Samskaras in samsara – part 1

Tags

Amazonian, Asana, Barbie doll, bra fat, Compassion, disingenuous, fat burning, Fry your fat on the mat, hamster wheel, Healing, Heart-Chakra Opening, infomercials, jiva mukti, liberation, Living Liberation, Love, Meditation, modern-day sorcery, Radical Self-Acceptance, Self-esteem, Slim Calm Sexy Yoga, Tara Stiles, un-yogic, Unreasonable Joy, Yin Yoga, Yoga, yoga teachers

Thanks, Yoga Dawg!! 🙂

I’ve been thinking this one through and I wanted to break down my outrage for y’all a little more re: the Tara Stiles saga.

I’m much calmer now. Not so much with the angry. But still, this latest “yoga scandal” resonates with me in a way that none of the other recent issues have (e.g. see Toe Sox-Gate), and I’m gonna explain why. In detail. So bear with me, okay?

To kick things off: Tara Stiles has called her book and presumably “her” yoga “Slim Calm Sexy Yoga”. She promotes it as such and clearly believes in this message. However for me, this is very problematic.

The title itself is disingenuous.

What I mean by that is this: if you do enough yoga or ANY other kind of exercise, you will lose weight as a by-product. And for that you don’t need to buy the “Slim Calm Sexy Yoga” book. Whether 15 minutes a day of yoga is enough to deliver the sort of results Tara is claiming… well, that’s debatable.

As for “Slim”? Really? There are people in this world – people like me – who, even at their thinnest, could NEVER be described as thin. I might look in shape, toned and slim for my build (think tall Amazonian proportions, broad shoulders, busty, curvy), but no one would call me slim when there’s a world of underfed actresses and models to be compared to.

Calm, eh? Hmmm. Yesss… a little meditation and regular old yoga will help you with the calm factor. So will getting enough sleep.

And Sexy? So erm… is sexiness implied in relation to Slim? Are you only Sexy if you’re Slim and Calm? Can you possibly be Sexy and neither Slim or Calm?

And that’s just for starters.

Honestly, I don’t really care if Tara has “sensible” You Tube videos or other “helpful” tips in her book, as has been pointed out by other bloggers. And I don’t buy the “poor Tara, she’s just a victim of the marketing machine selling her book, it’s not her fault” excuse, either.

Surely, if she truly objected to the way it was going to be marketed, she’d pull out of the deal and/or find another publisher? I know I would!

And let’s not forget her “Fry your fat on the mat” segment which directly supports those advertising messages! I don’t mean to be snooty, but I’d like to point out that in that TV spot she was holding standard yoga poses for only a minute or two and calling them “fat burning” exercises. On live TV being broadcast to millions of viewers.

In direct contrast, a male yoga teacher friend of mine talks about asana in terms of their healing benefits. Yep, HEALING.

And hey, let’s not forget that Yin Yoga (which I haven’t practiced, but Linda teaches) involves holding asana for MUCH longer than a minute (with ZERO mentions of fat burning!).

Guess what I’m saying is that certain attributes have been assigned to Tara’s yoga style and the benefits promised are actually true for doing ANY kind of yoga. But generally, those things are considered by-products of the practice, and not the end-goal.

So, already there’s a major disconnect happening here for me.

But don’t get me wrong: I think it’s perfectly fine to want to lose weight (healthily, I might add). If that’s what you think you need. And in some cases for reasons to do with health and longevity, weight loss is desirable. But not to make you better, calmer or sexier.

Of course, this is the common mythology of our society and it begins the moment young girls are given their first Barbie and Ken dolls: thinner (for girls)/more muscular (for guys) = Better.

BUT THIS IS NOT YOGA.

And in my humble opinion, it is NOT okay for yoga teachers to reinforce the message that you aren’t okay the way you are. You’re fat. You need to do MY yoga in order to lose weight. Fry your fat! Buy my book!!

(My Guru refers to marketing as modern-day sorcery because of its ability to manipulate people to do what you want them to do.)

This kind of marketing message is anti EVERYTHING that yoga stands for, and it’s one of the few things that I’d describe as “un-yogic” – a word that in general I detest and think is used as a slur/insult to judge others (and therefore is in itself, un-yogic. Doh!). But that’s a whole other post!

