The pattern of choosing to love the wrong person

Tags

Choosing to love the wrong person, Enter your zip code here, Heart, Love, low self-esteem, patterns, protection, safety

I’ve written about this a little already, but I thought I’d expand on the topic. Be prepared, coz this post is a long ‘un.

Choosing to love the wrong person is something we humans do when we feel the need to protect ourselves: weirdly, we pick the wrong person on purpose.

It’s meant to be a way of keeping our hearts safe from future emotional devastation. But it’s a trap. It only works for so long, if it ever really works at all.

My theory is that it’s the mind’s way of doing what it thinks needs to be done to protect that pesky heart that’s always getting hurt and causing a world of pain for the rest of the body.

But we all know what happens when the mind gets involved in matters of the heart, right? Hint: it usually stuffs things up, no matter how well meaning.

The twisted protection logic goes something like this: if I’m with someone I don’t/can’t really love because they aren’t the right person for me, then I can’t have my heart broken because I’ll never really love them. There’ll always be space between my heart and this person, and so I’m Safe.

If you’ve been hurt before – in that everything fallen apart, life ceases to have any meaning kind of way – then it seems like a sensible idea in theory, right?

Except it’s not.

I can trace the development of this pattern back to the failure of three relationships in a row from my early-to-late 20’s: three men I loved who didn’t love me back.

Although I suspect the groundwork for the pattern was there long before that.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure by the time the third relationship blew up in my face, my heart was broken in a fundamental way. Like, engine fallen out of the car kinda thing.

Let me share some back story on these three loves of mine, then…

Love #1

Was my fiancé. We met when I was twenty-four and he in his late thirties. I suspect my idea of relationships was already a bit warped. I mean, take a highly repressed and aloof father, a physically and verbally abusive brother, chronically low self-esteem, a terrible first boyfriend, an abortion, and a whole heap of other issues never written about here… my ability to choose the right man to marry was already impaired.

Back then, I was attracted to older men. Men I thought could teach me something. Little did I know what I was really looking for was an honest-to-goodness teacher, but that’s another story.

I’d conflated the idea of a romantic partner with someone I could trust as a teacher. And back then, my standard modus operandi with men was to throw my power at them. To inhabit their life and let them be in charge.

My fiancé btw, was a good and honourable man. Really. I’d thought we’d marry and have kids and be together forever.

But he was just as confused and lost in his own ways as I was. By the time our relationship entered its third year, it was no longer the force of nature it’d once been, and he pulled away from me. Which of course, triggered my paranoia, insecurities and low self esteem.

These days I suspect that things ended because he was no longer “in charge” in the way I needed. Which meant the guy I’d been throwing my power at wasn’t doing what I needed him to do. By the time I was ready to leave, my heart had bled all the tears it’d held and there was no way across the chasm that’d grown between my fiancé and me.

So he became my ex-fiancé.

Love #2

Waiting in the wings was another man. The second ill-fated love of mine and a mutual friend of mine and Love #1.

In retrospect, it’s not surprising to me that he was in fact, a teacher. Not this teacher, but the person who introduced me to him. He also taught martial arts.

Oh look, how perfect! Someone big and strong AND an actual teacher that I could offer myself to on a platter. Which is exactly what I did.

Having leapt from one relationship to another, I was amazed at how different things were. I chastised myself for almost settling for much less, and I proceeded to fall hard. Harder perhaps, because now I was *sure* that this was The One. Someone much more suited to me.

Except. He had a binge drinking problem. I was sure I could “help” him with that.

And. In the end, he didn’t want me the way I wanted him.

He was honest about this important detail eventually, but I wanted him so much that I ignored that fact and let the relationship carry on anyway. He didn’t exactly say no. Not very often anyway.

It was off and on, passionate, sexy, dangerous and highly destructive to my sense of self. For eighteen months. I had counselling in my attempts to resist him.

When it finally, absolutely ended for the last time, I hit rock bottom. It was very ugly. Crazily, I even intentionally got myself into a fight and let a group of girls beat me up (it didn’t hurt as much as my broken heart).

Then I went overseas, as an absolute raving mess. I had fun, visited far-flung places and came back feeling more together than I had been in a while. I even went to my first Ayurvedic doctor and stated to turn my health around.

With better health, came a better state of mind…

Love #3

Which is when I met the next guy, via online dating. Which I was only trying because Love #2 had started doing it, and I was actually there to stalk his profile. When was he last on? Who was he talking to?! Ha, so sad and pathetic.

Anyway, out of that came a welcome surprise in the form of an email from someone very interesting.

If Loves #1 and #2 had bowled me over, I wasn’t prepared in any way for Love #3. He was around my age (the first one in a long time who was), gorgeous, intelligent, gentle, charming, sweet and genuine.

We shared many things in common and the attraction was mutual and instantaneous. On our second date, we both agreed the line “where have you been all my life?” was appropriate for us.

True to form, I let myself fall in love quickly and deeply. This time I was VERY SURE I’d met The One. It had to be, right? I’d had two (three actually), terrible and failed relationships only to meet my knight in shining armour, with his sunny demeanour and adventurous nature.

He was so attentive, calm and wonderful. He’d Christmas with his relatives in Canberra and then drove to Melbourne to pick me up from my parents’ place so we could slowly 4WD our way back to Sydney. We had New Year’s in Jindabyne and I was so happy.

Until January, when he took me to see Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and ever-so-respectfully dumped me. In public, so I couldn’t cause a scene. He wanted to be friends however – really wanted it – and in fact, we are good friends to this day.

But for an entire week after he dumped me, I felt myself shutting down. I was quietly sad. Despairing. I couldn’t imagine someone more perfect for me (or so I thought) than Love #3. I couldn’t believe my rotten luck and I’d no idea what was so wrong with me that no one wanted to be with me.

