Involuntary actions – part 3

Tags

abortion, baby daddy, booty call, Chippy, contraception, Dreams, extreme mutual pleasure, kindergarten, Kinesiology, nightmares, portent, sexual liberation, Sixth Sense, surfer lover

[Read part 1 & part 2 first]

Did you think I wouldn’t go there? I know, I know… sorta left the story with a gapingly obvious question there, didn’t I? But the plan all along was to wade in, really. So don’t worry, coz here we are!

But before I could elaborate on this part of the story, I was lying in bed after publishing part 2 and… ohhhhh [the sound of stuff you never realised before but now see]! Reminded me of the time I broke the overhead light cover in the laundry last year because even to this day I’m *still* finding little shards everywhere. I suspect I won’t get them all until I shift EVERYTHING out of the laundry. But have you ever felt the need to move your washing machine once it was installed? Yeah, me neither… And exactly my point.

Before I go any further, I’ve gotta tell you about these dreams I had maybe ten years later. They seemed completely unrelated, even if they were terrifying. Of course, this is a huge hint that they aren’t unrelated, right? Because I’m not really going for that whole Sixth Sense he-was-dead-all-along twist [apologies if you haven’t seen that movie yet. Okay, not really because you should’ve by now!].

*********************

They started one night out of nowhere and weirdly. ‘Spose my sleepscape has always been awash with weirdness… realistic visions I could’ve sworn were actually happening, the occasional and incredible full scale movie in which I often had a starring role, horror scenes, vampires, flying, reptiles, alleged past lives and more. But also dreams of portent and that’s always been confusing, even to this day. Especially because I never really know the difference until after something I’ve dreamt has turned up and I get that oh yeah moment.

Even trickier is when fact and fantasy intermingle so it looks like one thing, but the message is important and not the visuals. Or vice versa. It’s never simple. And they don’t really give me an advantage at all. Fat lot of good that is, right?

Usually though, it’s not a retrospective message. Let alone many years later. And it definitely wasn’t pretty.

In my dream I was back in kindergarten, a place I remember well for some reason. Our cloakroom with the cool coat hooks in the shapes of animals or toys or ships, and the kid-size toilets tailor-made for tiny people. And the main area which was sort of divided up although it was really just one big space. The art area with easels and tables for masterful abstract kid-ling art. The story space with its huge rug and lots of room to sit next to your friends. The bookshelves. The spot where we’d eat our lunch and drink our milk. And the office.

We weren’t allowed in there except for official business and things like getting our eyes tested. And I was maybe four, and I was in there with my mother for some kind of medical check up. One minute I was sitting in her lap while she talked to the male doctor and the next… well, there’s no polite way to talk about a grown up being inappropriate with a child, is there? I felt like I couldn’t move, couldn’t get up. But my mother wasn’t there any longer. I was trapped in the office with this doctor and I… well, never mind…

I woke up distressed, crying. Was it real? Was it? Was it fucking REAL??? Oh. My. God. No… It couldn’t be real. I don’t think so. I’m sure it wasn’t. Unless it was? Fuck!

It wasn’t the last time I had that dream and before long I was a mess and completely confused. I tried to ask my mother a few delicately hedged questions without giving away my intent but to really explain properly, I had to spill. She was scathing. I mean, after all, I was asking her about stuff from a dream for crying out loud! I know that never happened, her voice tart and short, because there were NEVER any men working at the kindergarten.

So… that was it I guess? Except for the distress. I worried and wondered if this was some kind of repressed memory. I mean, I was a rather sexualised child in a way that apparently kids normally aren’t. What did it mean? Something? Anything? Nothing? No! I knew when I’d lost my virginity didn’t I? I’m sure about that if nothing else…

A friend suggested I go and see this therapist she knew. He was a kinesiologist and counsellor, and she had good things to say about him. If you’re not familiar with kinesiology then this all might sound a little strange. It’s a powerful practice and some especially talented therapists use it to help people tap into hidden emotional blocks, not just physical ills.

In this case, we analysed my very disturbing dreams using kinesiology to test my sub-conscious mind’s reaction to his questions. Which sure, can sound a little nutty but you really had to be there to understand. It was… impressive.