The very branding of yoga as “Slim Calm Sexy” with skimpily-clad images of Tara infers: “Be like me/look like me”.

It doesn’t even matter if she never says that explicitly – the message is there like a blinking neon light because it’s tapping directly into all of the pre-existing “lose 100lbs and get a life” late-night infomercials that have been playing ad nausea in our collective unconscious for far too many years.

Now, here’s a cold hard fact: depending on your metabolism/doshas, genes, physical build and bone structure, you might NEVER look like Tara. Ever.

Then… what happens when those 15 minutes of “fat burning” yoga a day DON’T get rid of one’s bra fat (I’m assuming this refers to the little roll that forms under the back of the bra)? Because let’s face it – this is NOT going to be enough for some people at all.

Note: There’s no one-size-fits-all yoga routine that’s guaranteed to make a person lose weight!

==Also, as Nadine has rightly pointed out in the comments, there’s nothing wrong with bra fat anyway==

So, if someone doesn’t get the result they expect, what will it mean about their impression of yoga and more importantly, their relationship to themselves? Has yoga, then, just added another nail in the coffin of someone’s self-esteem instead of offering them a powerful means of liberation from such things?

This sort of thinking in Tara’s book and marketing in general is symptomatic of the “I’ll be happy when…” disease. When I’m richer, thinner, better looking, when I’ve had that nose/boob job, got a better job, a lover, children and so on… THEN I’ll be happy.

Of course, “I’ll be happy when…” is a lie.

And the cure to this malaise is NEVER more improvements or possessions. I mean, we know this, right? Because when we do get what we want, we’re still not as happy as we thought we’d be, right? Like a hamster on its wheel, we keep spinning on the spot thinking we’re getting somewhere but in fact, we’re digging ourselves a deeper and deeper hole.

The ONLY way out of the hamster wheel is to fully buy into Radical Self-Acceptance: that everything about you is perfect just the way you are… there’s no need to keep running, and searching. Everything you want and need is already right here, and you’ve just got to learn to see it.

Right now, some of you might be thinking: OMG, that sounds like a huge pile of horse dung, right?

How could I possibly be okay if I don’t have movie star looks and/or a model shaped body? How can I like or love myself if I’m not this generalised western concept of everything that’s acceptably attractive, fun and social? If I don’t have the right clothes, a house, a car, a family, lots of friends. HOW COULD ANY OF THAT BE OKAY?!!

Well, because who you are is not limited to your appearance, clothes, your job, how you live, your friends, hobbies and habits. None of those things!

And because if you like, you can choose to start exploring what else you might be. What other wondrous possibilities might be associated with being a human being in this inter-connected interplay of the universe!

And this, my friends, is what yoga is all about.

Because yoga is, amongst other things, Radical Self-Acceptance, Unreasonable Joy (i.e. joy without reason or cause), Heart-Chakra Opening, generating Love and Compassion, and the tradition of Living Liberation (jiva mukti)…

WHAT??! You thought yoga was just about stretching or frying your fat or getting a toned butt? Erm, sorry. That’s. Just. Not. True.

There’s much more to come! And here’s part 2..

~Svasti

P.S. Here’s a few related posts on the subject in no particular order. I don’t necessarily agree with every post, but feel free to make up your own mind!

From Nadine: The making of a yoga body

From The BlissChick: DO NOT BUY THIS BOOK

From EcoYogini: Selling Yoga: The Trends that Define our Culture

From Curvy Yoga: Yoga, weight loss, and transformation

From Brooks Hall: Slim Sexy Savvy and Yoga-sex

From Linda-Sama #1: Words almost fail me

From Linda-Sama #2: Seva is sexy

From Linda-Sama #3: Burn your blubber, fry your fat

From Linda-Sama #4: Upon further reflection of yoga noise

From Yoga Dawg: The New Epidemic: Bra Fat

From Yoga Dork: Tara Stiles Launches ‘Slim, Calm, Sexy’ Yoga to Acclaim, Insult, Revolt (see marketing)

