="{7076e0ca-c3f7-4dbe-9d12-30f51fa5f0f2}{244}" paraid="122862710" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">After that, I couldn't stand for him to touch me on any level. The thought of it made me physically and violently ill. It wasn't that he was a closeted homosexual, or bisexual, it was that now I knew his touch wasn't genuine. He was using me and it explained why sex never felt right or good, why my body felt like a dirty doormat, why it felt like a used tissue and why I hated sex with him. After my affair, I knew it wasn't me. I was capable of enormous passion, of free and uninhibited sexual desire. I could have glorious, earth shaking orgasms which exhausted the muscles in my thighs so I had difficulty walking afterwards. It was him. I had carried years of shame with me, thinking I had failed somehow as a woman and it didn't have anything at all to do with me. It had everything to do with him. The marriage went from bad to worse after that. Before this discovery, I was docile when he wanted sex, now he repulsed me. I fought him violently when he tried to touch me. He became angry with me and the violence continued to escalate. He raped me when I couldn't fight him off, and still I felt trapped. I was working with a counselor on an escape plan because I knew leaving a violent man was not going to be easy, or safe. Sleeping was not safe. He tortured me every chance he got because I refused him sex. I would lie in bed and he would violently masturbate next to me, screaming profanities the whole time. If I tried to leave the room, I paid the price. </span><span class="EOP SCX29231360" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-59037408306246782682015-08-06T14:44:00.003-04:002015-08-10T20:32:34.525-04:00Sex and Pussy: A Journey Through the Decades Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="Paragraph SCX116475896" paraeid="{5ecf0a16-eb00-4286-8d01-fa5c4551f955}{136}" paraid="1145490315" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I'll start my journey of burgeoning sexuality when I was in the 5th Grade at Decker Elementary. That was the earliest time I can remember when being a woman was discussed. It was one of those presentations where parental permission was required, and there was some</span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> debate as to whether I should be included. It was for 6th grade girls only, and though I was in the 6th grade, I was a year younger than everyone else since I had skipped the 3rd grade.</span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> It was a very serious and mature subject matter. It was about girls having periods. I don't actually remember much about it. I was too embarrassed learning about such things in a room with other girls. I learned enough not to be afraid when it happened, so I suppose I learned enough. I don't know what the big deal about it was to this day. Every girl who lives beyond 14 is going to have a period. It should be discussed in a more matter of a frank sort of way, instead of getting special permissions and keeping everything so secretive. Not much has changed since then. In many states, a child getting her period is still discussed in secret presentations, as if we should be ashamed should someone find out we bleed once a month. </span><span class="EOP SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX116475896" paraeid="{5ecf0a16-eb00-4286-8d01-fa5c4551f955}{141}" paraid="186289102" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The next was the day I got my period. That was a day mired in shame for many reasons. The first of which was that my period started at school and I had to be sent home. I don't remember if someone noticed it or how it came about, but I had to go home and tell my mother what had happened. She said she already knew. I asked her how and it was because I had forgotten to flush the toilet that morning. She let me go to school, knowing I would be sent home. I have never understood why she would do that to me. Later that night, I was in the bathtub when I heard her tell my father I had started my period. That was somehow more shaming than being sent home from school. I had gone from being an insecure, awkward child to being a woman and I had no idea what that was supposed to mean. It was more confusing than ever, even with the "special presentation." The idea conveyed to me above all else was that there is something inherently shaming in just existing as a woman. </span><span class="EOP SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX116475896" paraeid="{5ecf0a16-eb00-4286-8d01-fa5c4551f955}{149}" paraid="1071307662" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Fast forward a bit to the abstinence only dirty tissue method of sex education. I don't remember if this was </span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">the exact analogy used, or if it was the bubble gum one, but the message was received and it was this; my pussy is the most godamn special thing on the face of this earth. My pussy had special powers over men and the</span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> pussy should be used wisely. Pussy was the vessel of children, and it needed to be kept pure, a clean highway for the expulsion of a cottage cheese, fluid covered, screaming blob of bliss. It was my sacred purpose in life, to guard this pussy. </span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> It was also my greatest shame, because once the pussy was spoiled by one man, no other man would ever want my pussy again. It struck fear in my heart. All my life had been directed that my one and only value was to be valued, wanted and loved by a man. I needed to protect my pussy at all costs. It was the only thing I possessed of value. </span><span class="EOP SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX116475896" paraeid="{5ecf0a16-eb00-4286-8d01-fa5c4551f955}{157}" paraid="90083095" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I