But I can’t describe the indescribable. I can barely remember what happened there. We talked, he used the muscle testing technique. I cried. He asked questions and I thought of certain things. He tested again. And on and on as we narrowed down the result.

And it came down to this: hidden shame and fear about my abortion. Feeling I’d lost the respect of my parents and feeling out of control. Note: this is what I worked out via thinking of specific things. I barely told him anything because he told me he didn’t need to know the specifics.

It made sense didn’t it? I was in that very compromising position as a doctor and his medical team scraped the contents of my womb under general anaesthetic and there was no escape once things kicked off. Consciously I didn’t feel ashamed or upset about it but clearly I held that somewhere in my body.

And so life went on. I’ve never fallen pregnant again although there’s been a few times where I’ve wondered. And some of those times I threatened myself. Body, I’ve said menacingly, you remember what we went through before? Well, it’s not that I ever want to do that again, but so help me if we’re pregnant that might just be on the cards, okay? So… let’s not be pregnant.

Who knows if it was the threats or if I simply wasn’t pregnant in the first place but eventually the bloody evidence allowed relief to replace tension and it was all okay. Sorta.

The other horror and shame of course, came from not knowing who that child’s father was. That’s right, I can’t tell you. It’s possible that had I been able to get blood tests from known the known contenders I still wouldn’t have an answer.

In an ideal/less than ideal world I often wished it’d been Chippy. I liked to think it was. Sweet, loveable cute surfer-boy dude of the sun-kissed golden hair and sunny nature, friend of M’s sometime boyfriend and all-round hot thing. And a wild man in the sack. They’d come over along with N’s (my other best friend) boyfriend when M’s parents were on holiday’s, having taken M’s younger brother with them. Three bedrooms of an otherwise empty house choc-full of horny young things, no vacancies, sorry!

I’d sleep on the floor on a mattress in M’s brother’s room and that’s where we’d romp. Chippy in many ways was my teacher. From this sweet hearted sexy thang, I learned about Grown Up Sex where extreme mutual pleasure was assured. So that’s what sex could be! No in-out-and-over with my surfer lover… it was always fun and downright awesome. Literally a booty call and nothing more, thank goodness for my Chippy!

But he was far from the only one. This was a time of sexual liberation for the three of us, doing what and whomever we wanted whenever it suited us. We never saw a down-side until it happened to me.

As far as M, N and I could figure it there were three possible baby daddy candidates. Well kinda. We joked about it a bit before that fateful train trip, but never after. But let me be clear: it’s not like I wasn’t using contraception. I was, mostly.

There was of course Chippy – my semi-regular lover, some guy I’d picked up at our local nightclub (oh my, the days when I’d go nightclubbing!) who’s number I never bothered to get, and then there was… well, stuff I hadn’t told either of them and could barely tell myself. Not the full story. Not the real story, whatever that was…

[Read part 4]

~Svasti

Involuntary actions – part 2

Tags

abortion, Adoption, defunct pregnancy, exotic dancing, guilty, hiccup in time, partial surrender, pool room, pregnancy, Repression, Stripper, Stripping, teenage stripper, Torana Sunbird

[Read part 1 first]

Looking in the mirror I rolled my eyes. I’d no need for bigger boobs – they were already huge before raging pregnancy hormones had kicked in. They were a little tender, too. It was the one visible sign of my now defunct pregnancy and I fervently hoped they’d shrink again, eventually.

But otherwise I was fine, and with a few days rest I was back to ‘normal’. Only, no one knew I’d been pregnant except for my best friends. And we didn’t speak of it ever again.

It’d been all too easy. Thanks to my rather lucrative-if-seedy line of work, paying for the procedure wasn’t a problem and I could easily afford the time off.