My heart, I’m pretty sure, was packed up neatly into a shuttered wooden box. Surrounded by layers of bubble wrap and duct tape.

It’s good, they say, to be friends with your exes. This is sort of both true and false. True, because people you’ve loved (and who’ve loved you back) are still in your life. False, because unless you’re the one doing the dumping, there’s a good chance you’ll still be in love with them and wanting more than they can give.

I was in love with Love #3 for years, and most of that time I was in denial about it. I analysed his every word and action even as we hung out (skiing, motorbike riding, camping, 4WD-ing, hanging out with friends who declared we looked like a couple). Even as we took more long cross-country trips together.

Neither of us dated, and we might as well have been together except for the lack of sex.

It drove me crazy. Why? WHY? Why didn’t he want to be my boyfriend?!

Eventually I started dating again. However, Love #3 and I still hung out AND I was still hung up.

THIS was the beginning of choosing men I had no chance of falling for…

It wasn’t conscious, not entirely anyway. It was a survival mechanism. My mind overrode my heart because it knew I couldn’t withstand any more heartache.

And so I continued… the loser friend of my cousin’s boyfriend; the weird Persian student; the sweet guy I was never into; the tall, dufus-y baseball player; the dorky ex-air force guy who insisted on a relationship I never wanted…

And then this guy.

Which is one of the problems, with this whole “protection of the heart” pattern, no?

Not only do you end up wasting your time and the time of the people you date when you should’ve said no… but one of them could turn out to be a secret sociopath with a penchant for hitting women.

And, because you’ve been busily tuning out your instincts about who you should be with, you lose the connection to that gut feel which tells you NO.

So you miss it, and you’re unprepared. And then your world breaks into tiny little pieces.

Which is really just the Universe presenting a wake up call to you in the strongest possible language. Because there’s only so far you can go while wilfully ignoring your own path in life.

And being with the wrong person is DEFINITELY ignoring your own path.

It’s taken me all these years to piece this understanding together. Of what happened and how things got to where they did…

And now I’m doing what I can to undo this pattern. Which isn’t as easy as it sounds.

For the longest time, I simply didn’t want a boyfriend. Until I did. But even then, men remained scary.

Actually, men I have no interest in romantically were and are fine.

But liking a guy and wondering if he might like me back? A massive risk. Terrifying, even. Something that until fairly recently, left me feeling disempowered, goofy and maybe all of thirteen, all over again.

Around cute guys, I still feel like a kid with no social skills but like many things in my life, I relate this re-learning curve to yoga.

Specifically, to something I often tell my students:

You’ll never be able to do the poses you find difficult if you never do them. So practice and enjoy them, even when they aren’t perfect. Even when you fall over. Because one day something will change and you’ll find yourself able to do the thing you told yourself you never could. All because you kept up your practice.

So right now? I’m practicing. Flirting. Confidence. Noticing when men notice me. Noticing men and not feeling shy about it. Being able to be attracted to men without losing all sense of reason. Making eye contact and holding steady.

~Svasti

Panic at the food hall

Tags

Broken engagement, Ex-fiancé, Heartbreak, Living alone, Lonliness, Love, Relationships, Supermarkets, The Corso, Trust

I’ll never forget that trip to the supermarket when for the first time in years, I was no longer shopping for two.

I’d just moved in to a unit on the other side of town, a short stroll from the beautiful tourist beaches of Manly. And I was shopping for food and supplies.

Little did I know, aged twenty-seven, this was the first solo shop in a long line of more of the same.

Felt like I’d almost forgotten what I wanted. Cringing as I looked at those things we’d buy together – stuff my ex-fiancé liked/needed.

Suddenly, I was free of planning meals that were always a compromise. He, a meat eater who wasn’t big on vegetables, and I, a strict vegetarian at the time.

I didn’t want to plan meals any more, so I just bought whatever! Such sorrowful freedom, I made a point of each difference as I noticed.

Most stuff I’d left behind – spices, sauces, soap, toilet paper. All of that had to be purchased again.

Really, it felt so weird. Shopping alone, no one to argue with about the home brand and if it was really worth the extra ten cents to buy something else.

Nothing says you’re alone quite like the contents of your shopping trolley.

In that brightly light Safeway (or Woolworths?) on the Corso, it felt like I was rolling my trolley on broken eggshells, crushed rocks and seashells.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

No, wait. That was my heart crumbling.

Okay, I left him. Well, that’s how it looked from one point of view. But emotionally, things had been putrefying for a while. Felt very much like he’d left me six months earlier. Did I even have a choice, in the end?

The night before my move, boxes were all packed, removal truck was booked… and he breaks down and says Don’t go. Don’t go, I’ll change. We’ll make it work. Sleep in our bed tonight and not the front room.

Is that just the pain of separation talking? Not wanting to lose something that’s already almost slipped away? Sentimentality? Fear of change? Or did he really mean it?

Look, I said, I’m tired. I’ve tried for so long to make this work with us. And you kept saying things would get better, but that never happened. So I have to go right now. But if you want to try, then here’s the deal. I’m still moving out. But we’ll try to get things back on track. We’ll date. I’m afraid if I stay here right now, things won’t change. They haven’t before. Why should this time be any different?

He didn’t like that, not at all.

No, if you move out then it’s over!

His way or the highway. The story of my life – men wanting me to bend this way or that. Do things like this and it’ll be great, they’d say or imply, or both.

So, my choices were – stay in what had become a loveless and passionless engagement, with no concrete plans to actually get married any more. Or leave.

Stay, where I’d repeatedly tried to discuss and work out our issues. Or leave, and see what happens.

Stay, and watch him constantly say I understand, only to never work with me to resolve problems. Or leave, and create real change.

He hadn’t given me much to hope for.

Saying I love you in those circumstances is a hollow phrase. A threat, an attempt to justify or manipulate. It’s not really saying I love you. Its saying – how can you leave me?

Well, I did. Had to, for my own peace of mind and mental health.

Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell. Or that I wasn’t supremely lonely in that supermarket.

~Svasti

Bacchanalian lost girls

Tags

No ambition, Sex, Sexual power, Topless waitressing

Not one but three impish lasses, frolic in suburbia knowing oh yes, they can do whatever they like. And they do, testing the boundaries of their surprisingly ever-growing power as women.

Blowing off shitty part time jobs in restaurants to revel and dance naked in a very ordinary land-locked backyard on blisteringly hot summer days under inviting garden sprinklers. Just for the girls, eighteen year old fun, invite only. And there were no invites.

Topless beach-side sunbathing was amusing too, knowing it teased their male acquaintances.

But their game was to pretend they didn’t realise the impact. Most often because they didn’t quite believe in themselves anyway.

Teasing and deciding they too, could behave as the boys and men did. Nonchalantly and bravely. Not looking for love. Use and discard as they desired. Easy and painless, they told themselves.

This was their world, where fun and sex pushed away other realities.

Men, they had if they wanted. But none were invited to these private parties, nubile paganish nudes, most pleased with themselves and the sense of freedom these little parties generated.

Rebelling perhaps, against the vanilla world they inhabited? Most likely. Completely at sea in their urbanite lives? Definitely.

Later, three bedrooms in that house were busy as they enjoyed their male playthings. But on their terms, when they chose, only.

Their attitude was arrogance, flippant fun and constant amusement. With scant thought for their own value.

But she was grateful to her sometime male lover, given her experience of sex to date was not pleasant. So surfer-dude C, a gentle non-masochistic sunny blonde, was a revelation.

Still, she wanted nothing more than the occasional dalliance, given her fractured sense of self.

When a friend of one of these hormone driven gals suggested a way to make fast money – serving beer topless – they weren’t perturbed in the least. Getting paid to tease men and give up nothing? Too easy.

One by one, they tested the waters.

She was last – first, she quit the final year of high school she was repeating. Bored, she had no direct ambition that made sense. So she quit, and started wearing little and earning a lot. Why not? It was so simple.

The location of that first gig is hazy now. Though, the pub’s interior is crystal clear. A central oblong circus ring shaped bar with dark coloured tiles, surrounded by reverential working class men.

The three of them were together, ring leaders of this event.

Her friends helped adjust her newly purchased g-string and tiny black satin shorts – all that she wore. She stepped into heels and make up. Then it was time.

Men were both lecherous and kindly. She knew nothing of serving alcohol, and learned on the hop. A shandy? A pot? A glass? Mixed drinks? The patrons mostly taught her the ropes, not minding an excuse to talk stare at her bare breasts a little longer.

The most memorable part of that day? Beer splashing on her breasts was cold but inevitable, and it made the men laugh.

~Svasti

Please note: I am writing here about the past, and mostly its in the past. I do this to help shine the light and illustrate where I was, and how I got to this point. This is no longer stuff that torments me.

Break down

Tags

Empathy, Exams, Failed high school, Heartbreak, Lonely, Maths, Physics, Teacher, Vulnerability

One day Mr J, her Physics teacher asked (let’s not get into why a creative type had been shoe-horned into a science class) – Just what the heck is wrong with you anyway?

At the end of the day, at the end of the last class of the day. He was fresh enough at teaching to still be completely optimistic. She was in the first class he ever taught. Right out of university.

In that moment she trusted him enough. To tell him about N.

She cried and he cried too. For her. With her. Tears rolling down his cheeks, openly. Such gentle empathy expressed in his eyes. Kindness. Shock. Disbelief.

She told him how empty and desperate she felt. Not in those words exactly, but he got the gist. And she told him how sad and lonely she was – none of her friends could understand, and no one talked about it at home. Like it never happened.

Except the impact was ongoing for her. Made worse by the silence, though she couldn’t speak of it. Til now, years later. Still confused by what happened.

And still overflowing with feelings there wasn’t really a place for. No one wanted to know. But it was with her every day, all the way through high school. She felt dirty and didn’t know how to feel better.

Then, a teacher cared. He saw her, beyond the bravado, the joking around, the silence. He saw her struggle and he cared enough to ask.

And they talked for over an hour, and somehow, just saying it out loud, it helped.

Thank goodness for Mr. J!

His reaction showed her it wasn’t weird she felt the way she did.

But then, as much as it helped that night, she realised giving away her secrets made her feel even more vulnerable. So, now when she sat in Mr. J’s classes, or saw him looking at her, she knew that he knew.

And she couldn’t stand it.

So she distanced herself from him, she wouldn’t let him get that close again. Not all the way through those last two years of high school.

Between her brother’s daily torment, and her heartbreak, the wheels were coming off. So slowly, no one noticed. And she just tried to keep going. School. Swimming practice. Friends. Trying to avoid her brother. That was life, that’s all there was room for.

But the whole school it seemed, was shocked when she failed her final year of school. How could that happen?

Everyone knew she was smart. Really smart. But her smarts, if properly assessed, would have been better off in English Literature and Drama classes, instead of Maths and Physics. She tried to tell them, but no one listened.

Not even Mr. J, who perhaps, just wanted to keep her in his class.

But as hard as she tried, her Physics and Maths grades just got worse. Her parents’ response? Hire a tutor, who hopelessly attempted to explain things that refused to compute. She wasn’t coping in the least, and still, no one listened.

Then, final exams. And she was stressed, knowing those two subjects for her, were doomed. Then, she messed up another one, not seeing the final page of the exam til it was too late. Ensuring a poorer grade than she would have gotten otherwise.

She failed year twelve.

And all those plans made on her behalf, dreams of university (though she had no idea what she wanted to study) were gone. For now.

Very little was said at home. No one asked her – what happened? Although it was a complete surprise to everyone.

Her parents’ first assumption – she’d repeat the year. No question. She agreed, for a while.

