This is not a motto I subscribe to...apparently. I wish I had learned that motto somewhere along the line because this morning I asked a question of my husband and was only prepared for one answer…and you guessed it, that was not the answer I got. Maybe it’s because I was never a Girl Scout…I was a Blue Bird for a little while, but that’s as far I got in Campfire Girls and I don’t remember learning that motto. I do remember learning how to read a compass, in fact, I still have the one I got in Campfire Girls 35 years ago. Even when I’ve lost everything, which has happened a couple of times in my life, I’ve still managed to keep that compass. My obsession with making sure I never lose track of it is both ironic and perhaps pathological. But I never did learn that whole “be prepared” thing.
“Can’t it just be us? Please say your mom will be out of the picture so I can come back home…I want to come back home.” Can’t it just be us was my question, “no” was the answer. It seems ridiculous that this has hit me so hard. I moved out nine months ago, we’ve been to a couple different lawyers, we’ve talked about custody and financial settlements…the fact that our relationship is really over should not come as an earth-shattering-cut-me-to-my-heart-how-am-I-ever-going-to-get-over-you shock, but it has. There is no going back, there is no fixing it, there is no “us” anymore. That’s really what this is about, there is no “us” anymore and without an “us” I don’t know who I am.
When I asked the question, I wasn’t expecting a “yes”…but I wasn’t prepared for a cold as ice “no” either. So now, as a friend has told me time and time again recently, the healing can begin. I’m not sure I’m prepared for that either. Healing hurts. It’s messy, it’s full of tears and stomach aches and sleepless nights. It comes with insomnia, bad movie marathons, the requisite non-working hours uniform of flannel pajamas and his old bathrobe that I took when I left, and headaches. It comes at great cost. You will no doubt tell me the payoff is worth it in the end but please spare me that nugget of wisdom for the time being because I’m not at all in a place to believe you. Not anywhere close. The truth is, I don’t know where I’m at. This is uncharted territory for me. So maybe, just maybe, this is why I’ve kept that compass all these years…
Monday, September 27, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Does this relationship make me look fat?
I’m better off on my own, I’ve known this for a long time. Whenever I’ve gotten myself out of a relationship and the emotional riptides that go along with seeing the light, giving up, letting go…breaking up, subside, I realize I’m centered, productive, happy, and well, just more alive. For years as I’ve felt this freedom that comes with moving on when a relationship has run its course, I’ve told myself it was just because I wasn’t with the right person and that somewhere out there, Mr. Right was still waiting for me and when I found him, I’d finally experience a relationship in which I could share my life with someone and still be centered, productive, happy and alive. Recently though, it has occurred to me that this lack of balance hasn’t been about the person or the relationship, it’s been about me. I could be in a relationship with a man that is a dead ringer for Matthew McConaughey in every way from charm, to humor, to abs and I’d still end up in the same place I always do when I’m in a relationship. I’d end up in that place where I’m insecure, unhappy, a little bit crazy (but I’ll only cop to a little bit) and well, lost. I’d end up down the rabbit hole.
As my husband and I have been working through some boundary issues and figuring out how to untangle our now separate lives, my eating disorders are taking me to the mat. It started earlier this week when we were discussing our son’s schedule for the weekend. “I’m going to a friend’s house for the game on Sunday.” Now, this sentence shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. I immediately wanted to know who the “friend” was. Was it someone I knew, male or female, if female was the answer to the last question was this a party or just the two of them… And then it hit me, this Sunday didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, the truth is, he will move on, if not tomorrow, someday, and it will rip my heart in two. I’ve always known he’d move on, though I’d like to think he’d spend the rest of his life missing and wanting me, and earlier this week, I finally understood that at a deeper, visceral level. As I found myself sitting on the floor of my apartment eating pork fried rice so fast I didn’t even taste it, I suddenly connected the dots for the first time. Sitting there with my messenger bag over my shoulder, with my coat still on, pounding down Chinese food I knew would make me sick, I had a moment of clarity. I was trying to ease the pain of losing my marriage and quiet the fear of the unknown I now find myself in…with fried rice.
