I’ve been rereading one of my favorite books and came across a line spoken right after a character had to make a tough decision:
“Hardest thing I ever did … So now I suppose I can do the second hardest thing.”
That sort of thing has been on my mind lately. Since Christmas specifically, when I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I finally told my mom that, as a little girl, I was molested. (Hey, hey, now the second hardest thing can be checked off my list!) I’ve only told 3 or 4 people that in my life. If you aren’t one of those people, it probably still didn’t surprise you all that much. When I finally told my mom she said she had figured something like that had happened, but that she wished I had told her long ago. Me too. It felt so good to get that off my chest, which is also the reason I’m doing it now. I’m tired of holding things in. I don’t want to do it anymore. So here’s a veritable Truth-Day-Free-For-All.
I was abused twice, one time I cannot remember except for incredibly vague details. I’ve tried to remember it, but start shaking and crying. So I’ve stopped trying. I was 9 and 12. First time was in school, in a girl’s bathroom. Second was in a summer Bible camp, of all places. Both times were boys in my age group. I have had and continue to have some pretty deep-seated trust issues when it comes to men. (I’m sure that’s a big shock for you all. “Teri? Trust issues? No!”)
So there’s that. If I can blog about that, there’s really nothing I can’t blog about. For example, I was suicidal my sophomore year of college. And the only reason that I didn’t kill myself is because I couldn’t. I had no car and was living on the second floor of a small, Christian college dormitory. I had no access to pills or weapons. That is the lowest point at which I’ve ever been–not wanting to live anymore but unable to kill myself. I had gone through several months of heavy depression and pushed away all of my friends (or tried to). I almost lost my friendships with Tim and Steph, two of the most important people in my life, back then and today. Unfortunately, I lost some other friends irrevocably. I regret some of those.
Thirdly, I am a little racist. I try not to be. I blame a lot of this on working at the hotel, where I was not exposed to the best examples of humanity. And I think another part of it is that it’s a culture I am not a part of, and therefore have trouble understanding. Not all, but the majority of Black men intimidate me. Frighten me, might be more appropriate a statement. That is unfortunate for many reasons, one of which being I have certain physical attributes that they seem to find very appealing.
Fourthly, I haven’t been going to church, because I don’t want to go to church. I hate all the pretense involved. I’m sure some of this might be “self-fulfilled prophecies” because I felt I needed to put on a pretense around church-people, but I don’t think I can take all the blame for this one. I can understand why the world mocks them. I’m one of them, and I mock them. Living in legalistic little bubbles, surrounded by an air of holier-than-thou perfection. Can we just get a bunch together and say, “Man, we’re all seriously fucked up,” and then just take it from there? I would love that. I think some of my dislike toward the “bubble people” stems from jealousy. I am jealous at their ability to live in this bubble, or see the world through rose-colored glasses, or however you want to phrase it. I’m jealous because I can’t do it.
Damn, I feel better.