heard of girls in school who were "loose, sluts, hoes or whores." This was puzzling to me. I didn't understand why they weren't protecting their golden pussy, nor how it was I could be lied to in sex ed class. Once the pussy was made available, more men wanted them, not less. Sometimes they were the most popular girls in high school. Maybe they weren't the most popular girls per say, but they were certainly the most popular girls with the boys. Someone explained to me those were the girls boys liked, but they weren't the ones boys married, or took home to introduce to their mothers. I accepted this expla</span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">nation</span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, but clearly more observation about the use and effects of the golden pussy were going to be needed before I could discover the truth about this mysterious part of my body. There truly was power in the pussy, I just didn't know what it was, or why the word pussy was considered a curse word. There were other words for it: muffin</span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">, va </span><span class="SpellingError SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat-x; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">jayjay</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">, the hole, beaver, bearded pie, box, down under, and I have come to find out there are thousands of euphemisms and slang to describe pussy. I think there must be more words for pussy than any other single word in the English language. This is more proof of the power of pussy. It is so powerful, you can't say it or talk about it in polite company. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX116475896" paraeid="{5ecf0a16-eb00-4286-8d01-fa5c4551f955}{162}" paraid="884690067" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">A few days before my 16th birthday, and when I was a junior in high school, I was at a bar with my mother when I was to meet my first husband, who would teach me what I needed to know about sex. He would also teach me many other things no woman should ever learn about sex. He was a </span><span class="SpellingError SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat-x; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">base</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> player in a really awful band that played at the Eagles in downtown Barberton. They were really more interested in getting high than they were in practicing or making music, but I was soon to become their lead singer. He was 21 and a dark, troubled man. His pain fascinated me. It mirrored my own, but unlike me he chose to embrace his pain and brooding was his way of life. I brought joy, smiles and happiness into his brooding. This made me feel special and as if I had a purpose. I could affect the life of another. In return, he showered me with attention. He couldn't live without me, not one single solitary moment. I had never had anyone in my life who wanted to be with me every second. I basked in the attention. </span></span><span class="EOP SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX116475896" paraeid="{5ecf0a16-eb00-4286-8d01-fa5c4551f955}{164}" paraid="929034244" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX116475896" paraeid="{5ecf0a16-eb00-4286-8d01-fa5c4551f955}{168}" paraid="58068253" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I was a virgin, he was not. It wasn't long before he was pressuring me into "going all the way." I was very naive and sheltered. I wasn't even sure I knew what "going all the way" meant, but it had something to do with the power of the pussy and I was afraid to unleash that power. Before him, I had rarely dated, an no boy had ever gotten passed a kiss. This was new territory and it was frightening. I didn't know what love was, but I thought the anticipation of his call, the feeling I had when I was with him, the protection he offered and the promises he made were love. It wasn't, but I had nothing else to compare it to. As the sexual advances proceeded, so did the pressure to go even further. I wasn't ready for any of it, but the thrill of having an older man interested in me placed me in the position of being fearful to refuse his desires. As the boundaries became less and less clear, I finally allowed him it put "it" in between my legs, but he wasn't to "go all the way." It was miserable for me and I was terrified. My terror turned out to be valid when he "accidentally" broke my hymen. It hurt and I bled and I stopped everything right then and there. All was lost. My pussy was irrecovably damaged and no longer golden. I cried, sobbed and mourned the loss of my precious golden pussy. I was inconsolable. He wanted to buy me a hamburger, an ice cream, anything but there wasn't anyplace</span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> open. Barberton Ohio closed early in the late 70's</span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. </span><span class="EOP SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX116475896" paraeid="{243383f1-96fa-4c9a-8561-039d7f37cd93}{106}" paraid="1794666557" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX116475896" paraeid="{243383f1-96fa-4c9a-8561-039d7f37cd93}{109}" paraid="1388728549" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">After this, all was lost. The next school day, I hung my head in shame. I flushed at every "hello," every greeting by the friends I knew. Surely they could tell I was now a dirty tissue. I had the scarlet letter magically seared into my forehead, yet no one said a word to me about this new me in the school. I couldn't tell anyone what had happened to me over the weekend. I had no idea why I felt so bad, and so ashamed. I no longer had a reason to refuse him. I wasn't a virgin anymore, so I let him do what he wanted. Sometimes, I even enjoyed it. I had a couple of pregnancy scares, so he took me to Planned Parenthood to get birth control. I wanted to finish high school, and I didn't want anyone to know I was a slut. The pelvic exam was worse than the accidental sex, and I was in pain for days. Now I know why being a woman was something no one wanted to be. It seemed the pussy was more </span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">powerful than</span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> I had thought, because it had the power to keep an older man interested in me, as well as the power to create a deep an ever present shame. A pussy wasn't a gift, it was a curse. </span><span class="EOP SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
