Ask Me

Now, I'm going to write something *really* personal. It's about something that made me feel ashamed for years. But, I'm not anymore. There is a difference between secrecy and privacy. Secrecy is when you've done something wrong, and you stuff it down, full of shame. I stuff down a feeling of shame that doesn't belong to me when I keep this inside. Privacy, on the other hand, is when you decide to keep something to yourself just because it's nobody's business. Then I should not put it on the Internet. But here I am, typing this, because it could help at least one other woman out there in the world who is just like me.

Along with sharing this my husband, I've shared this incident with teens in my girls' Bible study for years. Girls who had similar experiences, like 1 in 3 women or something like that. So, if you are some random woman whose stumbled upon my blog, and you've found yourself in similar circumstances and think it's ALL YOUR FAULT, it's not. Learning that, I think, is the first step towards true healing. So, here goes....

There is song by Amy Grant called “Ask Me.” It starts with lyrics about a little girl who has been molested repeatedly in her home. She’s some pedophile’s “little rag” and she, “washes off his need.”

It’s disturbing, that visual. But then the lyrics take you to her future, and say, almost jarringly brightly, “Ask me how I know, there’s a God up in the heaven,” and talk about how He was there in the “middle of her pain,” and how “His mercy is there for her now.” She’s a grown woman, who “keeps the light on in the hall,” but otherwise takes care of herself and is strong. It’s off an old album, but I downloaded it the other day.

I told my former therapist that my molestation experience was no big deal in comparison to some stories I’d heard from girlfriends. He said that’s a problem, that I diminish it so. But I have one friend who was molested when she was in daycare, several times over. She hasn’t had a boyfriend since high school, and he was an emotional abuser who still tries to control her life, even though he's married to someone else.

So, I diminish. And in the process, myself, my therapist said.

It was a short-term, foul note in my life, where a 16-year-old neighbor boy said I was a “dirty girl,” having spied a Barbie in my closet in some state of undress. Why he was dispatched to babysit me by my parents when I had four other siblings, I do not know. I have no recollection of any other outside babysitter my whole childhood. Just this one experience, with this depraved individual, who branded me on my backside for life with his need.

Anyways, he said he wanted to “play a game” with me, and convinced me to kiss his penis. He touched me in my privates, but just briefly, thank goodness. My body wasn’t of much interest. He was more intrigued by whatever was titilating about my 7-year-old pursed lips and tiny hand on his penis. He’d told me that other girls his age wouldn’t touch him. I felt sorry for him, like it was somehow my job to remedy that problem. Then, he told me I had better not tell anyone, that it was just our game. He came to my house a day or so later, requesting a repeat. I acquiesced. But something shifted in me, and for some reason I remember feeling old. Words came out of my mouth unrehearsed, as though they were not my own. Now, I wonder if it wasn't God speaking through me, to protect His precious child. I told him it was wrong and threatened to tell on him. He left me alone after that. My therapist said it showed a great deal of ego strength to stand up to someone nine years older than me. Before he said that to me, less than a year ago, I always considered myself just a victim.

Days later, this boy made a veiled comment that only I could understand but right now can’t remember, disparaging me sexually in front of my puzzled oldest brother as they played catch in the middle of the street. He laughed at me. I stood there, humiliated. I told my middle brother what the boy had convinced me do. When I was 17 years old, my oldest brother confessed that my middle brother had let the cat out of the bag on the incident. My oldest brother retaliated, beat the boy up with a bat. Why this was kept secret from me, I do not know. We were all about secrets in the ‘70s, I guess. I wished I had known all those years that someone who loved me had stood up for me. I wonder if it would have made the confusion and shame less sharp.

Over the years, I always thought what happened was my fault, that I was indeed that dirty girl. It was through therapy in my late 20s that I was healed of this notion. I’ve never had any problem making love with my husband—that’s an area that remains passionate, interesting, inventive, and strong after 15 years of marriage. He’s the only person I’ve ever allowed to touch me since that boy, but I’m far from frigid and I’m thankful that I never became promiscuous, like some former victims. Where I seem to struggle, as a result of that incident, is in what my therapist called “passivity,” a willingness to withstand circumstances that other women would not. It’s because women like me don’t think we deserve better treatment than what we receive. We’re that “little rag.”

I have to catch myself not just going along with whatever is dropped on my head, and thinking I deserve it, since I’m still that dirty girl. Instead of immediately realizing someone who is using me for a toilet has other options, I try to psychoanalyze why that person does what he or she does. If pain has provoked the action, pain that has nothing to do with anything I have done, I try to have compassion. If it’s anger, I hide out. Instead of standing up for myself, I passively accept their consequences, as though that’s my role in life.

Just as I did when I was that confused little girl, helping a high school boy work out his insecurity and, my husband thinks, the boy's own molestation.

