But then it hits me. The fear, the hurt, the anger. Maybe it was this time of year. Maybe it's all this "illegitimate rape" talk on the media. Maybe it was the bite of tangy berries in frozen custard, the 90's music, the scented, hot bath - whatever it was it hit me like a coffee pot backhanded into the face. Memories pour out and invade my personal time. You want a real time warp, friends? Listen to music that breaks your heart from a time when a boy broke your face. Jeepers creepers.
There are some things I just don't talk about - and Sugar, in case you haven't met in me in person, I talk a whole lot, but the August before my 8th grade year is one topic that still makes me uneasy and unbearably sad. But I have been quite for almost 18 years. It's time to tell this story.
To fully understand the significance of the August of 1995, you have to know what the 90's felt like in a midwest, overly churched community. Everything was evil. I was a home schooled, middle child of a family of seven. I had little social interactions that weren't with pretentious church folk and, sadly, the church we attended was a slight upgrade to an absolute hell. Churches of 90's in and now were brimming with continuous controversies, malicious arguments, prolonged outrage, bigotry bandwagons and unending witch hunts.
My awkward nature and love of flannel had me "lesbian," and although at fourth grade I didn't know what that was, I knew I was damned. To the wealthy zealots of a false religion, my family was a boil on their behind. To them we were poor, uneducated and unfortunate and I would have given anything to be treated like something other than a dirty, disgusting, poor and stupid "little queer." And according to the "etiquette class" I was required to take at church, I should be seen, only if pretty, and never, ever heard. My lot in life, to this church, was to be pretty for Jesus and pray that a man may someday want me. So I tried not to ruffle feathers and I tried to blend in and began to toy with anorexia, because,"I was blessed to be so thin," and I didn't want to "ruin it."
My awkward nature and love of flannel had me "lesbian," and although at fourth grade I didn't know what that was, I knew I was damned. To the wealthy zealots of a false religion, my family was a boil on their behind. To them we were poor, uneducated and unfortunate and I would have given anything to be treated like something other than a dirty, disgusting, poor and stupid "little queer." And according to the "etiquette class" I was required to take at church, I should be seen, only if pretty, and never, ever heard. My lot in life, to this church, was to be pretty for Jesus and pray that a man may someday want me. So I tried not to ruffle feathers and I tried to blend in and began to toy with anorexia, because,"I was blessed to be so thin," and I didn't want to "ruin it."
By my 7th grade year I was full of self loathing, rooted in depression and had already dabbling with suicidal thoughts. I have a chemical imbalance, but the church said I just needed to love the Lord more. That spring I met a boy. He was older, different, angry and called "a bad egg." His bitter disposition sorta made sense to me and I thought he was simply revolutionary. He had shaggy hair, wore old superhero shirts, read gory comics and to my swoony delight, he actually noticed me.
We quickly became friends and he invited me and my brothers and I went over to his house. Then I started going over there by myself. He taught me to skate and we watched classic horror flicks my parents wouldn't allow. We talked about the wrongs of the modern church, dressed in thrift store scores, and listened to music that was going to "rot our souls." Oh Nirvana.
We made fancy dinners, using homegrown ingredients and infused favorites with healthier choices. We studied herbs and their healing properties - trying to find a way to cure my migraines without huge pharmaceuticals.We drank coffee with hip adults that he knew from poetry slams and we day dreamed about having a witchy cottage with a wicked garden near the coast someday. And we planned for a future. We wanted to own and run a very quirky coffee shop and herbal apothecary. We would sneak out, windows and climb onto rooftops, smoking pot, singing along to the Beach Boys, "Wouldn't It Be Nice," while sipping home brewed sarsaparilla. That entire summer was packed with wonder, magic and rebellion that felt like truth. As my friendship grew with him I became "weirder" to everyone else.
When school started back that second week of August, I had dyed my hair with Manic Panic's Vampire Red, painted my short nails black, smoked regularly, got accused of witchcraft, and had been beat up by various school yard bullies three times. I did make friends, but 15 minutes into the first outing with them, I was hit in the face with a pillowcase containing a roller blade. Yes, barely two weeks into a new year at a new school and my new "friends" left me bruised, beaten and broken. I felt like I was a the lowest of the low, but with him, I felt like less of a freak. And despite my swollen and stitched up face, he told me that I was beautiful. That was intoxicating.
It was the last Friday in August. We were going to make broccoli cheddar soup in homemade bread bowls and had plans to watch Twin Peaks, Fire Walks With Me, again. I wore an old floral print dress from my sister's closet and with my bruises fading, I felt pretty good. His mother was working on her Masters, and had run to the library for a few minutes, because I'm older and we didn't have Wikapedia.