</div>
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<div class="Paragraph SCX116475896" paraeid="{7cccc587-93e7-4aa8-9997-2ff9f192adba}{132}" paraid="481452581" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<br /></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: white; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX116475896" paraeid="{7cccc587-93e7-4aa8-9997-2ff9f192adba}{136}" paraid="936161719" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: transparent; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;" xml:lang="EN-US">
<span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><span class="NormalTextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">My next observation was when a girl in my graduating class became pregnant. I didn’t know her well, but suddenly she became an object of mystification. No one quite knew what to say to her, but everyone knew what to say about her. I listened to the comments, but I had no real opinion about it myself. I felt sorry for her. I had no idea what this meant for her, but I thought life was going to be very hard. I had my own shame to deal with, so though I </span><span class="SpellingError SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; background-image: url(data:image/gif; background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat-x; border-bottom-color: transparent; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">couldn't</span><span class="NormalTextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; background-color: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> know what she felt, shame must be a part of it. What I found</span></span><span class="TextRun SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> compelling, what I didn't understand, is how she seemed to carry herself with a sense of pride. She held her head up high, she ignored the gossip swirling up around her, and she went on. She continued to go to classes and when she graduated in 1980, she walked across the stage visibly pregnant like she was any other student. I was in awe of her. I thought she had to be the most courageous person I didn’t really know. </span><span class="EOP SCX116475896" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-37938647769010024552013-11-20T00:48:00.000-04:002016-04-05T19:10:42.685-04:00Curtain Call<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess it’s time to write about my mother, since we are
coming up on the one year anniversary of her death. For a long time, I didn’t know what to write,
how to express such a jumble of emotions.
I loved her. I spent years hating
her and longing for her love at the same time.
I pitied her. I resented her for
not being the person I wanted her to be.
I held her accountable for human failings. As much pain as she caused me, I am certain I
caused her a significant amount in return.
I was angry because I wanted June Cleaver for a mother and I got mommy
dearest. At the end of the day, I just
wanted a mother I could confide in, a mother I could rely on, a mother who
could guide me through the complexities of life. The greatest part of my disappointment was in
not having what I wanted. My mother was
not capable of those things. It’s like
asking me to be an engineer when math bores the snot out of me. I just can’t do it. My mother could not be the person I wanted
her to be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I heard the news of her death, I was numb. My mother threatened me with her demise since
I was sixteen, so though I understand mortality well, I didn’t really expect
it. I was stunned. When I made the announcement on Facebook, I
got the expected expressions of condolences, but I felt odd accepting them
given the way I felt about my mother.
Her death was hard, but not in the typical “I’ve lost something sort of
way.” It was hard because so much of my
life was focused on how to deal with her, how to have a relationship of some
type with her and now it was over. Even
now, I don’t miss her. After reality set
in, the tears came and I didn’t even know why I was crying. I shed exactly one tear for my father. I didn’t understand why I was crying over the
loss of my mother. Over the days, the
grief got worse. I sobbed until I was
exhausted. I was so confused. I couldn’t be grieving the loss over
something I never had. It wasn’t as if I
had any hope I would ever have a relationship with my mother, either. The loss of my mother left me feeling like a
fifty year old orphan and that was something I didn’t expect. All of a sudden, I had no parents. I felt like a balloon that was no longer
tethered. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The depth of my grief tore at my soul and it seemed without
basis. Then, I finally understood what
was happening. I have always been
somewhat of a spiritual conduit. I
absorb the emotions swirling around me and it took me a long time to understand
the chaos it caused inside of me. I had
to learn to release the emotions that invaded my soul so it didn’t create such
chaos. Those emotions weren’t mine; they
belonged to the people surrounding me.