I tell myself I’m being Godly. Sometimes, maybe, I am. But mostly, I’m just being passive. And that’s not helpful to the anyone else, in the long run. And mostly, according to my therapist, I’m not necessarily pleasing God. He doesn’t want me to be wiping off anybody’s need, at such great personal cost. I’m more precious to Him than I allow myself to think I am. Other people around me, my family and my friends, benefit when I’m whole, as opposed to when I am re-acting out some victimized waif role, and letting myself get run over like a speed bump in the suburbs.

I feel more open to friendships when I feel more precious to God, when I feel I’m worthy of being respected. My circle has grown. I feel so confident that I went to the movies the other night, all by myself. I wasn’t even tempted to ask anyone to come with me, and felt good because, unlike in previous years, there was a good handful of people that I could have called. I saw that “Hairspray” was playing, and I have been wanting to see it. My hubby was off having a good time with our daughter, so I left a message for him and made my Mommy escape. I ate popcorn that had been buttered just right, and chugged down the most satisfying Icee ever made.

Some day when I’m feeling really stupid, I’ll have to blog about Icees vs. Slurpees. Today isn’t that day. Though, I am kinda stupid, most days.

But anyways, that movie was perfect for my mindset. Here was this girl who was singing her heart out, talking about her dreams. A happy movie. I loved it, not for the script, which sucked, but for all that dancing and singing about good things. My favorite song was probably Queen Latifah’s solo during their march against segregation. I started to cry, it was so powerful. I must download it.

Well, anyways, how did I get from Amy Grant to pedophiles to Queen Latifah? I must be tired.

So, I'll close with some verses I love:

James 1:2 My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience.

James 1:12 Blessed is a man who perseveres under trial; for once he has been approved, he will receive the crown of life which the Lord has promised to those who love Him.

James 5:11 We count those blessed who endured. You have heard of the endurance of Job and have seen the outcome of the Lord's dealings, that the Lord is full of compassion and is merciful.

Noise

I just noticed that I logged my 13th post on the 13th. I am not superstitious, but I find that slightly intriguing anyways.

Today would actually be a better day to reflect about silence, since yesterday was the quietest one in quite a while. The plumber and his apprentice were padding about, setting up our dishwasher, finishing the heating system. They were gone by lunch.

It would have been better to meditate on silence today, in an attempt to get away from the experience I am having right now. The floor guys are here. The noise they are making is so pitched and deafening, I am squinting from a headache. The sound of their sanding is not unlike a siren, strangely enough. A police car with its siren on in my living room. That's what it's like.

The good news is that I came home in time to request that they tarp off our living space from the areas where they are sanding. They'd finished half the job, but it wasn't that dusty in here. But, I guess if that went on long enough, my asthmatic husband and his allergic wife would be looking for a hotel.

The other good news is, because there is that tarp taping us off, we won't have the experience of men walking through our bedroom unnannounced. Though that was kind of awful, I got used to it. I think that makes me kind of weird, or a hillbilly, or something.

I was talking to one of my best girlfriends last night. She married a guy with two teen-aged daughters. She has two teen-aged sons. It's like the Brady Bunch, but missing Cindy and Bobby. Well, she's basically fried right now, and needs a break. Somebody is always in the house. She can't walk down the hallway naked after a shower. She can't doze off on the couch without somebody traipsing past and waking her. If she's making something to eat, somebody else wants a bite. She doesn't get along with her youngest stepdaughter. Her husband doesn't get along with her oldest son. There's always tension.

So, I guess I can't complain too much about these temporary brothers of mine. Once they're gone, I'll have my little tootsie with me in the day, in a pretty new house, where she'll have all kinds of places to play and act crazy until her daddy gets home.

For now we're in a new living space: the maid's room. My husband set it up last night--which, by the way, he's good at, so I wonder if there's a career in reconfiguring rooms out there in his future. Hm. Nah. But, I've watched him carry all this heavy furniture over the past few months as he's set up rooms. The other day, he carried me upstairs. Now, THAT was a workout.

Anyways, back to the maid's room. I woke up this morning, and I thought of all the times she'd probably stirred awake, looking through the same the window frame, watching the blue light of dawn emerging. I wonder if she was treated well, was she bundled and warm in the evenings, did she have other dreams or was she perfectly content? I felt like praying for her family, assuming whoever was the maid here back in the day has moved on from this world. So, I did.

And now I think I'll add to that a prayer of thanks. Despite the cops in my living room, added to the noisy construction next door, our daughter is napping peacefully.

Hm. Now I'm sneezing and the top of my nose itches. Good times.

Silence

Thomas Merton, the American monk, wrote: "In silence we face and admit that gap between the depths of our being, which we consistently ignore, and the surface which is so often untrue to our own reality."

After all of this banging and slamming in our domicile, I have been thinking of going on a silent retreat. A couple of weeks ago, I called this retreat center, and they said to check with them right about now to see if they have an opening.