But she wasn’t going back to her old school. Way too embarrassing. Everyone knew she’d failed – the news whipping round the student body like wildfire.

One of her old school friends (a very loose term) incredulously said – Wow, so I passed and you didn’t!

To this layer cake of torment, sadness and heartbreak, add shame. A cream filling of feeling stupid. And the icing on top – incredible embarrassment, just for being who she was.

~Svasti

Please note: I am writing here about the past, and mostly its in the past. I do this to help shine the light and illustrate where I was, and how I got to this point. This is no longer stuff that torments me.

Rewind

Tags

Anxiety, Brother, Bullying, Depression, Lost, Self-esteem, Sibling abuse, Verbal abuse, Violence

This is not a sob story. Nor a pity party.

I’ve tried to understand, but in retrospect, it makes little sense. The answers aren’t obvious. I’m struggling to see as I reach back through the years to that murky time.

Was it just opportunity and wilfulness? A very sad case of absent self-esteem? An undiagnosed family history of depression? All of the above?

How does a bright young child take so many wrong steps? Embarrassingly letting down all those who imagine great things for her? She never knew really, what she wanted for herself, not then. But it was clear her own failures hurt those who hoped her life would be more than theirs.

Why was her head so fuzzy? Looking ahead, she saw nothing for her. No future appealed or seemed within her grasp. So much of her short life included pain, rejection, poor guidance, lack of support, anger, heartbreak and sadness. Feeling unloved, unwelcome, unhappy, unincluded.

But it’s all pedestrian stuff. Rather unexceptional, to tell the truth. Yet she was a mess before her twenty-first birthday. Before she’d left her teenage years, actually.

Woeful yet ordinary tales of angst could be told. Was it just the number of them, one after another that counts? Her over-sensitivity to the world, its slings and arrows? High levels of unaddressed anxiety?

Feeling comfortable in her own skin around other people was never her forte, after all.

Maybe in part, she was just born that way. Overly imaginative and sensitive. Artistic, showing early intelligence and yet, so very shy. Which she covered with extroverted behaviour. Still does.

How to tell this tale without recounting things that probably don’t matter?

It’s icky and tough-going peering through the eyes of a sad teenage woman-child, who, felt herself invincible but had clearly and truly lost her way.

Looming large in the viewfinder of those times were of course, her first boyfriend. Her subsequent pathetic attempts at relationships. And her brother.

Imagine living with someone who told you aggressively negative things about yourself every day of your life, relentlessly for years on end.

From the age of twelve (or thereabouts), til the time she left home at nineteen (to escape his non-stop torment)… she was her brother’s prime target.

The seeds of his behaviour were there earlier, though. And actually she has no memories of him ever being nice to her. But as she got older, he focused on her more and more. Especially when their mother went back to work.

As the eldest child and only male sibling, his anger and aggression ruled the hour before parental order was restored.

At first it was just verbal abuse, day in, day out. Sneering, growling, lip curling aggression for reasons completely unfathomable.

You’re fat. You’re ugly. You’re so fucking stupid it’s not funny. Worthless. Hopeless. You’ll never make anything of yourself. Get out of my face you ugly slut! No wonder you don’t have a boyfriend, look at you!

And so on. And on. Every day. Relentlessly. Often, the same angry mantras repeated over and over. Years of such bilious nastiness, sprouting from who knows where?

Constantly, she’d try to tell their parents. But what can a child say to properly explain this kind of verbal assault? To make it sound serious enough? Challenging too, when parental figures don’t like dealing with conflict and want the easiest solution to make it all go away.

The physical abuse started earlier than she recalled. She must have been ten, at least. And for no reason she knew, at her brother’s soccer club, on awards night… he pinned her arms to her sides, kneeing her in the stomach. Hard. So hard, she couldn’t speak. Bent over, clutching herself in the middle of a room of people who saw. They had to.

Somehow, she wasn’t quite believed. And he didn’t quite get punished for his actions. But the panic and humiliation stayed with her for years, under the skin, re-emerging inopportunely.

But the full on smack down violence was later. Their sister watching helplessly and tensely. The fights were nasty and aggressive and for a while she took whatever he dealt out.

Til later, when she decided it didn’t matter how much he hurt her. She’d find a way to hurt him back. Waiting, goading him even, to see if she could find a weakness. Looking for a way to make him pay for his wickedness.

She had trouble explaining how bad that was to her parents, too.

But actually, the daily verbal torment was worse. The opposite of positive thinking hurled at her daily.

Say something to someone often enough and without a doubt, they’ll believe it. Which is one sure way to tear down the confidence of a young girl who, was never the most popular, the prettiest or anything special in her social circle anyway.

She didn’t see her future as bright, bristling with potential and no one told her otherwise. She couldn’t see anything great happening.

She had no idea what to do or where to go.

~Svasti

The first time

Tags

Anger, Confusion, Debutant, First time, History, Lost, Marvin Gaye, Relationships, Sexual Healing, Stripper, Stripping

When she finally said yes, it wasn’t much of a decision to make.

After all, she was most of the way there already.

Angry, confused and reckless. Just eighteen, and not quite moved out of home yet.

It’s not like she spent a lot of time thinking things through.

She just said okay, I’ll do it. Then, she had to think about how, exactly. Covertly and perversely, selecting music from her parents’ limited and old-fashioned music library. Kinda lame really.

Then, the final steps were so mundane.

Surroundings were familiar. So were the people. The location. The activity. The beer.

Except that, someone stole her favourite t-shirt. Although everyone knew the culprit, she never did get it back. It’s probably the most prominent memory of that day.

But really, it really wasn’t so hard to do. Not physically or emotionally. Most of that was… numb, anyway. Not that she knew it right then.

She didn’t have to imagine herself elsewhere, either. Everyone in the pub was a familiar face, wanting her to do well. She wasn’t even nervous, really. There was no shame. No fear. Just… why not?