It was in this sort of scandalous feeling that I realized, we were all alone. It made me feel grown up, and in control. There was a twinge of worry though, because friend or not, I knew my parents would not be cool with me being alone with an older, teenage boy. Regardless of the hesitation I trekked on listened to The Cranberries, laughed, made, ate and cleaned up dinner. Still his mother was absent. Against better judgement we went back to his room, the only room with a tv, settled down into a ratty futon and began to watch the strange David Lynch film.
As the film twisted on, the daylight faded, and our seclusion in his room began to make me feel uneasy. His usual sarcastic banter, became darker and less friendly. The past month or two his school yard bullies turned this once jokester into a mean hot head. He asked if my nose would ever be the same, and if I would still get a nose ring at 18, even thought my face was now "jacked." He also said that he was "jealous" that he wasn't the one to "have the honor" to mark me for life. I asked when his mother would be returning, because I needed to go home. He moved closer, his hands became touchy, and although we had kissed before, this started to be more than just a case of hormonal boy's wandering hands. It was starting to scare me. I tried to push him off. I tried to hit him. It made him more frenzied. It was then when I first tried to scream. His hand hit my mouth. I gave up. I laid there, terrified. While he hovered over and hurt me - I cried. I tried to think of something pleasant. All I could think of were lyrics to a Beatles song and I sang them, again and again in my head until I saw lights in the drive way. I felt saved. He jumped off of me. Adjusted himself, fixed his hair. He looked at me and with a light laugh he said, "I am sorry that was so rushed." He told me that my dress was "easy access." He laughed again, and with a shrug of his shoulders he told me that "all girls" says it hurts at first. "It will get better, babe," he assured. He buttoned his pants, told me to be "good girl," and go clean myself up. As the the garage door opened, he smiled and he told me that I have fulfilled the purpose God had for my life.
"Be a good girl. Clean yourself up," he repeated as he walked out the door to go greet his mother.
My lip was bleeding. My insides burned. My face was hot. And my sisters's beautiful dress was ripped up the side. He went out to greet his mother as I tried to pull myself together. I drug myself into the bathroom. I looked at the reflection in the mirror and spit some blood into the sink. I developed a coping mechanism. I acted like this was a character I had to play. I made jokes. I look in the reflection again wiped my face dry.
When I came out to the living room, his mother was startled by my appearance. He told his mother I fell skating and then she asked about the kids at my school and if they were going to do anything about the kid who broke my nose. I stammered. He answered. She shrugged it all off, talked about her term paper and said that before she took me home she felt like we all deserved ice cream.
She drove, he rode passenger. I poured myself into the back seat. The entire ride home he starred me down through the rearview mirror. I was embarrassed, ashamed, afraid and aching everywhere. I feared if I said anything I would lose the only friend who every liked me. We ate Andy's Frozen Concrete. She ordered mine with raspberries. She said it would make it all better.
I never thought I would feel "better" again.
When I got home, I made up an elaborate story about skateboarding gone array and told my parents I was super tired and needed to sew my sister's dress before she came home from work. I climbed the stairs, started a lavender bath and cried. After the bath I mended the dress and I feel asleep, crying and listening to Tori Amos sing, "Silent All These Years."
The next few weeks I found reasons to successfully avoid him. I was crippled with fear that I was going to be pregnant and forever be linked to a monster. When my period came stayed, I cried and have never been more thankful for "the curse."
A few months later the silence was eating a hole in my life. I told a youth worker at a True Love Waits rally about the August attack and the she dismissed it as a "misunderstandings." She prayed God would grant me a "Spiritual purity", even though my physical body had been "tarnished." She said Jesus could wash my sins away, but I should be honest about the "accident," so other potential suitors would know they were "getting damaged goods." She then made a joke about how no one really wants to own a used car.
Two weeks before our schools let out for spring break, my family was informed that our house was sold and would be leveled to make more parking for the Assemblies of God Headquarters. They gave us a month to find a new place. The move was hurried, but I knew it was my time to break away. I never told him about the move, so on the last trip to the old house, I rode along with my dad. As my dad vacuumed, I walked down to the pay phone on the corner and I called that jerk one last time. When his tirade ended, I paused and breathed in the crisp air. And then, like a tragic scene in a movie, it began to lightly rain. Of course it did. I said calmly into the receiver, "I am leaving. We have already moved. I am going to a new school and I changed our number. I told my parents everything. You make one move towards me and my brothers will sting you up by your scrotum."
There was blubbering on his end and then, as usual, more threats, more screaming. I took another deep breathe and I hung up.
I walked away.
I climbed into my dad's VW bus, thanked God and rode back to our new home.
