More than you know

My body is a map showing the consequences of loving him.

Heart tattoos mark the times of heartbreak and forgiveness.

One floats on the waves of the sleeve that matches his.

One is being sewn back together with swallows pulling the strings.

One has roses growing through it, simultaneously piercing and grounding. At the top of sleeve that matches his, his name unfurls.

I am his.

His body is a map revealing the loves in his life.

Ghouls and creatures, nintendo, muppets, and me.

My face looks out from the woman on his sleeve.

My initial is on his ring finger.

My name burns in the flames of the sacred heart on his chest.

He is mine.

On and on...or so I believed.

3/6/16
He is no longer mine
What I thought was for always was "until"
His name on my arm will never let me forget.

Frigid

Around 1970, feminists were arguing that "frigidity" was "defined by men as the failure of women to have vaginal orgasms.

You told me time and time again that I was frigid, remember?

It wasn't until many partners later I realized that what I did to myself in private was "masturbating" and that the glorious feeling of release was an "orgasm."

I held on tight to a belief that to have sex, one must be in love first. Married preferably. Engaged definitely. Promised, going steady, solid, committed... a couple. I'd taken some bit of conversation with my mom and turned it into a litany of the situation surrounding sexual activity. Orgasms were not discussed. I did not enter into the situation with passion. For me it was "if this, then that."

You'd shown up at my high school, blond and blue-eyed, the cheerleaders took the first stab at getting your attention. Perhaps my skirt was shorter. We talked the first time through our car windows while "dragging main." 2 miles of teenage entertainment defined by Tasty Freeze on one end and A&W Root beer on the other. I'm sure I was stalking you. You had the coolest car in the whole school so by default you must be the coolest boy. A mystery man who did not know me by my bizarre and embarrassing angst filled years 12-16. I don't remember the details of the conversation, but it lead to our first date.

We saw the movie "Paint Your Wagon" - Clint Eastwood, Lee Marvin, Jean Seberg (Two unlikely prospector partners share the same wife in a California gold rush mining town.) That movie was my first exposure to the concept of multiple relationships. I remember being confused but also a little excited.

You told me you'd had sex with ex-girlfriend.
I'd lost a prior boyfriend by not saying yes to sex.

It took 2 tries before we finally succeeded at having sex. I remember my nervousness that first try. I was embarrassed about unzipping my pant suit and revealing underwear which seemed much more risque than just being naked. I did not make it through the transition that day and cried.

The second time - we thought we were alone and did not close the door. It was truly terrifying when your mother walked past the room where I lay in bed with you after our uninspiring coupling. I was traumatized.

Rubbers were sold in truck stop men's rooms then. It was like a covert op - driving outside of town to score condoms. The fear was pregnancy. Rumor said that douching with a bottle of coke after sex would kill the sperm. It left me sticky.

Sex was messy.
Sex was embarrassing .
I continued to have sex with you to keep you.

You told me I was frigid.
You told me I was flat chested.
You told me I was mental.
You told me I was inferior.
You told me I was lucky to have you.

At 16 I was convinced no one else would want me.

Ever.

The beginning of the end

You were gorgeous.

10 years older, you were the darling of the design studio.
It seemed to me everyone wanted you.
You'd taken me to lunch so many times, it seemed you wanted me.

I succumbed the first time because it seemed I owed it to you.
A boat ride to an island in the river.
An hibachi, grilled cod, beer - a picnic away from the world.
Just being there with you was cheating.
Sex was what you wanted.
I needed to be wanted.

I gave up control to you immediately.
I had given up control at home as well.
I was a puppet.
The phone rang and you would tell me where to meet you and I would.
Dark alleys, empty parks, cars.
Never in a bed. Never face to face.

The night you told me to spend the night at your cabin I was beyond happy. The guilt and shame were overwhelming, but I hoped you were finally going to let me in. Maybe everything I'd done with you was justified. Maybe you loved me. Another "Deborah" was there when I showed up. You said she was just a friend, but then what did you tell her about me? She left, I stayed. You cooked clams on the open fire. We drank wine. You cleaned me as if my being sterile was critical. Face to face. On a bed. I fell asleep with you.

In foggy morning, I told you I was going to leave my husband. I did not expect you to be with me, just be my friend. You said, "I'm not your friend. If you leave your husband I'll stop seeing you." I left you instead.