The day she crossed over from working as a topless barmaid to a stripper.

Dancing to Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing. Ironically.

Cue music. Move seductively, wearing white high heels purchased for her debutant ball just a couple of years ago. Eyeball the very familiar punters. Slowly remove prissy lingerie.

Til it was done.

But how did she get there? She couldn’t have told you then. Perhaps she can now…

~Svasti

Black Valentine

Tags

1980's, Pool party, Roller skating, Valentine's Day, Young love

Just to be clear: I don’t like Valentine’s Day.

Never have. It’s just another made up event encouraging people to spend, spend, spend.

Plus, I’ve never actually had a good V-Day, even if I’ve been in a relationship. Never. A bit like New Year’s Eve, it’s generally a fizzer, I find…

And if I was at all superstitious (I’m not), I’d probably say I cursed Valentine’s Day for myself, long ago.

Coz the last time it was Friday 13^th before Valentines Day, I was about fifteen and I broke someone’s heart.

Life had moved on since N. Sorta. I mean, still, no one talked about it. I was ashamed of what happened, though I didn’t know why. I muddled along…

And despite my general broken-heartedness, I’d somehow ended up with another boyfriend, T.

He went to my school but I’d never noticed him ’til one of my friends did.

T’s friends were nerds (I was in the ‘weird/outer’ group with links to the nerds and the popular kids), and if it wasn’t for his tall, dark ‘n’ handsome good looks and sporting prowess, he would’ve been considered a nerd, too.

But my friend P noticed him, and I realised – yeah, he is cute. Somehow P and I both got invited to his birthday – a co-ed pool party in his backyard.

We played childish games meant to titillate, as in the pic below… (T is the guy, my friend P is the girl). Getting so close and personal at that age was endless amusement.

And throwing pretty girls in the pool…

And then there was Truth or Dare, played out with a bunch of us in the pool.

T took a dare and was dared to kiss me (guess his friends knew he liked me). Embarrassing, in front of a mixed crowd, but we did kiss… I have no idea why he liked me instead of P (to my mind she was much prettier).

After the party I was wondering… hmm, how to get to see him again? Someone suggested the old ‘scary movie’ trick. Y’know… sit next to the cute guy and lean towards him when things get scary. I invited him to come and see Alien with me.

It worked.

Before long, we were hanging out. Optimistically, he tried to teach me tennis (yeah… ummm… I tried to tell him how clumsy I am). More hanging out at school, after school, playing touch footy, swimming in his pool…

Then, there was a date at the roller-disco skating rink (think 80′s, Nutbush City Limits and Time Warp played without fail) – I borrowed my sister’s zebra stripe singlet and matched it with my denim mini, prompting my parents to label me ‘jail bait’ before I walked out the door (where was their common sense??).

T was gentlemanly to a fault though. We’d only kissed a few times. But that date was sort of our ‘coming out’ to our school mates as a couple. T was bailed up by some guy wanting to know if we’d rooted yet (terrible Aussie slang!).

Sadly, T’s fatal mistake (for our relationship) was relaying that conversation to me. Between the lines, I realised that he was hoping for sex. Not straight away, but at some point. Soonish.

I couldn’t do it.

We’d been going out for a few months, from the end of the year and over most of summer. February was approaching and I was getting more and more worried. Unlike N, T never pressured me. But just the expectation was enough.

He sensed something was up. I wanted to tell him, I did… but I still felt pretty bad about everything that’d happened, and I just couldn’t share it.

So I broke up with him in the playground ’round the corner from both our houses after school. He, with his friend D in tow, and me with my best friend, M. He cried.

He’d been thinking about ‘us’ as a long term thing, while I’d just been trying to get through the day.

His little sister cried too, so I was told when we met up the next day (V-Day), at his insistence. He’d written me a letter, and stubbornly gave me the card he’d made (with his little sister’s help) and a necklace, packaged in a box on which he’d drawn a heart and written Don’t open unless you’re my Valentine.

But I had to open it anyway, feeling guilty and horrible… because he asked me to.

The letter (long since discarded, it made me feel too guilty) said, amongst other things, perhaps it was the force of evil that tore us apart on Friday the 13th, but I’m hoping the power of Valentine’s Day can overcome that and we can get back together.

We didn’t, though. I couldn’t.

T left my high school to go to a private boys’ school – guess his parents thought it gave him a better shot at higher education or something.

I saw him once a couple of years later, working in the local video store for extra cash. He was happy, had a girlfriend.

Somehow I’ve never forgotten him. I see that sweet, brief relationship as an innocent victim of the fall-out from my first boyfriend. Often I’ve wished I could find him (Facebook turns up nothing on T, but plenty of other people I wasn’t friends with at school) to apologise (tho he’s probably long forgotten me by now).

Because I never got to tell him why I’d broken up with him. That it had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with the sad little wounded Self I was carrying around. And that in fact, he’d been a great boyfriend, a really gorgeous boyfriend. Possibly, I’d even felt like he was too good for me.

In the end though, it was the expectation of sex, and my inability to trust him with what I considered my ‘horrible’ story… that caused me to end things inexplicably.

But he never got to hear any of that from me.

~Svasti

Innocence – part 2

Tags

1980's, Betrayed, Crying underwater, Diary, First boyfriend, Half-brother, Innocence, Love, Police, Runaway, Secrets, Self-esteem, Sex, Silence, Virginity

[Read part 1]

Packing

The afternoon of the day I ran away, my sister watched me pack… in the room we’d shared since she was born, throwing notes on scrunched up paper across the room, playing with dolls and toys, fighting, creating an absolute mess, giggling way past our bedtime.

She kept saying she didn’t think I’d really do it. And she never said a word to my parents.

The bag was stashed in our wardrobe, a place we’d spent time hiding to eat illicit chocolate. Where not too long ago, I’d leave out cheese and milk, hopeful faeries would visit.