I went through treatment for anorexia 15 years ago last month. I’d first joined the ranks of those diagnosed with an eating disorder back in 1986 by an ER doc when my parents took me in after they found an empty box of laxatives in my bathroom trash can (yeah, I never said it was a glamorous disease so if you think it is, think again). A quart of activated charcoal later, and after a promise that I’d eat “like a good girl” I was released. Time marched on, the dark side of life intervened and that promise proved to be a lie. Eight years later I found myself so in love with this man that I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with, that I could hardly breathe. The problem was, he wasn’t in love with me. Not only wasn’t he in love with me, someone else had caught his eye. She was more his “type” he had said at the time. The more-his-type comment sent me full throttle into starvation mode. Because I’m neurotic to the core (again, yeah, the line forms to the left boys, don’t all rush me at once) I wanted to know everything about her that was different…better. She had a job in an office, she rock climbed, she didn’t have an ex-husband and a son, she had long, beautiful curly hair, and she was, well, smaller. That last one was what I latched onto. Losing as much weight as I possibly could became my sole mission, I wasn’t going to lose this man without a fight. For weeks I allowed myself lettuce, but only if I was about to pass out and nothing else. I got up early so I could workout both before and after work. I pushed myself beyond my breaking point and still kept going. Finally, one morning on the way to work, we had a fight over his new interest that culminated in my anorexic bottom. After unsuccessfully pleading with him to either walk away from her or walk away from me (I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to walk away from him at the time, it is true what they say about hindsight) I went into work and immediately collapsed. The emotional stress of the situation had proved to be too much for my beaten, broken, staved body. When I came to, there were a couple of firefighters leaning over me. They explained that they weren’t able to find my pulse and that I had to keep talking to them until the paramedics arrived. “Stay with us, everything is going to ok.” When the paramedics arrived, they were able to find my pulse at a jaw dropping 60/40, knowing nothing about medicine, I’ve since been told that’s bad. Later at the hospital, I was given fluids and forced to eat. To this day I can still taste those hospital pancakes if I close my eyes and think about it. Once my vitals were stabilized, the doctor on duty pulled a chair up next to my bed and said “Before I release you, I need you to understand that you will die from this if you don’t get help.” There wasn’t a “might” or a “maybe” in there, only a “will.”
The following Monday, I had an intake evaluation (scored 100% for all the warning signs and symptoms, take that Mr. Gimple for that comment to my parents at parent/teacher conferences about my lack of work ethic) and by Tuesday, I had entered day one of 28 at Fairview Riverside. During our first group therapy session that day, my blood pressure bottomed out again and I had to be transported up to the ER. Since I was already in the hospital, there were no cute firemen this time…damn, only one of the counselors from the ED unit holding my hand and making small talk while a clumsy nurse poked around my arm looking for a vein for the IV. Once I was stabilized, I was able to rejoin the unit and continue with treatment. At the end of that first week, we were saying good-bye to a young man that had successfully completed his 28 days. As part of that session, the counselor that was facilitating the session brought out a ball of yarn that we were to pass around. When we passed the yarn to the next person, we were supposed to say one thing we admired about them. I got the yarn passed to me several times but the only comment I remember came from that young man. He said “I admire that you’re a fighter. You got knocked down the first day in here and you came back.” At the end of the exercise, we cut the yarn and each kept a piece. I still have it 15 years later.