Months later I ran into you at a party and you charmed me into believing you wanted to see me. It would be different this time. You said to meet you at a dance club. I waited alone, nervous, for hours until I finally spotted you dancing with a gorgeous brunette. I approached you and you introduced me to your "girlfriend" a flight attendant who was 28 and appeared quite worldly. I was barely 21 and anything but. You introduced me as "a kid you'd worked with" and then arm around her, led her to a booth where you made out.

You were the only person besides my husband I'd had sex with. I was going to hell. Figured I'd take the express so I ran into the bathroom searching through my purse for anything that I could kill myself with. Nothing. No one consoled me. There was no one I could tell.

My life spiraled downward. I moved in with a guy I barely knew, who asked me to dance that night because he listened.

Ended

"Us" ended that night behind a neighbor's bush.
"My" suicide ended before I could bring myself to swallow the gasoline.

You were my first date, my first kiss, my first love.
You were the most unique, creative, intelligent boy in town.
For six months I was the happiest girl in junior high.
I took everything you did and said and matched my life to yours.

You said dance, I danced.
You said be yourself, I blossomed.
You said I want to feel you, I let you.
You said I want to have sex, I said I was not ready.
You said... goodbye.

That night ended my innocence.
That night began a pattern.

Don't you be blue

Music brought us together.

I remember pecking out the cords from "We're all alone" and singing the words quietly in the practice room. You picked up a guitar and joined me. You had a warm smile and deep dark eyes. We liked you instantly and invited you to our home. We played music together. You and my husband strumming while I sang. There was joy and companionship and we all laughed so easily.

You had a dream of building a recording studio in your garage. My husband had a dream of being a recording engineer. You realized those dreams together. I was the model for your marketing, a stark contrast shot showing my curls framing a white face, eyes closed, mouth open next to a bulbous microphone. Brainstorm Studios we called that small wooden walled space. At the time, you were our best friend - we were so new to California - so green - so open.

We met your girlfriend, your mistress and everyone else that was in orbit around you. We had front row seats as you dove headfirst into drugs and sex. You were almost satisfied, but the high you sought seems always just out of your reach. The songs you wrote were disjointed and depressing. You wanted fame. You wanted to be the center. But you were like a spinning top as begins to wobble and then lurch before finally falling on its side in a slow final spin.

It became a joke, your coming on to me - begging me to have sex with you. But I'd seen the others that had. You spared nothing in your descriptions of the intimate and often perverted details that you kept from your girlfriend. Cheating was just another high for you. Did you really think that you were hiding anything? The Vaseline covered mirror...the naked women napping in your guest room...Qualludes, mushrooms, pot, speed, cocaine... your growing fascination with death coupled with your growing need for the ultimate high - the ultimate sex - the ultimate look inside yourself.

I was young - I took your mistress from you and made her my own. You never knew we were together, but we knew your fantasy to have sex with both of us. You'd told us so when you'd introduced us.

Your girlfriend left when you moved into the new recording studio. You took up residence in an attic space you created for yourself and your fantasies. No longer was anyone policing your desires. You painted sky on the ceiling of your "bed" room and piped in the sound of the ocean. You created a "red" room where you sampled drugs and seemed to disappear into the flashing red lights and walls.

Life went on below you. The studio was always busy with musicians and artists coming and going. I recorded my song "Don't you be blue" there.

Don't you be blue
Just bubble up all that is hiding inside of you
Cuz whenever you're blue baby you know
I be blue too... with you
And don't you be sad
No matter how bad it may be you can always be glad that
Whenever you're blue baby you know
I be blue too

I hear there's sunshine outside
Though clouds are forming around your head
Don't let those blues close your mind
You better be silly willy instead

Don't you be blue
Just bubble up all that is hiding inside of you
Cuz whenever you're blue baby you know
I be blue too
Oh yeah whenever you're blue baby you know
I be blue too

It was a magical time in a magical place. We made beautiful music and partied with friends. It was the best time of our lives until you started seeing the psychic. Your constant searching, she said, was because the love of your life had passed before you met her. She told you how you would meet her on the other side - that she was waiting for you to join her. You spoke to this "love" through the psychic and she became the focus of your life. There was a date on your calendar circled in red - you told all of us that on that day you would die and be with your love forever. The day came and went. You lived.