I wrote a note – don’t bother trying to find me – about all I can recall from the rambling one pager (as if they wouldn’t think of where to look).

How terrifying for my sister to wake and see I was gone. How panicked my parents must have been (no one has talked about that time to me, ever).

Apparently this was the only time my brother showed anything resembling caring for me – taking to the streets on his bike, looking for me. Apparently.

What next?

Tick, tick, tick. I was hiding. Not in control. No idea what my life was going to be like. Police looking for me. All I wanted was to be with my boyfriend (though he was going back to England), just what my parents didn’t want.

I knew I was missing out on school. Would I ever go back? Would I ever see my school friends again? What about my little sis? Swimming training?

The cops took my bag of clothes, also containing my diary… documenting my childish fancies.

Documenting also, the night N indelicately erased my virginity… copying in my childish hand, in the style of some adolescent book I was reading then, the words were stark – As of tonight, I’m no longer a virgin. I don’t feel different, but I know I am… – can’t have been pleasant reading for my parents.

It was later I discovered they’d read it. If I was them, I’d have done the same. But that act still violated my trust and I was furious. Especially when my dad would say – you live in a world of fantasy most of the time, don’t you - based on what he read and held it against me as though I was retarded, for a long time.

But I hated him for a long time for reading my diary.

Before all that… I was hiding out in the next door neighbour’s house. In a bedroom. Under the bed. I didn’t get to see N very much at all. No one would let us be alone together.

I’m sure there were phone calls and discussions I wasn’t privy to. About me, not including me.

Night rolled in…

N’s aunt and uncle eventually convinced me the best thing to do was to go with the police. They knew I was there; they wanted to help make things right with my parents. I didn’t know how to, and I was scared. And angry. And worried I wouldn’t get to see N again.

Cop shop

They took me away in a police car to the local station where my parents waited. I knew by then about my diary. I spewed fury – I hate you – at my parents. Dad cried, one of the only times I’ve seen that, to this day.

At the station I was given two choices – go home with my parents or stay at a girls’ home. A place for juveniles. I don’t know if it was just a threat… but for a while I was seriously gunning for the girls’ home.

Much of the station time is a blur. I remember a police woman being very abrupt, and in return I was rude. Mum slapped my face, afraid I think, the police would make decisions for me.

I scowled. None of this would’ve happened if they hadn’t said I couldn’t go to the airport so as far as I was concerned, it was their fault.

Somehow, during some very tense moments, tears and anger, they all talked me down. Talked me in to returning home on the promise of being able to go to the airport for N’s flight back to the UK.

I shake my head in wonder now, thinking of the wilful young child that I was, the anger and destruction I created…

A night of reckoning

The car ride is blank. Back home, I think my brother and sister were in bed – perhaps awake?

My parents and I sat in the kitchen, looking at a calendar. Trying to work out if there was any chance I could be pregnant.

No mum, I haven’t started my period yet.

Doing the laundry she’d noticed some blood in my knickers, so she wasn’t sure.

I don’t remember much of what was said, the three of us sitting there. Tension, sadness, anger and frustration. At some point I shouted – What would you know? How could you understand what its like?

Things grew silent.

Teary and terrified, mum revealed her darkest secret – her first son, out there somewhere – taken from her for the crime of being pregnant and unmarried (a brother I’ve never met??). My first glimpse of the shame and grief she’d worn like an invisible coat, never removed.

I expect you think I’m a terrible person, she stated.

Oh my god mum, no I don’t! That’s… so sad! So horrible.

Sworn to secrecy, I couldn’t tell my brother or sister or even mention it again.

Went to bed at some point, back in the room I shared with my sister. Gone for one whole life changing day, I think.

Back to school the next, and no one knew. Now I had two secrets I didn’t tell anyone except M. And I only told her little bits. Done and dusted, I was left to live with the aftermath.

And then…

So long, goodbye…

Hazy tear stained scene of N and me at the airport. My parents, his aunt and uncle, hovering on opposite perimeters as we hugged and I cried inconsolably. We promised to write, to call, to stay together.

He went through the gates and he was gone.

I wrote the first of many letters that night. Pages of ‘I love you‘ written over and over. A long wait for something in return. A phone call or two. The promise of ‘a promise ring’.

Sputtered into nothing.

Realisation came slowly, then as with sunrise… dusk vanishes swiftly in the first rays of sunshine. Full daylight. Oh.

It was over. He didn’t really love me. Oh… He didn’t want me. Had he only wanted sex?? Oh!!

There was a silver pendant and chain my parents gave me once. I’d loaned it to N because he asked (though I hadn’t wanted to) and never saw them again. I wrote and asked for them back. Nothing.

Far away in another country… he didn’t want me any more.

Heartless

In recent times I’ve talked of feeling like my heart had been ripped from my chest. My therapist asked me if there was another time I’d felt like that before.

Sure was. When I realised I’d been used and discarded.

Felt like I’d been raped (though I hadn’t – just manipulated). Cheated and misused, certainly. Empty, sad, heartbroken and alone. Lost. Confused. Betrayed. Shredded.

Coulda driven a truck through my chest, the hole there felt that large.

Every notch my self-esteem rose on the back of being loved was gone. Worse, it was all a lie. Extreme pressure filled my head… would it explode?

But none of this was a topic of conversation at home. Just like my mum, I wasn’t allowed to express my pain. No privacy either, in my shared bedroom with a sister too young to understand.

I found solace in swimming training… diving deep and crying underwater where no one could see or tell the difference. For seconds at a time.

Struggling on at school and home, I was low. But you wouldn’t have known, ‘cept for the odd flare up with my mum. Arguments like a flash and gone again, core issues never addressed.

