In The Shadows

There are many things I am unwilling to talk about. Mostly because I don't know how to.

I took beatings...I have been raped. 

But the acts didn't bother me much. I guess I'm a strange character in this, because underneath the truth of these things, I believed they were justified. I knew beyond all reason I some how asked for them. This is a truth, not some weak female saying "oh gosh I deserved it". No, there were lines, I saw them. I stepped on and over them to drive the bus to that point. I picked the fight to end the silence. I stood in the way of stopping it. These are things I did with intent, knowing where it would go. 

All the feminists of the world will tell you it's his fault because he put his hands on you...but really? There is no line I would not cross, or barrier I would not break to end the pain of silence. So equal roles were played.

I was in a "healing domestic violence" group for women. Eventually I dropped out, after spending a lot of time not talking. My heart hurt for these women, for they were true victims. But I didn't fit, I didn't belong. How do I tell them I LIKED it? I would take a back hand to the face any day over the crippling, horrific silence. 

Do they know how I stood between the couch and the tv, hovering right in front screaming "talk to me...talk to me you bastard"?

Do they know that when it finally came, I felt relief?

It was me standing in front of the door screaming "why don't you want me? Why can't you love me?" Until I was pushed. It was me pushing until he pushed back.
I was alone where I should not have been. I was out there swinging when I should not have been. I tempted fate and swallowed the broken glass of my creation. I was a fighter, an unfair, dirty fighter.

Sympathy only reminds me of what I did to get what I got. I don't bother much with that, I gave as good as I got.

I have this desire to be wanted. Not for me to chase, or pursue, or coerce. However, I have never been a girly girl, I suppose "pretty" to some, but not the kind of girl that gets noticed or keeps him coming back for more. So my skin has developed layers and layers of callous. I'm tough as nails, that comes across as coldness to some, secure to others. But underneath it is this absolute crippling fear of being left. I would rather leave then be left. I would rather be alone then trust that my partner will stay. I would rather remain noncommittal, then admit I need that security. I adopt freedom as a crutch that eases the anxiety of not being loveable enough. I call this "staying power". Because I have been unchosen, or left so many times, I believe I don't have staying power. So it's easier for me to just not.

I actually don't mind rejection. I have no fear of this. What scares me is not knowing why. I always desire a reason, a picture to resolve the questions. This comes from my belief that there is a purpose for everything. So when I am rejected, the reason makes it okay. If there is no reason, this is terrible for me. Being cheated on was never about the other person, it was the agony of not being good enough or desirable enough that choked me.

I began living a life outside the protection of a family very young. I lived hard and fast. I moved 15 times between the ages of 14 and 20. I have seen girls homes, chased mushrooms across the B.C. Interior. Partied on beaches, had babies. I lived in a polygamist life style. Was taken in by a bush man. Worked in logging bars and wandered barefoot down a highway for hours. I have found and lost and found again. I have watched death happen and seen it in all it's forms. I have witnessed and taken part in the ritual of birth.

I have met terrible situations and kept them silent.
I have loved so deeply that the ache still pains me when I think about it.

I have been abused and have abused others. I have taken and given. I have karma.

At the beginning of this year I sat down with my mountain of pictures and began scrap booking. Places I have been. Faces I have known. All laid out side by side, page after page. Some I lovingly sorted and gave them a story. Some I slapped on a page and quickly carried on. 

This was the beginning of ending those stories. 

The harmonica that sits rusting is a secret that unlocks the knowledge of what I am capable of if forced. But that was a different time, and a different story.

I can't tell you why I like naked bodies. There is no desire attached to it, but the form of humans is exquisite to me. 

I can't tell you why I am so very happy for the successes of others, or why I can love them so completely without putting restrictions on them.

I can't tell you why I can't talk about what is important to me, or why I can see the feelings of others like a painting. Why it's more important that someone else be okay then myself. 

I can't admit my own needs without getting all weird or working up the nerve. But I accept other people needs without a second thought. 

I can't explain why I'm okay with people "bothering" me, any time, any place, any reason...but I can't handle "bothering" others.
I can't tell you why I can feel certain people even when they are not around, or why when all I want in the world is to reach out to them...I chew on it and stall until I either give up or give in.
I can't tell you about my reserved joy, my inability to burst at the seams without a drink or two in me.
I can't tell you why the thing I love the very most in the whole world is seeing that flash of recognition and joy in someone's eye when they realize how truly fabulous they are...even if only for a second.
I can't explain why you matter, so very very much to me, but I won't chase you.

These are parts of myself I can't talk about freely, I can't verbalize, or feel safe discussing, without thinking I'm foolish.

I'm not worried if you know me or not. I'm not concerned with if you see me or not. Because really, in my world you will always matter.

I have discovered my own worth, through the trials and travels of unworthiness. 

I have finally felt the scales tipping, and realized it's not selfish to take care of me.

I have found the strength to put into words what scares me the most, to face some of these fears and push back.

I have forgiven myself for the weakness I have harboured.

I am settling into the knowledge that I've only just begun living.

I don't fight any more, and if I'm pushed, I fight fair. The spirit of my disharmony died many years ago. I listen to the tales told of abuse and rape with an open heart, realizing this is not my truth. I was not a victim, and that's okay.