He was right, I am a fighter, I do get knocked down and so far, I’ve always gotten back up. But lately I’ve been thinking maybe I need to stay down this time, at least in terms of romantic relationships. For some reason, those push all the ED buttons that will eventually kill me. Earlier this week, while I was sitting on the floor literally (ok, not literally) inhaling that pork fried rice, the question “does this relationship make me look fat?” came to mind. The thought of it made me laugh…and then cry because I was laughing so hard, and then eventually cry because there was so much painful truth in it. Relationships put me through hell, they send me down the rabbit hole, they bring out the absolute worst, most insecure parts of me…they turn me into a Michele that I don’t like. Now, before you argue with me, let me assure you, I get that it’s not really the relationships that do this to me, it’s me. It’s my lack of trust and complete insecurity (if I had a superpower, it would be heroic, almost epic levels of insecurity) within intimate relationships that put me through hell and send me down the rabbit hole. I don’t know if that will ever change, nor do I wish to spend any more time worrying about that. For now, this is a fight I haven’t trained for so I’m staying down.
As my husband and I have been working through some boundary issues and figuring out how to untangle our now separate lives, my eating disorders are taking me to the mat. It started earlier this week when we were discussing our son’s schedule for the weekend. “I’m going to a friend’s house for the game on Sunday.” Now, this sentence shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. I immediately wanted to know who the “friend” was. Was it someone I knew, male or female, if female was the answer to the last question was this a party or just the two of them… And then it hit me, this Sunday didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, the truth is, he will move on, if not tomorrow, someday, and it will rip my heart in two. I’ve always known he’d move on, though I’d like to think he’d spend the rest of his life missing and wanting me, and earlier this week, I finally understood that at a deeper, visceral level. As I found myself sitting on the floor of my apartment eating pork fried rice so fast I didn’t even taste it, I suddenly connected the dots for the first time. Sitting there with my messenger bag over my shoulder, with my coat still on, pounding down Chinese food I knew would make me sick, I had a moment of clarity. I was trying to ease the pain of losing my marriage and quiet the fear of the unknown I now find myself in…with fried rice.
I went through treatment for anorexia 15 years ago last month. I’d first joined the ranks of those diagnosed with an eating disorder back in 1986 by an ER doc when my parents took me in after they found an empty box of laxatives in my bathroom trash can (yeah, I never said it was a glamorous disease so if you think it is, think again). A quart of activated charcoal later, and after a promise that I’d eat “like a good girl” I was released. Time marched on, the dark side of life intervened and that promise proved to be a lie. Eight years later I found myself so in love with this man that I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with, that I could hardly breathe. The problem was, he wasn’t in love with me. Not only wasn’t he in love with me, someone else had caught his eye. She was more his “type” he had said at the time. The more-his-type comment sent me full throttle into starvation mode. Because I’m neurotic to the core (again, yeah, the line forms to the left boys, don’t all rush me at once) I wanted to know everything about her that was different…better. She had a job in an office, she rock climbed, she didn’t have an ex-husband and a son, she had long, beautiful curly hair, and she was, well, smaller. That last one was what I latched onto. Losing as much weight as I possibly could became my sole mission, I wasn’t going to lose this man without a fight. For weeks I allowed myself lettuce, but only if I was about to pass out and nothing else. I got up early so I could workout both before and after work. I pushed myself beyond my breaking point and still kept going. Finally, one morning on the way to work, we had a fight over his new interest that culminated in my anorexic bottom. After unsuccessfully pleading with him to either walk away from her or walk away from me (I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to walk away from him at the time, it is true what they say about hindsight) I went into work and immediately collapsed. The emotional stress of the situation had proved to be too much for my beaten, broken, staved body. When I came to, there were a couple of firefighters leaning over me. They explained that they weren’t able to find my pulse and that I had to keep talking to them until the paramedics arrived. “Stay with us, everything is going to ok.” When the paramedics arrived, they were able to find my pulse at a jaw dropping 60/40, knowing nothing about medicine, I’ve since been told that’s bad. Later at the hospital, I was given fluids and forced to eat. To this day I can still taste those hospital pancakes if I close my eyes and think about it. Once my vitals were stabilized, the doctor on duty pulled a chair up next to my bed and said “Before I release you, I need you to understand that you will die from this if you don’t get help.” There wasn’t a “might” or a “maybe” in there, only a “will.”