While on a work staff retreat, we were required to engage in a silence for half a day. It was weird. It was good. You can't fall back on superficiality, the polite conversation you use to motor through your day, to connect, to avoid, to control. Your only conversations on a silent retreat are with God. I have been unfaithful to Him in all my concerns about this house, all this focus on the temporal, and He's not on my mind when I'm doing my job.

I went to church last night, and I raised my arms to invite Him in during praise and worship. He is full of beauty and wonder, my best friend, my life.

I think I'll just go on a retreat for a day, wander through the woods, dip my toes in the pond. Maybe take my sketchbook, and some watercolors. But, especially, my Bible. My lifeline.

"You keep him in perfect peace
whose mind is stayed on you,
because he trusts in you."
Isaiah 26:3

Latex Therapy

The medicine cabinet in our master bathroom was gnarly. Yeah, read that again. I said it. Gnarly.

The paint was peeling and yellowed, brown smears of unknown origin dotted one shelf. And, someone had seen fit to sprinkle what looked like boric acid here and there. I haven't seen a roach in this house. I hope they were just trying to get rid of ants. I can deal with an ant crawling over my toothbrush. A little hot water and soap, and OK, I'm fine. But a roach? If I see that? I'm afraid you're going to have to take me out of here on a stretcher.

So, we shared our daughter's medicine cabinet, which is huge and has sparkly glass shelves that are easy for me to keep clean.

But once the old shower (a.k.a. green phone booth of moldy death) had been demolished, and a new bath with new tile were in place, I'd run out of excuses. The medicine cabinet had to be cleaned for the master bath to be finished.

Yuck!

I probably did one restorative task a week in that cabinet. My stomach couldn't take much more. One week I sponged it, and another I scrubbed, then I scraped. Sponged again.

Somewhere in there, I'd gone to the hardware store and bought primer and paint. I don't know anything about primer. Some 17-year-old behind the counter told me I must have it if I was painting a medicine cabinet. I was more amazed than I probably should have been at his vast knowledge of primer and all things paint. It was probably just that he was so refreshing, not some disaffected kid just earning a few dollars, but one who took his job and his customers seriously. I was embarrassed but he was patient as I took forever to choose a paint color I thought would match the bath's existing trim. I settled on artists' white, probably more for the name, since I fancy myself one. As he deftly added the correct tint and mixed it with his complicated contraption, I thought of my husband's students and wanted to ask him where he went to school, and what his goals were for the future. But then he might think I'm a stalker, so I kept my mouth shut.

The two cans sat there looking at me for a week.

Finally, my husband uttered something about us needing to break down and finally paint the house. As he started sanding, I knew where I was going to start.

I set up our bedroom TV, a wide-screen my husband bought a few years back, but which has been stifled behind a plastic tarp during the bathroom remodel. I angled it towards the bathroom so I could watch it as I painted. I put on HGTV, of course, for cheesy inspiration. They were having a catfight on Design Star, a show I have avoided. But my focus was the cabinet so I bore it.

I didn't expect painting that disgusting cabinet to be so relaxing. Some friends had visited the previous weekend, and told us how a co-worker of mine had painted her house and it was "therapeutic." I snickered under my breath. But, as I waved my brush over the cabinet in the method described on the can--make a W, wipe across it horizontally, and finish with vertical strokes--I fell into the uniformity and cleanliness of it. The medicine cabinet looked better, and I did it. Over the past month I'd left this house, that didn't feel quite mine yet, in the hands of trampling strangers, and here I was, doing my thing to improve it for once. I inhaled deeply, and rested in the tranquility that accompanies empowerment.

And, more significantly, I was using a part of my brain that often lays dormant, the part that moves my brush across a canvas and leaves color and emotion in its wake. I just so happened to find my sabbatical report from 2001 yesterday, and that girl, the one who painted canvasses so freely was there. She'd also peeked out in front of that medicine cabinet. I saw her when I closed the door and wiped the paint off the edges of the mirror. She smiled back at me, and said she'd never left.

The paint color I chose matched the trim perfectly, which added to my satisfaction. When I was taking a class at an art school several years ago, my instructor told me that I have a high visual IQ. I'm not a prideful person, but I took pride in that. I can measure something in Adobe Illustrator, and know it's a perfect inch without using its ruler. I can make dozens of logos in an hour. I've got it. I've just got to use it. God gave it to me for a reason.

My husband and I share an office--he has his computer and genealogy items in a closet, and figures that's all the space he needs. He found a very cool desk over Craig's List and he's happy. The whole rest of the office is for my artistic endeavoring but everything is still out in the garage. I am making a date with my hunky hubby this weekend to carry in the storage cabinets and tables, and then I'll get them decked out with my paints, crafts and fabrics again.