My crying outburst, depression and self loathing was easy to excuse, because I was just another erratic teen girl. Went to a new church and went through a slew of youth pastors that tried to "fix me." I acted out. I lied often and I rebelled as much as possible. I even tried to walk away from God, but at the end of my rope, I still had faith. I still wanted hope. I still needed peace.
Despite what happens I believe in the one, true living God that can take was was evil and make it good. I believe in a God that can redeem these hurts into healing and make my story glorify His name.
Last night, after my bath, after the memories, I put on my hideous and most comfortable footie pj's, checked on my beautiful, sleeping babies, talked to my hard working and forever faithful husband, and then I laid down. In the stillness I feel the presence of a faithful God. I know He is with me, just as He was there that night - and every night since. I laid there, tears rolling down my cheeks, and sang the lyrics that I came to mind that one, horrible August night:
"Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup
They slither wildly as the slip away across the Universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind,
possessing and caressing me
Jai Guru Deva Om -
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world."
This morning I woke up. 18 years after that August. I don't feel dwarfed, derailed or like I'm some damaged goods. For the first time I am thankful. These hurts are well with my soul, because my faith is in a Heavenly Father that always heals. That hurt did not consume me. I've learned to love. I've learned to forgive and although I don't feel like I've fully arrived, I know with God I am more that a conqueror. I am ready for God to use this story to help others heal. Believers, if God is for us, who can be against us? Tell your hurts, share your stories and together let's glorify God's name. With God, we can conquer August and everything after.
We quickly became friends and he invited me and my brothers and I went over to his house. Then I started going over there by myself. He taught me to skate and we watched classic horror flicks my parents wouldn't allow. We talked about the wrongs of the modern church, dressed in thrift store scores, and listened to music that was going to "rot our souls." Oh Nirvana.
We made fancy dinners, using homegrown ingredients and infused favorites with healthier choices. We studied herbs and their healing properties - trying to find a way to cure my migraines without huge pharmaceuticals.We drank coffee with hip adults that he knew from poetry slams and we day dreamed about having a witchy cottage with a wicked garden near the coast someday. And we planned for a future. We wanted to own and run a very quirky coffee shop and herbal apothecary. We would sneak out, windows and climb onto rooftops, smoking pot, singing along to the Beach Boys, "Wouldn't It Be Nice," while sipping home brewed sarsaparilla. That entire summer was packed with wonder, magic and rebellion that felt like truth. As my friendship grew with him I became "weirder" to everyone else.
When school started back that second week of August, I had dyed my hair with Manic Panic's Vampire Red, painted my short nails black, smoked regularly, got accused of witchcraft, and had been beat up by various school yard bullies three times. I did make friends, but 15 minutes into the first outing with them, I was hit in the face with a pillowcase containing a roller blade. Yes, barely two weeks into a new year at a new school and my new "friends" left me bruised, beaten and broken. I felt like I was a the lowest of the low, but with him, I felt like less of a freak. And despite my swollen and stitched up face, he told me that I was beautiful. That was intoxicating.
It was the last Friday in August. We were going to make broccoli cheddar soup in homemade bread bowls and had plans to watch Twin Peaks, Fire Walks With Me, again. I wore an old floral print dress from my sister's closet and with my bruises fading, I felt pretty good. His mother was working on her Masters, and had run to the library for a few minutes, because I'm older and we didn't have Wikapedia.
It was in this sort of scandalous feeling that I realized, we were all alone. It made me feel grown up, and in control. There was a twinge of worry though, because friend or not, I knew my parents would not be cool with me being alone with an older, teenage boy. Regardless of the hesitation I trekked on listened to The Cranberries, laughed, made, ate and cleaned up dinner. Still his mother was absent. Against better judgement we went back to his room, the only room with a tv, settled down into a ratty futon and began to watch the strange David Lynch film.
As the film twisted on, the daylight faded, and our seclusion in his room began to make me feel uneasy. His usual sarcastic banter, became darker and less friendly. The past month or two his school yard bullies turned this once jokester into a mean hot head. He asked if my nose would ever be the same, and if I would still get a nose ring at 18, even thought my face was now "jacked." He also said that he was "jealous" that he wasn't the one to "have the honor" to mark me for life. I asked when his mother would be returning, because I needed to go home. He moved closer, his hands became touchy, and although we had kissed before, this started to be more than just a case of hormonal boy's wandering hands. It was starting to scare me. I tried to push him off. I tried to hit him. It made him more frenzied. It was then when I first tried to scream. His hand hit my mouth. I gave up. I laid there, terrified. While he hovered over and hurt me - I cried. I tried to think of something pleasant. All I could think of were lyrics to a Beatles song and I sang them, again and again in my head until I saw lights in the drive way. I felt saved. He jumped off of me. Adjusted himself, fixed his hair. He looked at me and with a light laugh he said, "I am sorry that was so rushed." He told me that my dress was "easy access." He laughed again, and with a shrug of his shoulders he told me that "all girls" says it hurts at first. "It will get better, babe," he assured. He buttoned his pants, told me to be "good girl," and go clean myself up. As the the garage door opened, he smiled and he told me that I have fulfilled the purpose God had for my life.