The following Monday, I had an intake evaluation (scored 100% for all the warning signs and symptoms, take that Mr. Gimple for that comment to my parents at parent/teacher conferences about my lack of work ethic) and by Tuesday, I had entered day one of 28 at Fairview Riverside. During our first group therapy session that day, my blood pressure bottomed out again and I had to be transported up to the ER. Since I was already in the hospital, there were no cute firemen this time…damn, only one of the counselors from the ED unit holding my hand and making small talk while a clumsy nurse poked around my arm looking for a vein for the IV. Once I was stabilized, I was able to rejoin the unit and continue with treatment. At the end of that first week, we were saying good-bye to a young man that had successfully completed his 28 days. As part of that session, the counselor that was facilitating the session brought out a ball of yarn that we were to pass around. When we passed the yarn to the next person, we were supposed to say one thing we admired about them. I got the yarn passed to me several times but the only comment I remember came from that young man. He said “I admire that you’re a fighter. You got knocked down the first day in here and you came back.” At the end of the exercise, we cut the yarn and each kept a piece. I still have it 15 years later.
He was right, I am a fighter, I do get knocked down and so far, I’ve always gotten back up. But lately I’ve been thinking maybe I need to stay down this time, at least in terms of romantic relationships. For some reason, those push all the ED buttons that will eventually kill me. Earlier this week, while I was sitting on the floor literally (ok, not literally) inhaling that pork fried rice, the question “does this relationship make me look fat?” came to mind. The thought of it made me laugh…and then cry because I was laughing so hard, and then eventually cry because there was so much painful truth in it. Relationships put me through hell, they send me down the rabbit hole, they bring out the absolute worst, most insecure parts of me…they turn me into a Michele that I don’t like. Now, before you argue with me, let me assure you, I get that it’s not really the relationships that do this to me, it’s me. It’s my lack of trust and complete insecurity (if I had a superpower, it would be heroic, almost epic levels of insecurity) within intimate relationships that put me through hell and send me down the rabbit hole. I don’t know if that will ever change, nor do I wish to spend any more time worrying about that. For now, this is a fight I haven’t trained for so I’m staying down.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
I’m not the light in the refrigerator…
Shortly after we were engaged, my future mother-in-law showed up at our apartment door with her youngest son in tow. Her plan, which was executed perfectly, was to distract my future husband with an afternoon of video games with the little brother while she straightened me out. The boys disappeared into the other room, determined to save some distant galaxy via Nintendo 64 and we settled in on the couch for a “visit.” Amidst the hoots, hollers, laughter, and in-your-face’s coming from the other room, my future mother-in-law proceeded to outline, in great detail, everything she thought was wrong with me, and laid out for me exactly what I would need to do to be good enough for her son. Her issue with me was, well, me. She didn’t like anything about me or my personality. Her solution was simple, I needed to step into the shadow of her son and let him shine…that, after all, was now my job as his future bride. Like a deer caught in the headlights of a oncoming vehicle…a rather large, loud, obnoxious, exhaust spewing vehicle (come on, I know that was petty but the woman’s made my life a literal living hell for 16 years so just give me this one, ok) I sat there, frozen. I didn’t know what to say…I had never been talked to like that before in my life.