Some people are extraordinarily sensitive to emotional energy and it
affects them deeply. I am one of those
people. When my mother died, she
released all the pain in her life and I received it. I wasn’t grieving for the loss of my mother,
I was experiencing her pain. It was
overwhelming. The depth of it penetrated
me in ways I was unprepared for. Once I understood the pain I was feeling
wasn’t mine to bear, I could release it.
I let it go; something my mother was never able to do in life. In her death, she gave me her pain and I
accepted it. I’m glad she did. I’m glad she was able to go to her next
spiritual level without the life she lived here burdening her spirit. Once I understood this, I no longer grieved
and I never shed another tear. My mother
is finally free of the prison she created for herself here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanted to write a moving tribute to her, something that
would bring value to the life she lived but there isn’t one to write. My mother helped to create the adult that
emerged from childhood, but I made the adult I am now and it took stripping
away almost everything I learned in childhood.
It took accepting the way I grew up was not normal, healthy or successful. It took accepting my parents failed in the
most important task they were to be given.
It took reinventing the person I was in order to be a person I could be
happy with. I can’t write a tribute to
my mother because it would not be honest.
I can’t write a tribute to a mother I didn’t have. Still, my mother was not without merit. I believe my mother tried the best she knew
how to be a good person, if not a good mother.
I got an email from one of her coworkers shortly after she died. It was very nice; telling me how much my
mother would be missed. She made them
laugh, she was kind and they looked forward to seeing her. In her apartment complex, she would often
cook dinner for others. I got my love of
Christmas from my mother. She would
decorate the house with all kinds of colorful decorations and Christmas was
always special. It was the only time of
the year I think my mother was happy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When my parents were married, she tried to be a good mother,
or at the very least do what was expected of her. The house was always clean, the meals were
always prepared and on the table at expected time and she even was the leader
of a Girl Scout Troop for a while. She
attended the PTA meetings and our clothes were always clean. We had what we needed. After they divorced, it seemed like she
didn’t care anymore. The house wasn’t
cleaned, there weren’t any meals and all she seemed to do was sleep but to be
fair she did work midnights at a factory.
She became very physically abusive to me, something that I expected from
my father, not her. One afternoon she
was particularly brutal to me and I walked out of the house, never to
return. I was scared to death, it was
the ultimate act of defiance for me, and the ultimate rejection of my mother at
the same time. I walked out of that
house, I didn’t run. I walked with my
head held high, terrified she was following me, terrified I was to feel a blow
to the back of my head and yet I refused to turn around to look. I refused to look back as she screamed at me
from the porch. I was so entrenched in
fear I cannot remember what she screamed at me but it was a moment of vivid
victory with every step. That moment was
a defining moment in my life in more ways than I could have imagined. I had no active memory of the sexual abuse my
father imposed upon me, none at all. My
mother, however was well aware of it. To
my mother, I was rejecting her in favor of a man who was sexually assaulting
me. That was an insult I don’t believe
she ever forgave me for. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One happy memory of my childhood was going to estate
auctions with my mother. We would be
given a small sum to make bids on anything we wanted and I almost always came
home with a great treasure. My find generally
included books, but sometimes I ended up with a box of various items. We ran around the auction and played with
other children. At some point, we would
beg mom, grandma or Aunt Eileen for some money to buy cookies, soda, hot dogs
or chips that were always on sale at a little stand. Sometimes my mom would take just me and leave
my brothers back at the farm with my dad.
Those were the trips I felt special.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While staying at the farm, my mother would sleep in the same
room with us kids. It was a huge bedroom
and it had three beds in it with a wood burning furnace. I had a bed, my brother Kevin or Richard
would sleep in the twin bed beside me and my mother would sleep in a double bed
with Charlie and either Richard or Kevin.
My dad slept in a bedroom by himself upstairs. I have no idea why this was. I’m sure there would be a number of Freudian
interpretations, but I have none to offer.
After my brothers went to sleep, my mother would talk to me deep into
the night, confiding in me things a child should probably not be privy to. Of course, all I knew was that this was the
one time I felt close to my mother. This
was something special she didn’t share with my brothers, only with me. I would listen intently, nod like I knew
exactly what she was talking about and fall asleep to the gentle painful
whispers of my mother’s voice. Maybe
that’s one of many reasons I have such difficulty sleeping at night to this
day, I am subconsciously afraid I will miss something important if I fall
asleep. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love to sing. I
sing all the time, every chance I get.