"Be a good girl. Clean yourself up," he repeated as he walked out the door to go greet his mother.
My lip was bleeding. My insides burned. My face was hot. And my sisters's beautiful dress was ripped up the side. He went out to greet his mother as I tried to pull myself together. I drug myself into the bathroom. I looked at the reflection in the mirror and spit some blood into the sink. I developed a coping mechanism. I acted like this was a character I had to play. I made jokes. I look in the reflection again wiped my face dry.
When I came out to the living room, his mother was startled by my appearance. He told his mother I fell skating and then she asked about the kids at my school and if they were going to do anything about the kid who broke my nose. I stammered. He answered. She shrugged it all off, talked about her term paper and said that before she took me home she felt like we all deserved ice cream.
She drove, he rode passenger. I poured myself into the back seat. The entire ride home he starred me down through the rearview mirror. I was embarrassed, ashamed, afraid and aching everywhere. I feared if I said anything I would lose the only friend who every liked me. We ate Andy's Frozen Concrete. She ordered mine with raspberries. She said it would make it all better.
I never thought I would feel "better" again.
When I got home, I made up an elaborate story about skateboarding gone array and told my parents I was super tired and needed to sew my sister's dress before she came home from work. I climbed the stairs, started a lavender bath and cried. After the bath I mended the dress and I feel asleep, crying and listening to Tori Amos sing, "Silent All These Years."
The next few weeks I found reasons to successfully avoid him. I was crippled with fear that I was going to be pregnant and forever be linked to a monster. When my period came stayed, I cried and have never been more thankful for "the curse."
A few months later the silence was eating a hole in my life. I told a youth worker at a True Love Waits rally about the August attack and the she dismissed it as a "misunderstandings." She prayed God would grant me a "Spiritual purity", even though my physical body had been "tarnished." She said Jesus could wash my sins away, but I should be honest about the "accident," so other potential suitors would know they were "getting damaged goods." She then made a joke about how no one really wants to own a used car.
Two weeks before our schools let out for spring break, my family was informed that our house was sold and would be leveled to make more parking for the Assemblies of God Headquarters. They gave us a month to find a new place. The move was hurried, but I knew it was my time to break away. I never told him about the move, so on the last trip to the old house, I rode along with my dad. As my dad vacuumed, I walked down to the pay phone on the corner and I called that jerk one last time. When his tirade ended, I paused and breathed in the crisp air. And then, like a tragic scene in a movie, it began to lightly rain. Of course it did. I said calmly into the receiver, "I am leaving. We have already moved. I am going to a new school and I changed our number. I told my parents everything. You make one move towards me and my brothers will sting you up by your scrotum."
There was blubbering on his end and then, as usual, more threats, more screaming. I took another deep breathe and I hung up.
I walked away.
I climbed into my dad's VW bus, thanked God and rode back to our new home.
My crying outburst, depression and self loathing was easy to excuse, because I was just another erratic teen girl. Went to a new church and went through a slew of youth pastors that tried to "fix me." I acted out. I lied often and I rebelled as much as possible. I even tried to walk away from God, but at the end of my rope, I still had faith. I still wanted hope. I still needed peace.
Despite what happens I believe in the one, true living God that can take was was evil and make it good. I believe in a God that can redeem these hurts into healing and make my story glorify His name.
Last night, after my bath, after the memories, I put on my hideous and most comfortable footie pj's, checked on my beautiful, sleeping babies, talked to my hard working and forever faithful husband, and then I laid down. In the stillness I feel the presence of a faithful God. I know He is with me, just as He was there that night - and every night since. I laid there, tears rolling down my cheeks, and sang the lyrics that I came to mind that one, horrible August night:
"Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup
They slither wildly as the slip away across the Universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind,
possessing and caressing me
Jai Guru Deva Om -
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world."
This morning I woke up. 18 years after that August. I don't feel dwarfed, derailed or like I'm some damaged goods. For the first time I am thankful. These hurts are well with my soul, because my faith is in a Heavenly Father that always heals. That hurt did not consume me. I've learned to love. I've learned to forgive and although I don't feel like I've fully arrived, I know with God I am more that a conqueror. I am ready for God to use this story to help others heal. Believers, if God is for us, who can be against us? Tell your hurts, share your stories and together let's glorify God's name. With God, we can conquer August and everything after.
I wish i could hug you right now, and your brave, strong twelve-year-old self too.
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