As soon as they left, I told him about our “conversation,” expecting that he would be livid over the fact that she had been so insulting, cruel and judgmental, but he wasn’t…he agreed with her. Sensing that this was a losing proposition, I dug in and worked for the next several years to stay in his shadow. I adjusted my life to revolve around his. I took on all the responsibility of raising our son, paying the bills, scheduling the cable guy, calling Service Plus, doing the grocery shopping, cleaning the house, you get the picture, so that he could do his thing. For our entire marriage, he spent most of his vacation days on trips with the guys, while I waited at home, the dutiful wife, keeping things running, and pretending we were the perfect couple and family. In the process of being the dutiful wife, I lost myself, I became a shadow. I became the light in the refrigerator, just sitting there, in the dark, waiting for him to come open the door. Always there, always waiting for him, always trapped. Since I moved out, I’ve come to realize I’m not the light in the refrigerator though. I don’t have to wait for someone else to open the door, I don’t have to spend my life creating light for others while I sit in the dark alone…
As soon as they left, I told him about our “conversation,” expecting that he would be livid over the fact that she had been so insulting, cruel and judgmental, but he wasn’t…he agreed with her. Sensing that this was a losing proposition, I dug in and worked for the next several years to stay in his shadow. I adjusted my life to revolve around his. I took on all the responsibility of raising our son, paying the bills, scheduling the cable guy, calling Service Plus, doing the grocery shopping, cleaning the house, you get the picture, so that he could do his thing. For our entire marriage, he spent most of his vacation days on trips with the guys, while I waited at home, the dutiful wife, keeping things running, and pretending we were the perfect couple and family. In the process of being the dutiful wife, I lost myself, I became a shadow. I became the light in the refrigerator, just sitting there, in the dark, waiting for him to come open the door. Always there, always waiting for him, always trapped. Since I moved out, I’ve come to realize I’m not the light in the refrigerator though. I don’t have to wait for someone else to open the door, I don’t have to spend my life creating light for others while I sit in the dark alone…
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Rock, paper, scissors…
I really probably shouldn’t do this whole dating thing, period. I’m not good at it, I don’t like the whole getting-to-know-you dance, and frankly, most of the time it makes me want to puke. That said, I’ve met three guys very recently that I should be interested in, but the truth is, I’m just really not…ok, well maybe I’m interested in the Firefighter…and possibly the Professor, but not really the Greek. What a difference a week makes. Last week I was feeling heartbroken at the prospect that I would never find anyone and that I was more than likely doomed to spend my days alone, but this week, I have a lunch date with the Professor on Thursday, breakfast with the Firefighter on Sunday, and am busy dodging emails from the Greek because I don’t want to be mean.
It’s like a dating version of rock, paper, scissors… All these guys are very different: the Firefighter is older, has rugged good looks that rival the Brawny paper towel guy, is down-to-earth, is incredibly interesting and just plain nice, and appears to be very comfortable in his own skin…plus, he’s a firefighter, how hot is that (pardon the pun)…the Professor is a little younger, is incredibly cute, seems very sweet and genuine…plus, he’s got a PhD in Chemistry, and I don’t care what anyone says, smart is sexy in my book…the Greek is established in his career, is also cute, and seems nice enough, so what’s wrong with me?
I know I could fall hard for the Firefighter (moment of disclosure, when he sent me a text out of the blue yesterday just to say he hoped I was having a great day, the first knee-jerk thought that came into my head was “I’ve been waiting for you all my life, thank God you finally found me”) so I’m really resistant to even getting to know this guy better. I’ve been disappointed so many times, my heart has been through enough and I don’t want to fall hard for anyone, ever again. The Professor is smart and seems nice enough, I could probably fall for him too, given some time, but ever since I agreed to lunch, I’ve had a stomach ache. Not the butterflies-in-the-stomach kind, the kind that makes me want to puke. And the Greek, well, I’m becoming less inclined to even give this guy a chance. We have very similar interests and I think we’d probably hit it off, but I can’t see myself falling for him and I’m done adding men to my roster of friends because that never seems to work out for me when they’re single.