But all the literature and movie portrayals of women having abortions had sucked me in. I believed the hype and found myself feeling guilty for not feeling guilty about what I’d done, as opposed to feeling guilty or remorseful at all. There were no tears for my lost child. No sadness at its ending. I never imagined how old it would be over the years, what it might have looked like or any of those things. From a very deep place within, I’d known all along it was the right decision for me…

And so I went on with my life as though it had never been, except of course for feeling bad about not feeling bad. Was I normal? Was I totally cold hearted? I couldn’t be sure. Of course, it never occurred to me that no one has the same reactions as another person, and that feeling bad about not feeling bad meant I couldn’t possibly be cold hearted. I just thought there was something wrong with me. But then, when did I ever think there wasn’t?

I was still working as a stripper although the fiery anger with which I’d danced had gone – a side effect of one too many stereotyped oafish men paraded in front of me as I (another stereotype myself), removed my lacy lingerie and pretended to be interested in the bug eyed men from all walks of life ogling my flesh mindlessly. Football clubs. Private events held by rich men for their friends’ amusement. Working class pubs all over town. Huge money-making events in Melbourne or interstate where strippers were just a side dish to the more extreme sex shows on offer. Married men at bucks parties. Ermm, yeah…

And then the 21st party I was booked for. Must’ve been someone’s idea of a bad joke because it wasn’t just a bunch of randy post-teen boys, but mums and dads too. Everyone was gathered in the pool room – literally a room with a pool in it. Completely. Unsexy. And just kinda naff.

I can’t recall the exact trigger that made me go back to my parent’s house or when. But it wasn’t the abortion. And I still hadn’t quit the “exotic dancing” industry. My sister was in the last year or two of high school, the same one I’d gone to and I know she was copping flack from the rumours that flew around the school.

Possibly it had something to do with wanting access to the car my parents had bought for my sister and I – my great aunt and uncle’s old Torana Sunbird. Maybe there was another reason, but to be honest I can’t remember.

However before I could move back into my parents’ place there was a Conversation To Be Had. Or maybe it happened the night I returned: Lots of Hard Questions and Answers, and plenty of Berating of My Actions.

Your boobs will sag down to your knees, I recall my mother saying… You dropped out of high school and you’re stripping? You never finish anything you start… think they both chipped in on that one…

Oh really? Are you sure about that? I challenged, I had an abortion, you know.

Silence.

Probably wasn’t as long as it felt. I could almost hear them regain their composure… Well yes, I guess you could say that’s something you finished… What? When? How?

More silence after brief answers designed to give away as little as possible.

Of course, I didn’t think about it but my mother’s emotions right then must’ve been intense. She’d been only a year younger than me when she nearly died giving birth to her first child and was then forced to give him up for adoption.

Two more people who knew about my abortion, and I’ve never talked about it with them since then either.

That was that, so I thought. A hiccup in time that didn’t mean anything to anyone. Not even me. Except for the guilt about not being guilty, of course.

And so we tentatively negotiated the terms of my partial surrender return to the family home, none of us sure what would happen next. No trust in any corner. No Conversations That Matter. I wasn’t giving up stripping, not yet, although my parents were opposed. Oddly though, I was asked to pay rent and I agreed.

Yeah, take the money I made by selling the right to look at my naked body and be damned…

[Read part 3]

~Svasti

Involuntary actions – part 1

Tags

abortion, Bun-less, Children, Depression, eighteen, fiancé, hospital gown, motherhood, pregnancy, PTSD, Stripping, up the duff

I’ve been pregnant only once in my entire life, approximately twenty years and eight months ago. Depending on your perspective, that can mean a lot of different things.

For example, right now as a thirty-eight year old woman who’s never had kids and only barely escaped being married to the wrong man in my mid-late 20’s, it makes me sad. And somewhat fearful. In this life I may never know the joy (heartache and hard work etc) of having my own kids. I’d definitely want to if the right guy came along, but not otherwise. Some women I know have had a kid without a partner on-purpose. That is not for me. And, since a large part of my 30’s were swallowed by PTSD and depression, not to mention the desire to be as far away from men as possible… it’s little wonder I’ve been unable to do anything about it.