You were a shell, a hulk of flesh - hollowed eyes, stumbling about - a ruined man. We all tried to connect with you, but you let none of us in. The refuge you created above the studio became your cell and you paced it like a wild animal.

You were on the phone with your ex-girlfriend when it ended. The psychic had told you the window to meet the love of your life was closing. She would be reborn without you. You had to catch up. It was sick - what she filled your head with. Even sicker what you filled your own head with. What was left of it was found on the floor near your body and the shotgun you'd used. Your bloody mess was one with the red spinning lights in the red room.

I will never forget the grit of your bones and ash in my hand as we tossed you to the wind.

Gullible

I can be trusted, completely. Oh, I might not keep your secret and I might forget I was meeting you. I might miss an appointment or walk out without paying (once!). But bottom line, I am honest and I can't imagine taking advantage of another person for my personal gain.

So...when I meet people, I trust...completely.
This is not a good trait.

Ben is trying his best to break me of the habit of assuming everyone I meet is a friend and opening myself up to them. I am likely to claim fate or luck or positive thinking, but he's right - just because someone steps into my path does not mean... anything. His phrase is "I don't make friends." What he means is he is friendly, but he is not looking for anyone new in his life. This filter is what keeps his world under control. His home, his time, his art, his music - private. He invites his friends and family in, but it's a bit like the clubhouse sign "members only."

But in my world - I am blind to the signs and prop the door open to wave wildly at the passing parade of people. Within minutes I've told a bit of my life's stories and find myself amazed as they tell me theirs that mirror mine. Kismet! Cosmic! Coolness!

We had our identity used in the past month or so. Someone used one of our credit cards and set up accounts as my husband - our address - our phone. Someone who knew us. Someone who I'd likely talked to and clicked with. It could have been picked up from an online order, but in this case it seems unlikely. Items were ordered and sent to Ohio. Someone, used us. Someone not honest, not trustworthy. Unbelievable to me. I could never do that, so how could anyone?

One of my best friends in CA had a very expensive diamond ring taken during a graduation party for her daughter. Someone who was invited to her home took it. (or so we assumed)
Left above the sink - all of us moving in and out of the house - and at the end of the night - no ring. Someone who knew her.. someone I'd likely talked to took her ring. Who could DO that?

In Ben's world anyone could do that.
And obviously in my world, anyone could to.

Middle bits

I was 19 the summer I came home to get married. I moved into a corner of my parent's basement. My fiance was not allowed to sleep with me. I huddled in my cave listening to the music of 1973 and feeling overwhelmed. "killing me softly with his song" "the morning after" "could it be I'm falling in love""sing" The light in the room as a high window well through which I could see nothing.

All of the talents I'd shown in school were worthless now. I was back home, a nobody, waiting to get married to another nobody for no good reason. Getting married seemed like my only path to freedom.

I cried a lot that summer. I created no art. No friends came to comfort me. Loneliness led me to the Pizza Hut where I applied for a waitress job. No experience, 19 years old, you took pity on me and gave me a chance. And I bloomed.

I spilled as much beer as I carried. The fishbowls they called mugs were top heavy and awkward. But somehow I charmed the patrons into finding it funny when they got drenched. I would make myself green olive pizzas and chat with the other waitresses. At the Pizza Hut I laughed all day. You were a  wonderful boss. At 27 you seemed so sophisticated and I found your long brown hair and hazel eyes sexy. One night after closing you asked me to stay.

You asked me why I was getting married. It had gotten to the point where the wedding was just a few weeks away. I felt there was no stopping it now. I was trapped, besides, "no one but my fiance would want me." You took my face in his hands and pulled me you "I would want you. I do want you. Don't you know how beautiful you are? A million guys would be chasing after you, while settle for this one?"

I crumpled into your arms and cried. You dried my tears on the back of your hand and kissed me. You was smiling as I left. I was shaking. I wanted to jump ship and be with you. A man's attention coupled with attraction overpowered my other senses. I wanted that. I wanted it bad.

Laying in the dark of my basement space, reason took over. To be drawn to you was cheating. The possibility it would become a relationship, slim. I could not imagine giving up a relationship without having another for support. I dreamed about you for years to relive that feeling of being desired.