Two generations both limping in pain, but not solidarity… what could’ve brought us together just pushed us further apart as secrets often do…

~Svasti

Innocence – part 1

Tags

1980's, Blow jobs, First boyfriend, Ice-skating, Innocence, Love, Runaway, Self-esteem, Sex, Statutory rape, Virginity

I can’t really tell you what happened with 100% certainty. When I was thirteen. Or fourteen. Geez, I can’t even remember my exact age. I know it was the middle of the year, whatever year it was.

Ice-skating

It started very innocently, though my parents probably wished they’d never taken us ice-skating that day. Yeah, I was still young enough that an outing with the parents wasn’t completely embarrassing… yet.

What happened was: I met a boy, N. Or rather, he skated over to talk to me.

In my experience of life to date, that just didn’t happen. At all. Ever. No one came up to me. No one asked me out. Instead, they were all interested in my best friend M, a talented blonde gymnast.

I had the killer combination of a crappy self-image and a highly romantic and idealistic nature. Innocent, too. I’d only ever been kissed once.

This boy, he was from England. Out in Australia staying with his Aunt and Uncle. He was seventeen, tall, blonde, and had the fuzzy makings of a moustache.

Unlike any of the boys I’d grown up with, he thought I was pretty. He asked me for my phone number. I wasn’t so much attracted to him I think, as I was amazed that he liked me. That someone liked me…

A boyfriend

I don’t know how we got from that point, to actually going out. There must’ve been several phone calls back and forth. He must’ve come over to meet my parents. I even have vague recollections of my dad driving us somewhere and ‘conveniently’ going inside so we could kiss in private.

Perhaps my parents thought it was all just harmless… I mean, sure, he was too old for me. At that age, three or four years is a huge difference. But he was here on holiday only. Maybe they thought it’d be nice for me to have a boyfriend.

I recall going bowling one night – N’s friend drove us. I remember hanging out with N in town after school, and his (against the rules) visits to my high school.

Most of all, I remember N trying to get me to sleep with him. Asking me over and over.

I’d read so many books by that age, but many of them were the fairy tale variety. And I knew that you had to be in love before you did anything like that.

I must’ve communicated somehow, this idea of needing to be in love, to N.

And he, being seventeen, must’ve seen that as a golden opportunity. In retrospect it’s so transparent, what happened next.

That is – he put a solid effort into convincing me he was falling in love with me. He’d say things like: No, I’m not in love with you yet, but I think I could be falling for you… That slowly changed until he said: oh yes, now I am in love with you…

I was elated.

A school yard

My parents allowed me to go to the wedding of one of N’s relatives. A very 80′s wedding. A disco DJ, a smoke machine, everyone wearing gaudy outfits. And I’m pretty sure at that point, I had a perm (my one and only).

And at the reception in some dinky school hall, N fed me drinks. Quite a few. Before long I was drunk.

He took me for a walk. Into the school yard, out onto the grass. Told me he was in love with me, and once again asked me to have sex with him.

When ‘no’ turns into ‘yes’, you know you’ve had too much to drink, eh? Wish I knew that at the time…

He took off his jacket and spread it out for me to lie down on. I don’t remember much of the actual act. Except it hurt a bit. And I was no longer a virgin. It wasn’t fun or enjoyable. But N was happy.

And I thought he loved me, which counted for oh-so-much.

I was in trouble when I got home that night and my parents smelled alcohol on my breath. Perhaps they started to realise this wasn’t a good situation for their very young daughter to be in. They didn’t know my secret.

But I was grounded.

Playing up

That didn’t stop N and me seeing each other though. He had his stay in Australia extended by another month. And we spent much of that time trying to see each other.

As pathetic as it sounds, I was grateful that someone loved me (or so I thought).

I idolised him, thought he was amazing. For loving me. Y’see, by this age, my self-esteem was already in tatters.

We had sex a few more times – its hard to get alone time as a kid. I’d sneak off from school at lunch time to my place, just around the corner. And we had sex on my little single bed, in the room I shared with my sister. Can’t say I enjoyed it, but it was what N wanted so I did it.

This is what you do when you love someone, I thought…

He’d talk to me about ‘positions’ and ‘blow jobs’ – I thought it all sounded kinda gross. All I could handle at that age was feeling loved and the missionary position.

Runaway

Can’t remember why exactly, but I did something to piss off my parents. So much so, they said you’re not allowed to go to the airport and see N off when he leaves.

Which was a silly thing to say to a young girl about the boyfriend she idolised.

So I ran away.

Packed a bag and in the middle of the night, left a note on my bed and snuck out through the back door. Walked past the late night pizza shop and through parts of town I shudder when thinking about now… probably a good hour or more to his aunt and uncle’s place. Didn’t want to wake anyone up, so I slept on the outdoor seat on the back porch. Til N’s uncle came out and found me and my large duffle bag and brought me inside.

I’d created a problem for N and his family. N was asked if we’d slept together. Their first thought was that my parents would charge N with statutory rape and they hurriedly made plans to protect him, and initially, to hide me.

Of course, I had no idea why things had become so serious.

The first time the police came by, they hid me in the next door neighbour’s house. My future was being discussed – perhaps she can work as a baby sitter for the neighbour’s kids – I didn’t really like the sound of that, but had no idea what else I could do.

I’d left home. As far as I knew, it was for good.

[Read part 2]

~Svasti

Partial application of truth

Tags

Love, Relationships, Suffering, Truth

~ Written January 2008

Oh, la la…

Interesting, isn’t it? Unravelling the stories we create around ourselves, in order to sustain this idea of Self?

I… just this morning I pounced on a new thought, about my shit. About how people in general, deal with their shit.

Us humans, we like to keep things compartmentalised. We assume that sorting out the mysteries and mythologies we like to hold true, can be done piecemeal, each in isolation.

Take something you know to be really true. For me (and I’m not suggesting this is true for anyone else), this is a truth I live by:

Buddhist and Hindu teachings tell us that we all create our own suffering. We maintain a certain set of ideas/ideals around something we think occurred. We do this to stabilise who we think we are. That contributes to forming an idea of ‘self’, which is in fact, a separation from Self.