This is something else I got from my mother. She sang quite a bit, to the sounds of Elvis
Presley, Patsy Cline, The Four Tops, Loretta Lynn, Gene Pitney, and so many
other greats of that era. I loved it
when my mother sang because it seemed like all was right with the world. My mother was happy, and that meant everyone was
happy. I grew up watching “All My
Children,” “One Life to Live,” “General Hospital” and “Dark Shadows” and I
watched them well into my adulthood. I
sat with my mom in those afternoons as we followed the lives of Erica Kane
during her first pregnancy and controversial abortion on a daytime TV, I
followed the storyline of the mental illness and subsequent suppressed memory
of sexual abuse by her father of the noble and great Victoria Lord, and I watched
as Leslie & Rick Weber was immersed with a love triangle with Monica
Quartermaine and we wondered who was the real father of AJ Quartermaine. I followed the story of Barnabus Collins at
the end of the day, all the while sharing a moment in time with my mother. Later,
the only place I could spend time with my mother was The Eagles in downtown
Barberton. You had to be buzzed in
because it was a member’s only club/bar but in those days, 15 year old children
at a bar with their parents was quite acceptable. It was at this bar I would meet my first
husband, a 21 year old bass player in a really terrible band. I became their lead singer and everyone lied
about my age. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From there on, my mother became less of an important part of
my life. When I became pregnant with my
first child, my mother made it very clear she was not to be called to
babysit. As she put it “I’ve raised my
children, I don’t want to raise yours.”
For the next few decades, I struggled to make her a part of my
life. It was a struggle I was to lose,
but I never stopped trying to come to some kind of a peaceful resolution with
her. I was to learn more about myself in
the process than I could ever have dreamed.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reconnected with her that last year of her life because
Spirit placed in my soul a sense of urgency.
Spirit is nothing if not wise, for it allowed me an ending to my
struggle. It allowed me to have a sense
of having made every possible effort, though I am not sure even now the ultimate
success or failure of that effort. It is
difficult to place that type of a label on it.
After my mother’s last call, we never spoke again. Just a few months after that call, she would
die quietly and without ceremony in her sleep.
I was never to know my mother on any level that really mattered. I would never know her hopes, her dreams, I
would never know what events made her into the woman she was. What I do know is that my mother had a
childhood from hell, being raised with an alcoholic and profoundly abusive
father. I know he would come into the
bedroom she shared with her brothers and he would take her in the middle of the
night. I know her Uncle Harry was a
pedophile who bragged about “having” all his girls. I know nothing of her mother except that she
died when my mother was just entering puberty and my mother hated her new
step-mother that followed. I don’t know
what kind of relationship she had with her mother, but if her relationship with
me was any indication, it wasn’t very nurturing. I know my mother married a man who was in the
military and while he was stationed overseas, she had an affair with the man
who I was to know as my father. I know
my father was mentally, verbally and emotionally abusive to her. She spiraled into a haze of alcoholism after
they divorced and met a man named Jim who seemed very kind but I don’t know
what kind of relationship they actually had.
My mother never spoke of her struggles to anyone. I have spoken with her brother Danny and he
didn’t know her very well either. She
confided in no one and had no one she could call a close friend. My mother had walls built around her so high,
so thick and so impenetrable, no one would ever scratch the solid
exterior. She became a soldier so efficient
that no one would be able to get close to her heart, not even her
children. It is how she survived. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother died as she lived, without ceremony and
alone. She died on a day when she was
expected to be at work, and her coworkers alerted the landlord when she did not
show up for her shift. Had it been
during the weekday, it might have been days before someone found her body. When my brother called me, he had also taken
her cat home with him. He asked me if I
knew the name of her cat. I did
not. My mother’s memorial service was
attended by two people, my brother Charlie and my brother Richard. I had just started a new job and could not
afford the flight back to Ohio to attend.