So why the resistance and stomach ache? Is it because I’m not ready to date? Is it because I don’t want to get my hopes up again, only to be hurt and disappointed in the end? I’m asking because I really don’t know. I do know that rock beats scissors, the paper beats rock and that scissors beats paper…hmmm, maybe this is much more like a game of rock paper scissors than I originally thought. I don’t want my heart smashed, covered up, or cut to pieces…maybe I need to forget about the Firefighter, the Professor and the Greek and just take my Rockem Sockem Robots down off the shelf instead…
It’s like a dating version of rock, paper, scissors… All these guys are very different: the Firefighter is older, has rugged good looks that rival the Brawny paper towel guy, is down-to-earth, is incredibly interesting and just plain nice, and appears to be very comfortable in his own skin…plus, he’s a firefighter, how hot is that (pardon the pun)…the Professor is a little younger, is incredibly cute, seems very sweet and genuine…plus, he’s got a PhD in Chemistry, and I don’t care what anyone says, smart is sexy in my book…the Greek is established in his career, is also cute, and seems nice enough, so what’s wrong with me?
I know I could fall hard for the Firefighter (moment of disclosure, when he sent me a text out of the blue yesterday just to say he hoped I was having a great day, the first knee-jerk thought that came into my head was “I’ve been waiting for you all my life, thank God you finally found me”) so I’m really resistant to even getting to know this guy better. I’ve been disappointed so many times, my heart has been through enough and I don’t want to fall hard for anyone, ever again. The Professor is smart and seems nice enough, I could probably fall for him too, given some time, but ever since I agreed to lunch, I’ve had a stomach ache. Not the butterflies-in-the-stomach kind, the kind that makes me want to puke. And the Greek, well, I’m becoming less inclined to even give this guy a chance. We have very similar interests and I think we’d probably hit it off, but I can’t see myself falling for him and I’m done adding men to my roster of friends because that never seems to work out for me when they’re single.
So why the resistance and stomach ache? Is it because I’m not ready to date? Is it because I don’t want to get my hopes up again, only to be hurt and disappointed in the end? I’m asking because I really don’t know. I do know that rock beats scissors, the paper beats rock and that scissors beats paper…hmmm, maybe this is much more like a game of rock paper scissors than I originally thought. I don’t want my heart smashed, covered up, or cut to pieces…maybe I need to forget about the Firefighter, the Professor and the Greek and just take my Rockem Sockem Robots down off the shelf instead…
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Whoever said “sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me” lied…
“Maybe I should have asked my younger, hotter friend instead…” Those words were said to me last Saturday by someone I really cared about and they are still ringing in my ears. I’ve tried everything to silence them, throwing myself into work, exercising to the point of exhaustion, watching The Endless Summer over and over again (the last screening was at 3:00 this morning when I work up from a dream in which this someone was saying those hurtful words over and over) but nothing works, I hear them all the time…maybe I should have asked my younger, hotter friend instead…
The backstory to this hurtful comment is this…early last week this friend called and asked if I’d be willing to go to a party with him. He was very upfront about the fact that while I was funny and had a great personality, the specific reason he was asking me was because I’m “hot” and he wanted to take someone hot with him seeing as his ex-girlfriend was going to be there. I considered this person a friend and agreed, wanting to help him out but as the week went on, I began to feel uncomfortable with this arrangement. For the last 22 years, I have hated my body because it’s been a constant reminder of my rape. Over the last six months as I’ve been taking risks and rediscovering my inner-athlete, I’ve learned to appreciate my body and what it can do. Last week, with the words “there’s a reason I’m not taking my sister or my cousin to this party” those feelings of self loathing I’ve wrestled with for better than two decades came creeping back in. To him, I am just a body, something to be exploited. In the aftermath of my rape, I defined myself as just a body, a piece of meat, something less than human. In the end, my friend had a moment of clarity and decided that he didn’t need a “hot date” and went to the party alone, which is a very good thing. Had I gone, I’m sure these feelings I’m wrestling with now would be much, much worse.