This is a statement that – when I apply it to myself – contributes towards my spiritual and philosophical development. It’s a good thing.

Except that apparently I haven’t been applying this universally/equally, to all parts of my life. I’ve just realised I was conveniently applying this to parts of my life that it was easy/simple to relate to. Things I wanted to break down, could easily break down.

And that was great. Except… I’ve been haunted of late, by a rather esteemed astrologer’s words – that in order for me to meet my “Mr Right, I need to sort myself out – that I’m “still afflicted”.

Still afflicted… I’ve thought about this quite a lot. And done plenty of contemplation. Plenty of processing. I’d thought it was simply about bringing up issues surrounding my assault. So I’ve been working that stuff. I even had a convenient and recent ‘man issue’ which brought a lot of that crap to the surface again for examination.

Also in recent times, I started a piece of writing about some of the travails of my youth. Which – by the way – was fraught with early sexual activity, mental and physical abuse, date rape etc. Not a pretty tale. As someone who’s recently started writing again, I’d decided to respond to a topical blog requesting submissions. And I noticed, whilst writing, a latent yet still powerful anger in my words. In both the feeling and the memories of that time in my life.

A lusty anger, related to men. How I felt/feel about them in general (although not all men ofcourse!). How I perceive myself in relation to men in general (I think most don’t find me attractive). Quite a lot of anger. Feeling vulnerable. Feeling put down. Feeling abused. Feeling… for all the world, a little helpless in the face of men who I perceive to be manipulative, deceitful and/or malicious.

And then I remembered this universal truth I subscribe to in so many other areas of my life (see the fourth paragraph above). So. If I am responsible for, and create my own suffering, then how can any of this be true? How can someone hurt me, make me feel vulnerable, put down or abused?

This uncovered another layer of the onion to be delicately peeled away. Good lord.

I… have been holding on to a vestige of a story that I’ve used for such a long time to define who I am.

That story is… that from a very young age, I’ve been abused by men in one form or another. Whilst the actions may have happened, it is not those situations or those men that have held me in this place. It’s me.

I created this idea of the ‘victim’ me. The persecuted me. And, it’s where I retreat to, even up til this day. As a young girl, without doubt I went through some horrendous experiences. That they happened is not in doubt, nor does it make what happened okay. But actually, there were not as many horrendous experiences as my memories of those times as I would have myself believe. It’s easy to exaggerate. In my memory, overwhelmingly, my early experiences of men and sex were all bad. But this is not really true.

My first ‘bad male’ experience was my brother, from the time I hit puberty til the time I left home. Yes, he hit me. Hard and frequently. Yes, he verbally abused me and put me down every single day for many years (mental/emotional abuse). He is the main reason I moved interstate at the age of 21. But its how I chose to relate to that experience (abused, ugly and pathetic, victim) that has defined me. And I didn’t have to relate that way.

My second ‘bad male’ experience was my first boyfriend. Okay, bonus points for being the first boyfriend and all. And yes, he stripped me of my virginity whilst I was drunk, and it was emotional and romantic devastation coupled with abandonment. But it’s how I chose to relate to that experience (underage rape, emotional abuse, victim) that has defined me.

And… despite being generally unpopular and not having boys at school being interested in me, I still had boyfriends. But I had no boy problems for a few years. I even had a couple of really nice boyfriends – ones that I threw away, possibly for being too nice to me and not meeting my idea of how men treat me. Even at that time, I’d already allowed those two experiences to define me, to suggest I didn’t deserve a really nice boyfriend. So I dumped them both.

My third ‘bad male’ experience was around the age of 16/17, throwing myself at the brother of a boy I’d had a crush on since I was 12. And things were good for a while, until he dumped me for an ex of his. And, it’s how I chose to relate to that experience (sorry, unattractive, loser, rejected) that has defined me.

The fourth ‘bad male’ experience was date rape – of sorts. Well, it was and it wasn’t. I think I was 19 or 20. I had a huge crush on this hot guy, and I couldn’t believe he wanted to go out with me! But he did, and he handed me a ‘pill’ of some kind to take at the beginning of the night. I was so infatuated, I took it without question. I had no idea what it was although I now suspect it was Rohypnol. The fact that I then ended up drugged off my face, that I had no way to resist the unprotected sex that came next… well, I conveniently sidelined the fact that I’d colluded in my own helplessness. He could have done anything to me, and that I ended up in hospital with an STD and blood poisoning was probably a blessing compared to other potential fates. And, it’s how I chose to relate to that experience (as a victim of date rape, forever scarred) that has defined me.

I could go on with ‘bad male’ experiences, but I won’t. They would fill several more pages, and would only serve to prove my lifelong pattern of self-neglect and self-abuse and placing blame on ‘bad men’. And of allowing others to be abusive in one form or another towards me and making that mean something about me and about my relationship to men.

The point here is – I’ve identified with the idea that I only deserve ‘bad males’ in my life as boyfriends. And, that men who treat me badly are in fact ‘bad men’. Men who may seem normal, responsible, nice even – on the surface… but underneath they’re looking to control, to coerce, to hurt. They are not looking to be friends, and treat women they date as friends, with honour. But they are not necessarily bad men.

In truth, I’ve created and allowed this pattern. All men, all people, behave how they wish – and that has nothing to do with anyone else. Yet, I’ve allowed this pattern to flourish. And that has created a certain reality when it comes to men, in which I’ve lived my life. Huh.

It’s going to take some time I think, but I plan to re-write my history. To look upon all of these incidents in my life, and re-script the prose I’ve used to describe these experiences, how I felt/feel, and what things look like now.

Because it really doesn’t have to be like that. And whilst it seems I had to be punched in the face before I came to this conclusion… I no longer want to relate to men like this any more.

~ Svasti