From It’s All Yoga, Baby: Toesoxnudegate: the feminists & Kathryn Budig speak up

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Body image issues, yoga & Tara Stiles is a sell-out

Tags

abundant, anorexia, Asana, BlissChick, cheap shots, Giving, Intimacy, karma yoga, Mark Whitwell, marketing, Meditation, pranayama, Puja, regenerating, Self-esteem, sell out, seva, Slim Calm Sexy Yoga, Swami Satyananda, Tara Stiles, weight loss programs, Yoga, yoga nidra

Here’s the story of a very young girl…

One day, walking home from school this coltish lass felt so good about life and about herself. She thought she was beautiful and felt like a supermodel, convinced that she looked fantastic as she pranced along the sidewalk like it was some kind of fashion runway. It was an excellent ten minutes – the length of her walk home.

Coming in through the back door, she floated to the bathroom mirror to admire her magnificence. And she was heartbroken. There was not a prominent cheekbone or feline feature anywhere in sight. She looked NOTHING like the models in her Dolly and Cleo magazines. NOTHING.

And combined with her blonde and beautiful best friend that all the boys adored, and her brother’s daily taunts about her looks, she spent the rest of her life trying to see herself clearly. Which was difficult, because every time she looked in the mirror the words “not pretty” resonated somewhere in the back of her mind…

This is my story, but it’s also the story of numerous other young girls. From a ridiculously early age our lives are spent being compared to other women – by ourselves, others or both.

Unless we hit the gene-pool jackpot, most women start their lives feeling insecure and “not good enough”. Even then it sometimes isn’t enough! I mean, a girl I went to primary and high school with was pretty, blonde and built like a bird. She was also very good at athletics, competing at a state level. She was very popular, too, and went out with the hottest guy at school. And yet this girl who seemed to have everything STILL didn’t think she was good enough, and ended up with anorexia.

Our culture places so much value on physical appearance, academic or sporting prowess, instead of emotional maturity and openness. As such, many westerners have barely any connection to their bodies. There’s so much living in the head, divorced from the heart. We think too much, we’re reliant on external gratification and live in a highly visual world where beauty is given a very narrow definition.

Finding yoga

It’s no surprise then, that when I found yoga I felt very happy and relieved. Because I discovered yoga wasn’t about how I looked so much as how I felt. How my body and mind connect and who I am when I strip away fleeting things such as labels, my job, and physical appearance. Who am I when I close my eyes to meditate and the visible world melts away? And who are you?

So I practice yoga (including asana, pranayama, meditation, yoga nidra, puja and more) and I feel good about myself, no matter what anyone else thinks. In fact, I find I don’t CARE about what anyone else thinks. Because yoga opens my heart. It connects me to myself and to other people and it’s about LOVE. It doesn’t separate and segregate and it sure as hell isn’t about what size clothes I wear.

Yet still, I struggle on and off with body image/not good enough issues. I did a guest post about such things over on BlissChick’s blog.

Yoga helps me very much with such things, and it gets a little easier every day to look in the mirror and not instantly think I am repulsive looking. Most women have this to contend with in some way or another, no matter how they look.

Earlier this year I was fortunate enough to go to a Mark Whitwell workshop. Fortunate, not just because of the wonderful yoga he has to share, but because he is a dyed in the wool Mother Earth worshipping feminist. He gets it in a way many women never will, and certainly few men.

Mark writes things like this about yoga:

…Yoga is every person’s direct intimacy with reality, an entirely abundant, regenerating, and nurturing power. This is yoga from the heart, for the heart, and it promises health, intimacy, well-being, and joy…

One to one intimacy is as close and as necessary as your breath is to your body. In fact the practice of this inherent union of breath and body allows for the inherent union in all relatedness. It is an utter pleasure and unquestioned continuity with everything. It is Ha tha Yoga, “strength receiving.” Actual and natural, non obsessive practice.

Mark spreads love, positivity, empowerment and damn good yoga around the world. And he gives marvelous hugs. He’s very real and approachable. He makes yoga fun and doable for those who might think it’s not for them.

And then…

Yoga and women get betrayed – by a woman!