In my 20’s when I was engaged and planning children with my then fiancé, I was hopeful. I’d often wondered – and found out that so many other women like me did as well – if I’d given up my chance at children when I didn’t have my first. My fiancé assured me gently and we laughed and talked about names. We spoke of how we wanted to school our kids. We both thought it was a good idea for me not to work until they were at least in primary school, but perhaps I’d study in that time and work out what sort of career I wanted to come back to. We planned a lot for those babies that never were. We cared about them even though they were just ideas. We wanted a family. But when our relationship died, so did those dream babies.

For all of my teens and most of my early 20’s I’d been convinced I didn’t want kids at all. I was too messed up! I came from a family of people who fought with each other and/or were supremely talented at suppressing their emotions. I was no exception; I knew that. So why would I want to bring a child into the mix? Do unto them what had been done unto me? I couldn’t imagine it… my younger self would view my current self as vindication of her convictions. My current self looks at that younger me and wonders if my then convictions have helped manifest my current childless state, one I no longer want…

The night before my scheduled abortion, I was having unprotected sex in the car of a guy I barely knew. I was eighteen and living at M’s house, having fought with my parents over my “career” as a topless waitress/stripper (M’s parents knew what we were doing and didn’t seem to mind). The nameless guy and I were in the front passenger seat, parked outside M’s place and doing that dance of awkward half-clothed, can’t-quite-move-around-properly kind of sex. I don’t think it was any good. In fact, I’m certain I remember going inside and thinking what a disappointment it was.

The irony of my actions wasn’t lost on me – it’s just that I’d convinced myself I didn’t care.

Next morning I was on a train into the city with my two best friends, one of whom was envious of my impregnated state. She’d wanted a baby since forever. We blithely ignored the reason for our trip and chatted away merrily. I bet you didn’t know I’m about to have an abortion, I wanted to tell the other train passengers. My friends planned to drop me off at the clinic – a huge Victorian era house in East Melbourne – spend the day in the city and pick me up afterwards.

Truth was, I didn’t want to be doing what I was about to do. But I also didn’t want to be pregnant. And not just because I knew how messed up I was either. I simply didn’t want a baby at that point in my life. I didn’t feel maternal towards the tiny life I was carrying. As far as I was concerned I had no business raising a kid, especially since the father was a huge question mark.

Roughly two months along, there weren’t too many physical signs to give me away. There’d been a little nausea but no hurling. I knew I’d missed one of my periods and then I waited and… nope, still nothing. I think I might be pregnant, I told M, who bought the home-pregnancy test for me and waited outside the bathroom door while I peed on the stick.

No matter how many times I blinked, the damn thing still said I was up the duff.

I wasn’t emotional about it – there was only one course of action as far as I was concerned: becoming un-pregnant and as fast as possible please!

Back then, abortion was only quasi-legal in Australia. There had to be a reason given and it had to be because having the child wouldn’t be in the best interests of the mother… yeah, I was a mother once… if only fleetingly and unwillingly.

I looked up ‘Abortion’ in the Yellow Pages (this was way before the internet, folks!) and found a doctor in the city who could refer me. I was very businesslike and clear: No there was no chance of my having the baby. Not even for adoption (especially not in my family!). No, the father wasn’t around. That’s right, I’m not prepared for raising a child, and I’m too young. Yes, please sign me up for the pill. And thanks for the referral and info on what to expect.

Now it was time and though I couldn’t have told you then, I was numb. I think I’d barely been able to get an appointment inside the all-important three month cut-off window.

When I think of the abortion clinic now, it’s through a lens that’s fuzzy and a sort of greenish-gray in colour. It was on Victoria Parade, I think. Girls and women in a waiting room being called one by one. Changing into a hospital gown, completely naked underneath. Sliding onto the chair/bed and staring at the stirrups. A handful of medical-type people entering in white coats: Please put your feet in the stirrups. But now my errrm, nakedness is on show and you’re all standing down the business end!

I don’t remember the anaesthetic being applied. Time passed in dark unconscious slumber until I woke up on a gurney in the hallway, crying in pain. The cramps. Oh god, the cramps. Someone – a nurse perhaps – gave me painkillers. But it was over. I was de-pregnated. Bun-less. Just like I wanted.

My friends, bless them, brought me a sandwich and I ate it as we walked back to train station for our hour journey back home…

[Read part 2]

~Svasti