Enough should be enough

Senior year- girls are sprouting diamonds. Others have promise rings or boy's class rings wound in red thread (orange and black on game days). You and I are a couple, but my social standing has slipped under the radar. Your shiny blue sports car was not enough for me to be seen as one of the popular. It was now overshadowed by strategically positioned PDAs - the girl's left hand draped "just so" to catch everyone's eyes on the way to next class. I wanted Mr.Now become Mr. Future. --- Envy

My diamond was a gift from Grandma Dee Dee. It came to me at 7 as part of some unexplained tradition and it was my secret treasure. I'd been told it was a lantern cut- old style- used in the mines. I marched myself to the (only) jeweler in town. Sliding the ring across the table I saw a white gold wedding set. I ponied up all the money I had for that set, then told you I wanted you to give it to me for Christmas. Selling point, "it did not cost you anything!" --- Compulsion

Your mother found the ring. So instead, your gift to me a tiny silver ring with a fake diamond to go on my charm bracelet. I had picked it out. I insisted you  find me a promise ring. You bought me a souvenir ring from Colorado Springs - floral leaves of colored flexible gold. Your selling point, "when you hold it to the light the colored gold looks like a diamond!" Where the ring touched my skin, it turned black. By the time I got my diamond engagement ring, High School was over. There were no more strategic positions for PDA to flash my ring.  --- Kharma

Gunnison was an "ok" college and I knew you could get in. My grades could have gotten me in anywhere. You traded your sports car for a VW Camper. We rode the numerous mountain passes from home to school in sleeping bags, the bus was seldom able to run faster than 40mph. I should remember good times, laughing, deep conversions, shared interests - but I don't. I can't see past the memories of how I felt at the time. ---Trapped.

I found no scholastic challenge in Gunnison, and I could not face another attempt at sex in the back of the freezing VW van. Second quarter I had us transferred to Fort Collins, where you and your friends could rent an apartment. I barely slept in my dorm and spend no time connection with my roommates.--- Isolated.

Summer came and I picked the church, music, cake, dress, everything. We had no friends in attendance, only family and older members of the church. We could not toast with Champagne as we were 19 and 20. I had pushed you into this - it was obvious by the tears that were streaming down your face as we walked back down the isle. --- Confusion

We drove off with encouragement and cans dragging but neither of us was smiling. When we got to our first motel - you dashed into the bathroom and took a shower while I called "home'" collect from Deborah Crimond. My father told the operator he did not know a Deborah Crimond. ---Rejected.

I'd been playing, gathering things that I thought would make me feel grownup and in control. I had wanted it all. My father's voice denouncing my prior life set something in motion I could stop. It seemed there would never be enough of anything to fill the void inside me. ---Depression

The lucky ones

"Just take a couple, don't be greedy."

Just reaching into a Trick 0r Treat candy bowl was sensory overload. Of course I wanted more than a couple pieces. Later I would flop belly down on my bed , spreading the contents of my bag and sort into piles left to right from amazing to icky.

The next school day would be a brag-fest of who got what and how much. Someone always seemed to be more fortunate - with a full size candy bar or a caramel apple. Someone always got coins that sank to bottom of the bag, jingling as they dashed from porch light to porch light. Someone got a new printed pencil while I was stuck with yellow #2 with the the dusty pink eraser chewed to soggy bits. Someone's costume so amazing that adults gave them an extra portion, snapped a photo for the local paper, called them inside their home to do a runway walk, turn, pose before being sent back into the chilly night, a grin fogging up the inside of their plastic mask. Lucky. Lucky. Lucky.


"Draw a picture of what you'll grow up to be."

I added glitter to the purple evening gown, leaving the mic stand shiny and dark. I wished I could include the sound of the big band just out of the spot light. I wished I could just be that singer now. One day I would beautiful. One day I would be onstage and as my voice filled the room everyone would be looking at me. I would be famous.

My drawing taped to the wall with the astronauts, the doctors, the teachers, the farmers, the mommys -glitter screaming to be noticed, to be recognized as the best future. It would take luck to be famous. I was claiming all the luck in the room.


"You still get to be onstage."

9 of us were cast as the children of the King of Siam. Daughter #1 got to sing by herself. Her costume was glittery and silky while 8 of us shuffled across the stage in sticky nylon pajamas.Black eye liner implied our oriental heritage. Daughter #1 got lipstick, face powder, rouge. The rest of us of were told not to "draw focus."