She was interned quite by accident next to my father, a man she hated
until the day she died. He returned
those feelings. Somehow, it seems a
fitting ending to this story, that the two people who created and destroyed the
lives of four innocent children should be bound for eternity next to one
another and yet I do not believe their souls are entwined. I believe my mother is finally free. I believe her pain has finally lifted and I
am grateful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no loving tribute, no moving memorial to
write. There is only the end, and thanks
to the sense of urgency Spirit instilled in me to make contact with her, I have
an end to write. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 2.5in; text-align: justify;">
The End<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-77110756443097238122013-04-25T03:15:00.003-04:002013-04-25T03:15:46.094-04:00Twilight<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Twilight washed from daylight, wrapping into darkness</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Numbing the mind and heart, eluding sleep which awaits</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Dreams unformed free to roam in thought, no boundaries</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Floating free, mind body and soul</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Darkness awaits, greeting and beckoning</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Twilight dares not to enter</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Daylight slipping fast, sinking into an abyss</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Hope fades</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Sadness rips happiness, sinking deep into depression</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Numbing the mind and the heart, eluding the joy which awaits</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Pain unformed, free to roam the soul, no boundaries</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Floating free, mind, body and soul</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Darkness awaits, greeting and beckoning</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Happiness dares not to form</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Awareness fading fast, slipping into an abyss</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>Hope fades</i></b></span></div>
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i><br />Colors expand, traveling through your mind<br />Images slide show through your dreams<br />Vignettes out of context, confused meanings portrayed<br />Floating free, mind body and soul<br /><br />Light in the distance behind closed eyes<br />Groggy and fatigued awareness dawns upon thoughts<br />Not enough sleep but arousal to life<br />Hope fades<br /><br />Hope fades</i></b></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-25089087575444555312012-11-17T03:53:00.001-04:002012-11-18T22:15:51.572-04:00Treasured Pain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Everything, living or dead has its time. That is how this earthly plane works. In our youth, we are oblivious of it, all
things live forever, and everything that is always will be. As we age, we experience loss. Some losses are easier than others are, like
when a favorite toys breaks and cannot be replaced. That memory fades quickly as we find a new
favorite toy. The memory of the old
waits inside the boxes we place in our heart, only needing the right key to
open it for a few brief moments. We
smile as the box is gently opened, rushing back the memory for a few glorious seconds. Warmth rushes over our skin, in
that single moment our heart is light, and there is a tiny breeze of
happiness. Then the lid of the box
slowly closes as the memory fades back into the box and placed yet again on the
shelves of our heart, waiting for another day, another key, another lost
feeling to reopen it to us. Other losses
are harder, like when our best playmate moves away. We don’t understand yet what moving away
means, like we don’t understand dying, but we know what was will not ever be
again. When we go outside to play, they
will not be there, only the remnants of our memory, remnants of our time with
them. Like the toy, that memory is placed
in a box in our heart, awaiting the key, the time the place to reawaken our
heart to it. Then there is death, the
worst loss of all but this story is not about death. It is about a Ho Ho. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This week, it was announced that the company who
manufactures Ho Hos will be closing their business. They made Wonder Bread and Twinkies as well,
but for me it was all about the Ho Hos. These
are the memories that will be placed in a box in my heart, and likely, there
will be boxes for my children as well. It
all started when I met Tiffany at The Battered Women’s Shelter. I've always liked Ho Hos, but for us it would
become our comfort food in times of trouble.
It was a bad time for us both.
Money was hard to come by and pleasures were few. We drew happiness from each other, drew upon each
other’s strengths, and made each other’s weakness into strengths. She was my Yin and I was her Yang. We were opposites in so many ways but we
brought out the best in each other. We
got each other through the worst times in our lives. In this, there were Ho Hos. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve lost count of the number of Ho Hos we ate, but tragedy
went something like this. Whenever one
of us was broken, who ever had enough food stamps at the time came over with
six things and it always started with Ho Hos.
It was rare we shared those with the children, though they did beg. There was one child who was successful in
getting the precious Ho Hos. That was my
daughter Christina. Neither Tiff nor I
could resist her but we had to sneak it to her.
This ritual was between Tiff and I, it was our time to regain balance in
our lives, time to curse the fates and time to plan how we were going to get
out of this mess. We had a way to eat
them, too. The pain we felt was too great
for milk, so we would eat them with Coca Cola while the frozen pizza awaited its
time in the oven. We began by peeling
off the candy chocolate coating from the cake.
We tried very hard not to disturb it, because as the Ho Ho unfolded, so
did our pain. We peeled away the
chocolate as tears fell from our eyes.
Sometimes it would take a very long while because we had to catch our
breath in between the sobs. Somewhere
between the sobs, there was always a joke that would allow us to continue
eating our Ho Ho. When the Ho Ho no
longer had its coating, we unrolled the cake.