So why the maybe-I-should-have-asked-my-younger-hotter-friend-instead-total-douche-bag comment? On Saturday I was trying to explain to him that it hurt that I’m not the friend he calls to go to the farmer’s market with or wants to have lunch with, I’m the friend he calls when he wants to use me. Our friendship has always been very one sided, I do the cheering when he races, I ask about his training, I do the calling and the texting the vast majority of the time. If we see each other outside our group of friends, I’m the one doing the asking. I’m not someone he wants to get to know individually, I’m not someone he wants to have a deeper connection with…I’m just the one he makes suggestive comments about. I get those comments from other friends in our group but those friends invite me to lunch to celebrate 6 months of sobriety, those friends ask me how my training is going and plan to be at the finish line when I run my first race later this month, those friends call or text at random just to see how I am... Earlier this summer I thought I was more than just a body to him but it looks like that’s not the case, why else would he say something so hurtful. Backing it up a step further, why, after knowing the trauma I’ve been through and how it’s affected me, would he even consider asking if he could use me like that?
The worst part of this whole thing is that I trusted him and he intentionally said something to hurt me. I have trust issues to begin with and now I’m plagued with the thought that I should give up on trusting people, period. I’m literally exhausted by disappointment. I worry that I no longer have enough fight left in me to try to trust again because I don’t have the energy to regroup when I take another sucker punch to the gut. At this point I honestly don’t know what to do, I would much rather take a rock than ever have something so hurtful said to me again. If I had my choice between sticks and stones and hurtful words, I’d choose the sticks and stones…
The backstory to this hurtful comment is this…early last week this friend called and asked if I’d be willing to go to a party with him. He was very upfront about the fact that while I was funny and had a great personality, the specific reason he was asking me was because I’m “hot” and he wanted to take someone hot with him seeing as his ex-girlfriend was going to be there. I considered this person a friend and agreed, wanting to help him out but as the week went on, I began to feel uncomfortable with this arrangement. For the last 22 years, I have hated my body because it’s been a constant reminder of my rape. Over the last six months as I’ve been taking risks and rediscovering my inner-athlete, I’ve learned to appreciate my body and what it can do. Last week, with the words “there’s a reason I’m not taking my sister or my cousin to this party” those feelings of self loathing I’ve wrestled with for better than two decades came creeping back in. To him, I am just a body, something to be exploited. In the aftermath of my rape, I defined myself as just a body, a piece of meat, something less than human. In the end, my friend had a moment of clarity and decided that he didn’t need a “hot date” and went to the party alone, which is a very good thing. Had I gone, I’m sure these feelings I’m wrestling with now would be much, much worse.
So why the maybe-I-should-have-asked-my-younger-hotter-friend-instead-total-douche-bag comment? On Saturday I was trying to explain to him that it hurt that I’m not the friend he calls to go to the farmer’s market with or wants to have lunch with, I’m the friend he calls when he wants to use me. Our friendship has always been very one sided, I do the cheering when he races, I ask about his training, I do the calling and the texting the vast majority of the time. If we see each other outside our group of friends, I’m the one doing the asking. I’m not someone he wants to get to know individually, I’m not someone he wants to have a deeper connection with…I’m just the one he makes suggestive comments about. I get those comments from other friends in our group but those friends invite me to lunch to celebrate 6 months of sobriety, those friends ask me how my training is going and plan to be at the finish line when I run my first race later this month, those friends call or text at random just to see how I am... Earlier this summer I thought I was more than just a body to him but it looks like that’s not the case, why else would he say something so hurtful. Backing it up a step further, why, after knowing the trauma I’ve been through and how it’s affected me, would he even consider asking if he could use me like that?
The worst part of this whole thing is that I trusted him and he intentionally said something to hurt me. I have trust issues to begin with and now I’m plagued with the thought that I should give up on trusting people, period. I’m literally exhausted by disappointment. I worry that I no longer have enough fight left in me to try to trust again because I don’t have the energy to regroup when I take another sucker punch to the gut. At this point I honestly don’t know what to do, I would much rather take a rock than ever have something so hurtful said to me again. If I had my choice between sticks and stones and hurtful words, I’d choose the sticks and stones…
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