She lived in the biggest, newest house in town. She'd had voice lessons. She had her hair professionally styled and a new school wardrobe every year. She was the first to wear (or need) a bra. Our 6 grade class was in love with her. In a cow town of 5000 she was the shiniest. Everyone one said she would be famous one day. There was no daughter #2, just 8 other daughters and sons, singing and moving as one, no voice to be heard above the others.

She moved. By 9th grade, I got all the leads in every musical. I begged for voice lessons and perms. I runway walked, turned, posed. My photo frequented the newspapers. I won swim meets and art shows. I played guitar and wrote songs. I was the shiniest. Everyone said I would be famous one day.


"Did you see the new guy's car?"

The high school parking lot was filled with junkers. Kids drove whatever was not rusting in a field or no longer in use by their parents. His car looked like a bright blue ornament on a long dead Christmas tree. Between his roaring sports car, his long blond hair, blue eyes and shiny "newness"- he was instantly pick of the litter. The cheerleaders claimed him first, having been asked to show him around the school. Long smooth legs beneath short pleated wool skirts, they moved like a pack but one of them was always homecoming queen. Their boyfriends were the football, baseball, basketball stars. Their Colgate smiles and silky hair the envy of the 10th through 12th grades.

I wanted him to want me so I chased him till he caught me. On his arm I was Lucky. I was #1 even through I was his second girlfriend. His first a cheerleader from his old school, a girl with mythical huge breasts who he claimed he had had sex with.

I sent away for the Mark Eden Breast Developer.

Dumpster Diving

I've spent a lot of my time thinking about my childhood.

Somewhere along the line I convinced myself that there must be something back there lurking in the shadows of my childhood that I can finally point at and say "Aha! THAT is why I am the way I am!" And with that discovery, all the faults I've been nitpicking will fade like healing blemishes and I will be left with a flawless spirit and thicker skin.

I've been slipping Merlot into your glass and taking you dumpster diving into my past.

I've selfishly lead our conversations to all things me. I told you I broke things to get cut so you'd have to take me to the hospital and give me attention. You told me we had no car, so we had to walk to the hospital. I told you I felt you'd ignored me. You told me you'd not had a real childhood and had no idea how to give me one.

You'd not had a childhood?

And in a blink, I was dumpster diving into your past.

Your family had a grocery in the depression and you lived above it. You and your mom got polio when you were 3. Your mother was pregnant. You had to raise your baby brother. Your mother was crippled, with one leg paralyzed. Your back was deformed. The grocery went bankrupt and your family had to move in with grandparents. No one had jobs. There was no money. If you sold chickens, there would be no eggs. Your family traded milk for food. One day you spilled the milk. No one got to eat that day, or the next. Your guilt was overwhelming. You were maybe 6? Your family found a place to live - it was an asylum for the criminally insane. Your father was the caretaker while you and your brothers had to stay locked inside. The patients roamed free. They were all men. A little girl of 7 or 8 was not safe there. You attended a one room school house and back every day. You had to do all the cooking and cleaning and ironing. Your family moved to a house. You said it was strange and would not explain. You went to school in Great Bend, Kansas. You had to walk. There was no family car. With helping at home, there was little time for anything else. Eventually you went to college at Purdue, but got too homesick. So you joined the army, because you knew then you could NOT go home. You met my father there. He'd had to take care of his parents when he was a kid too. You got married and moved to a small town in Arkansas. You had no job, no car, no dryer an a baby, me. You were beyond lonely and my dad brought you a puppy. You moved with us back to Great Bend. We lived with your parents. We moved to a very small town where again, you had no car and now another new baby. You had to do all the cooking and the cleaning and the washing. You'd had to do this all your life. You were 27. And I broke things to cut myself to get your attention. I drank your alcohol when your back was turned. I tore up your cigarettes. I locked you out of your house and destroyed for kitchen. I took firecrackers and blew up your screen door.

As a child, I did not see your life as you saw it.

Perhaps that is what is lurking in my childhood.

I was selfish and unappreciative of what I had.

I always wanted more.

I did not realize then, I had you.

And in comparison, I had everything.

And now in Ohio, I have you.

We spent hours playing together at a puzzle in my sun room.

You were telling be about "you kids" having to live in that little dark shack in the insane asylum. I touched your hand and said, "Mom, that was your childhood, not mine"

Playdates

I don't remember our childhood play dates.
We were too busy taking care of ourselves to fully enjoy play.
We aren't too busy now.
I swear to remember these playdates for the rest of our lives.