That was tricky because the idea was not to break the Ho Ho. Anyone who has ever tried to unroll one knows
how difficult that is to achieve. Of course,
we ate the broken Ho Ho anyway, we had more.
We repeated this with the Ho Hos until there weren’t any more tears to
cry. There would be more tears, but not now. About
this time, the pizza was ready and it was time to feed the children. While we released our pain, they got a pizza
picnic in the living room if we were talking in the kitchen, or they would eat
in the kitchen if we were talking in the bedroom. If we were in our bedroom, the conversation
was indeed grave and we were the ones having a picnic. We let the children gorge on pizza, soda, and
cartoons while we healed our wounded heart.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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After we ate the pizza, we would take a break while we continued
to talk. The pizza was the anger of the situation that brought us heartache. Soon it would be time for Lawson’s Chip dip
and chips. That was the acceptance part
of the healing. From there, it would be
the butter pecan ice cream, which represented the planning part of the
healing. This was where we dug ourselves
out. By this time, we were often
exhausted and we settled in for a sleep over.
The crisis that had brought us together now had a plan for resolution
and it was time to go back being mothers again.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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So this announcement marks another passing, another
something who’s time has come. It is
likely another company will buy the brand and continue to make Ho Hos, but it will
not be the same. Tiffany and I have
grown apart and are no longer friends, our children have grown, and though they
shared endless hours of play and sleepovers, they never talk to one another
either. That is how life goes. People come into your life with a purpose and
leave for a reason. I haven’t eaten Ho
Hos in many years, even in times of trouble because without Tiffany it just isn’t
the same. Today that box in my heart opened
and out flooded the memories. I can’t
recount the heartaches that brought us together specifically, but I remember the
love of two very good friends eating Ho Hos, peeling the chocolate and unrolling
the cakes. I remember laughing through
the sobs and I remember playing with my children instead of crawling into bed
to hide from the world. Tiffany made me a
better person, a stronger person. Ho Hos
made it a memory I will always treasure.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8501994506599127419.post-48952621702253845802012-10-18T01:58:00.000-04:002012-10-18T01:58:12.655-04:00Manifest Destiny and The Silent Soldier<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Silently the soldier has lain dormant, waiting without a
sound for the time of transition. His
captain has fought bravely, following orders, calling to duty but patience has triumphed
over strength. It always shall. Lying in wait takes no skill, just
patience. Fighting requires great
expenditures of energy and faith, which are finite. The captain cedes this is the manifest of
destiny. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The captain has deluded himself that he is greater than he
was. Recognizing his own weakness is a
revelation of despair. Years have passed
in this manner, believing his greatest strength lie in all that is greater than
he is, yet assured he was strong enough for the task. Futility sweeps the soul. All he believed, all he knew is false, like
the prophets fronting ancient religion.
Nothing is real, but it is as it always has been. This is what is known. The soldier, dormant for so long has awakened
to the unwitting call of the captain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Quelling through the heart, the soldier rises. The captain knows he is not alone. Powerless as he is washed in fatigue,
acceptance argues with reason. The
captain is so very tired. The season of
rest is nearing. Those who would condemn
the captain have not fought themselves; they do not understand the battle. They do not know the soldier lurks. They cannot see that which has remained
hidden and quiet. Fear engulfs every
turn, inflicting a vast emptiness crowding out the light of the soul. It is exhausting to bring light into the
darkness day after day, year after year, season after season. Winter is fast approaching. The soldier is armed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The past has been spoken in ancient spirit and precedes the
future. What has been spoken cannot be
changed by the will of the captain, though his life has been spent trying. This is the despair swirling chaos deep
inside his mind. The captain understands
now, as he has always known that his own life has held little meaning apart
from his unit. Acts of courage and
bravery have resulted in the name of his men he could not have achieved in
isolation, away from his men. This is
what destiny means, and his destiny has risen.
The soldier looms with his weapon, releasing the safety. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The captain has achieved in love what should not have
been. Humbly, the captain acknowledges
it was not the glory of his deeds which called the prophecy, but the purity of
his love for his men. He once thought
his bravery was great, but now understands his love was and is what is
great. When the soldier fires his shot,
it is love, which will remain. The
future belongs to the men he created in the heat of battle. Their bravery will meet the future, a new
destiny to unfold. The soldier aims, the
captain sighs. The shot rings true and
greets its mark without fail. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife</div>Chimerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01815617512897109479noreply@blogger.com1