There are people out there who call themselves yogis, and take the most external aspects of the practice and market that as a weight loss program like some kind of meal replacement product! Unbelievably, this is being fronted by a woman!

Yes, Tara Stiles, I’m talking about YOU and your Slim Calm Sexy Yoga.

I recommend reading Linda-Sama’s post about Tara’s latest efforts. I agree with Linda whole-heartedly and I find myself enraged by Tara Stiles.

So much so that I wrote this tweet:

Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning to discover that Tara had replied to that message with this piece of nonsense:

Wow. Just WOW. My reply to Tara was this (and then a whole lot more!)

I cannot tell you how frightening I find this approach to marketing yoga. Or rather, yoga-like movements that have been called yoga, but have nothing to do with the practice in any way…

Cheap shots. We’re talking cheap shots to the already fragile self-esteem most women have (and let’s face it, this is not being marketed to men!). Fired off by a so-called yogi to get people to buy her book. It makes me sick to my stomach.

I know a BUNCH of accomplished and deeply realised yogis who do NOT have a perfect body. They are not a size 00, and probably never were. You could not call them slim per se, and yet they are happy, wonderful, calm and sexy people. They are yogis with big, huge, juicy hearts and so much wisdom and compassion that you can’t help but feel better from spending time around them.

And we have wonderful men like Mark Whitwell teaching yoga in a way that’s accessible and beautiful, and more than anything, authentic and genuine.

Or brilliant yogis like Swami Satyananda who couldn’t give a flying f#ck about “Slim Calm Sexy Yoga”. Yeah, he was perfectly healthy right up until his death and look at that body! No ripped abs. No bulging biceps!

Then Tara Stiles decides to take advantage of the current fanaticism about weight loss using the name of yoga (but certainly not its philosophies) to line her pockets on the back of other women who already feel crappy about themselves. Nice way to align yourself with the sisterhood, Tara!

And nice way to sell out yoga and degrade its real benefits to those who don’t know any better.

Yoga = love = self-acceptance = giving

Just for once, I’d like to see famous yogis who are right into all this marketing business, using yoga to HELP this world. Help the planet and people in need.

I have no idea why there isn’t already an outpouring of yoga events put on purely as a benefit. I see it at a grassroots level, but not as big as something like Wanderlust for example. Imagine getting lots of wisdom masters to do dharma talks, meditation and asana practice FOR FREE. Yes, free! Anyone heard of a little thing called karma yoga or seva? Let the people pay to come and get the good stuff, and all of the profits GO DIRECTLY TO PEOPLE IN NEED.

Like the communities that lost their livelihood as a result of the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. Or the Haiti disaster. Or the floods in Pakistan. Or just people who live in your community and are about to be evicted. Or whatever!

Imagine that, can you? I can. Those who came along would benefit from real teachings that aren’t in any way about physical appearance. And the money would go to people who need it. Why? Simply because they are human beings, like everyone else.

Yoga is about GIVING. Not taking. That’s how I get my calm and my sexy. I don’t need no special book and unrealistic promises to deliver that…

**More on this topic by me**

A little less ranty, and a little more rational… 😉

• Samskaras in samsara – part 1
• Samskaras in samsara – part 2
• News from the anti-Slim, Calm, Sexy “Yoga” trenches
• it’s all yoga, baby’s top 15 yoga posts of 2010

~Svasti

**UPDATE 3rd August 2011** To all the people still reading this topic and leaving indignant comments:
Please look at the date of this post. It was a year ago. My anger about this is long gone, but I still disagree with Tara Stiles’ approach to yoga very much. So do a lot of other people, both yoga teachers and non-yoga teachers. Now, if you wanna call me rude, go ahead. I consider this a highly passionate post, fueled by anger for sure. But not rude. Or unyogic. Of course you’re welcome to your opinions as I am to mine, but no matter what you write in the comments I ain’t gonna change my mind. I’d never do a Tara Stiles yoga class. This woman also runs a highly questionable yoga teacher training program that I’d never do either. So there it is. Go ahead, be a Tara apologist. I won’t stop you. But do remember this topic is over a year old and all of the main players have moved on…

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

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