Well, after I paint the room. I've never painted a whole room before, so I don't know what is going to happen. But, I'm ready for the challenge--having saved that cabinet from its pasty misery, I'm feeling like I can paint anything.

Mom's Birthday

Surprise: something that has nothing to do with real estate.

My mother would have been 77 on July 26th, had she not lost her six-month battle with breast cancer in 1985.

Usually, it's just another day of the week. My dad will call to check on me, but typically, I'm just living my life that day, as I knew she wanted me to do.

But this year, I decided to celebrate her life with a Mommy-Daughter day. I took my little energy ball and her American Girl doll, Addie, out on the town. We went bike riding around the neighborhood, then I took her to this huge park with winding paths that she had a ball navigating. She hopped off her bike and ran like the wind toward the playground, then announced her hunger after a while, chugging down a kid-sized jug of water to make her point.

We drove to a mega shopping center, and joined a fantastic kid party. A musical group of young African American men was adding a hip twist to kid tunes. They had all manner of drums laying about, so we sat down and jammed to the Wheels on the Bus with the other children, parents and nannies. The trolley happened past, so we hopped on. Next stop, a farmer's market, where we noshed on Brazilian food in the open air. We stopped by the sticker store and she got to pick out two sheets, choosing one of butterflies and the other of cameras.

Off to American Girl we marched, the first time with Addie. We got her shoe fixed at the doll hospital and, as I suspected, she and my daughter were the only little Black girls in the store. But surprisingly, the woman who manages the store is African American. She fixed Addie for free, and treated me to a discussion on what makes Addie a valuable doll for my daughter. Not so much because she is associated with our history of slavery, but because the stories that accompany this doll encourage self-respect, independent thought, and resilience under pressure. These are all values I was taught by my parents and in scripture, and would like my daughter to learn.

But Addie's story is written for 8 year olds. As I was reading it to my daughter a month ago, she listened intently, but her facial expression indicated that she had no idea what I was saying. Clearly, she was just enjoying my lap. As the manager verified, at this time in her life, she's more likely to embrace their Bitty Baby line--goodness knows she always makes a beeline for that part of the store after we check out Addie's display. But, I think involving her in Addie's little marketing machine is probably enough. And it's not my fault. She was a gift.

After American Girl, we hopped on the trolley once more and headed home. Spent, my daughter nodded off in her carseat. I thought about the good time we had, not unlike many others--yet special because of who we were celebrating. I have so many pleasant memories of days out on the town with mom, it was nice to intentionally honor her day with my daughter.

Drywall Guy

Mr. Muhammad has a team of "guys" he uses for various jobs around our house. He picks them up out of nowhere, and they do their thing. They come one day, and then you might not see them for a week, and then they're here for a few in a row.

There's Tile Guy. Demo Guy. Plumbing Guy. Drywall Guy. Electrical Guy. I took the time to learn their names, but I'm tired today, due to their blasting about for the past week, and their real monikers escape me. So, they are each xx guy, for the purposes of this post.

Today, Drywall Guy stealthily moved about my house.

He doesn't speak. He just puts up boards, he patches. Big huge chunks of wall and ceiling missing due to our careless plumber's antics, the hanging aftermath of the removal of our kitchen soffit, the rot gut inards of our laundry room wall. Drywall guy. He heals it all.

Our house, officially today, feels like a home.

The only thing irritating about Drywall Guy is that every day I decide to clean--which ain't that often, considering I live in a construction zone--is the day that Mr. Muhammad's called him up. He may be stealthy, but he leaves his ashy mark everywhere. Today, all over my toes, too. I'm a chalky mess.

But otherwise, thank you, Drywall Guy.

Load Bearing Wall

You know that scene in The Money Pit where the house is coming together, and it seems the army of men know what they're doing after all? Of course, then Tom Hanks falls into a vat of paint that whole Rube Goldberg incident ensues. But you know what I mean.

We haven't quite had such an incident here yet--though I waited for it as a handyman chopped into a load-bearing wall today and the whole house shook.

For right now, I can see the dust clearing, the house becoming more habitable, and feeling more like a living, breathing domicile, as opposed to ancient rubble. As I looked down at my daughter's footprints in the filth, I could actually imagine a day where I wouldn't have to worry about her contracting tetanus from a rusty nail.

Hubby grilled steaks and corn on the cob while I shined up the brass on a couple of antique switchplates. Right before dinner, I showed him the freshly cleaned master bath, new shower curtain, window covering ready to be hung, scrubbed medicine cabinet and...

...the tracks of a worker's boots across my newly mopped floor.

Oh well. It's our version of home, for now.

As I lay here in bed, I noticed my fingers were unconsciously encircling the purple cross around my neck, the one my father-in-law gave me. I have faith. It will all come together. God will prevail over the rubble and fortify this home. He is our load-bearing wall. Our home might get shaken every once in a while, but we will not fall.