It’s been 23 years.

This isn’t even remotely a sexy post.  My life is filled with less “sexy” these days and a lot more thinking.  I can’t find anyone I’m attracted to, first of all, and secondly, no one seems worth my time.  So I’m just going to write what’s in my heart instead.

I remember standing at the bus stop on my brand new college campus far away from home and feeling miserable.  I felt raw and overwhelmed and I hadn’t yet acclimated to anything about this city.  Not its culture, its heat, its weird streets and freeways, or its university with what seemed to me to be an atypical rabid loyalty from its students.  (Turns out, all colleges are like that, but I had no idea.)

“I just have to work hard and get out of here,” I thought as I watched throngs of students walk by and buses lumber past.  I’d been here for all of 2 months, but had already had a falling out with my father, and the mantra which got me out of California, painted on the wall of my room, didn’t really make sense.  I was where I’d worked so hard to get to.

That was the moment I realized I needed help, because everywhere you go, there you are.

I booked an appointment at the Student Mental Health Clinic that same day.  I want to say that I even walked there from the bus stop, but I can’t be certain.

For 16 weeks I met in one of the dark, windowless basement rooms with a beautiful PhD student whose name I can no longer recall.  Every session was recorded so his professor could monitor our progress and his acuity and I remember surreptitiously glancing at the red recording light on the camera mounted in the corner.

In that stack of email printouts I found recently I’d written someone about my sessions with him.  About how I struggled with feeling comfortable with his shockingly good looks and how much I cried about my dad and my friends from back home who never wrote. Sometimes it feels like my life started in that basement.

When the sessions ended (because 16 is plenty for a girl who’s been completely traumatized by her childhood and is on the brink of engaging in reckless drug and sexual activity) the center gave me a list of neighboring clinicians I could go to out of pocket.  My mom agreed to pay and for $100/hour in 1996 I sat on Sigmund Freud’s couch while he slurped his fast food drink and finished his lunch and I angrily wore sheer white shirts with no bra to get back at him for his disrespect.

It lasted 6 months before I realized he didn’t really give a shit about anything I had to say.  Besides, I felt better.  I felt generally more competent and emboldened: it was ok to do what I wanted.  I dated a girl, made lots of friends, drank and smoked weed with the honor students and smoked Benson and Hedges Menthol 100’s and requested them with a straight face.

By senior year my partying began to take its toll on me and my school work and I found myself back at the Mental Health Center, this time with a drug counselor of a sort who liked to draw me lots of diagrams and give me handouts.

She let my best friend come with me and we’d do a fun little couples session on how to set boundaries with our other friends and make better choices.  Debbie never judged us and she encouraged moderation over a hard line of abstinence only.  Obviously, we liked that.  But then those sessions ran out too, college ended, and I was out on my own in the big world at 21.

Twenty-one.  They say that’s a grown up adult with all the responsibilities and obligations of all the other adults, but when I think of that girl I think it’s a miracle she survived 22 more years.

I moved downtown and worked in a bar after graduation and snorted most of my piddly earnings and drunkenly fucked my way through my “industry” brothers.  Sex and alcohol were like peas and carrots in my book and the attention I was getting from men was its own intoxication as I’d been largely ignored since arriving at school.  What?  Men liked me??

That life only lasted a year before we all moved out and on and by 24 I was more or less behaving myself.  I’d gotten a cat and a dog, found steady work.  I still partied a little on weekends, still had drunken sex, but I also fell in love for the first time and had a “grown up” relationship where I practiced saying No for the first time.  I had varying degrees of success with that.

Therapy wasn’t a part of any of this.  My life was like a hamster ball rolling and bouncing downhill – and I was obviously the hamster just hanging on for dear life.  It worked just fine until my father crossed another line and I fell apart.  I kicked him back out of my sister’s and my lives, but that didn’t stop him from traveling from Colorado to knock on my front door one Sunday morning.

Disheveled and hungover, wearing my white satin Victoria’s Secret shorts and top ensemble I looked through the peep hole.  I should have pretended to not be home.

It was another traumatic visit which found me assailing him with my anger and him deflecting and blaming me.  What did he want?  Why was he there?  Why wouldn’t he fucking listen to me??!  It felt gross and needy and violating on every level and me being braless and in satin didn’t help.

Hours later he left and I crumpled into a hot mess of tears and blubbering.  I called my mom and she insisted I start therapy again.  I was 26 and – with the exception of the times I had a baby and toddler to care for – I have been in an office pouring my heart out ever since.

My last therapist was a father-figure in all ways.  He shared a look with my dad, a similar build, but where my father was disgusting and titillated by the world, Rich was calm and detached.  He was safe and encouraging.  He helped guide me to graduate school and into my marriage and helped me begin to trust men, just a little.  But when I left my husband, I lost him.

My wild sexual ways as Hy befuddled him.  He thought I needed to go to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous, he thought I was bipolar.  I relentlessly fought both: No, I was exploring and loving and feeling alive.  This wasn’t a manic episode, this was me!  I ended our 10 year relationship abruptly one afternoon and I haven’t looked back.

I was without therapy for another year before I called my couples counselor, the wizened woman who had tried her very best to help me and my husband reconcile.  Would she see me?  Yes, she would.

I have spent thousands of dollars over the years on therapy.  Thousands. That has meant I didn’t have money for travel, for fancy things, for a savings account.  It has been a monetary sacrifice, to be sure, but how do I put a price on saving my own life?  On having one person in this entire fucking world whom I can trust and be myself with?  When I feel so lost and isolated 99% of the time I feel at home on a couch.  I don’t even care that I’m paying her; I know she cares about me.

I cried yesterday on her sea-foam colored armchair because I miss Peter and his steady presence in my life, and where I am resolute in how I handled that situation, I feel less certain about The Golfer.  I am rehashing our times together trying to figure out what I may have done to make him reject me.  It’s a useless and silly exercise, a juvenile one like how little kids think they’re responsible for the terrible things their parents do to them, but I can’t help it.

And then I remember that one time in the very early days with The Neighbor when while walking up to a movie theater he grabbed my hand and I pulled it away.  “Friends with benes don’t hold hands,” I’d told him.  What if that one moment I rejected him shaped the entirety of the rest of our time together?  What if I had just let him hold my hand?

With TG I think, “What if when he was clearly being vulnerable with me and sharing that I was his only lover this year I had lied and said he was my only one, too?”  Perhaps my eluding the question hurt him deeply and that is why he is rejecting me now.

It’s embarrassing to admit such twisted logic.  I am a strong, intelligent, powerful woman after all, with more to give than most.  What is wrong with me??  But I don’t have to fear reprisal from my therapist.  She likes to sit quietly most days and ponder, absorb my flood of emotion, then speak thoughtfully.  Yesterday was no different.

“Hy,” she said at the end of the hour, “I shouldn’t be bringing this up right now [since we have to end], but I can’t help but think that both TN and TG are so similar for you.  With TG everything fun is on his own terms – everything – just like with TN.  He says when and where with no thought to your needs.  TN did the same thing.”

And that is why I will keep sitting on that couch until the day I die – hopefully more than another 23 years – because therapy is, quite literally, life.

 

 

 

The epiphanies keep on coming.

Short version:

I went to therapy desperate to reach out to The Golfer; I left without the urge.

And in the middle I cried because I realized that in order to feel special to someone I believe I have to do something for them.

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I have daddy issues.

I don’t understand women who like their fathers, who trust them and turn to them for support.  Fathers are dark and dangerous, manipulative and cruel.  They froth at the mouth at infractions and cry, salty tears when they need a hug from the mother they never had.  Fathers whose daughters like them are mystical creatures.

Men who love and nurture their little women in ways that create strong, healthy bonds and boundaries for a lifetime of beautiful relationships?  Those exist??

I certainly didn’t have one of those.  Fathers and daughters who love and respect one another are only people who exist in books and movies and who are overheard in coffee shops.  They’re not me and my dad.

I don’t bring it up all that often, but no one without daddy issues would have a life like mine. She would never accept what I do from men.  She would assert herself and say No, she would insist on her needs being known and valued.  She would never stand for mistreatment.  But that isn’t me.  I have daddy issues.

Even saying the words makes me cringe. It’s so trite, so predictable, but there it is. I have daddy issues the size of a goddamned 747.

I wept in therapy a week and a half ago as I pieced together my disastrous date with Milwaukee. After having sex with him Thursday night that I don’t really remember, I went home to sleep it off and when I returned to his hotel room to go to brunch he accosted me.

His breath smelled of liquor at 11 am and as I pushed him off of me repeatedly he kept after me with lurid promises of what he’d do to me later.  He thought he was being sexy.  I thought he was being boorish and disgusting.

I pushed him, shoved him, told him I wasn’t a sure thing and to knock it off. Then he jammed his finger up my skirt as I peered out a window and almost got inside of me before I twisted away and yelled at him again. “After he assaulted you, why didn’t you leave, Hy?” my therapist asked gently.

I couldn’t answer her.

“Where did you feel it? Where did it come from? This knowing it was wrong?”

“I don’t know. I just knew I didn’t like it. I was very clear about him stopping and I yelled at him. But then I went downstairs with him to wait for a car to go to brunch…” I looked up at her watching me. “Then he said something else disgusting and I jumped up like this and shouted, ‘STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT I DONT FUCKING LIKE IT!!'” I demonstrated for her, something I don’t think I’ve ever done in years of working with her.

“He apologized and looked contrite. I should have left then. I should have left in the room. I should have left when I woke up with a vague sense of irritation and unpleasantness naked in his bed. But I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

I don’t know,” I said as I began to cry. I had this overwhelming familiar feeling related to my reaction to him. There were moments in his room that morning when fear rose up in me. Would he rape me? Hurt me? But they quickly passed as I danced and maneuvered away, but still remained within his reach.

When I’d shared the date with him with two of my dearest friends, one said this:

I think the most important question you have to answer for yourself, Hy, is why you don’t trust your gut? Why do you plot the course and then follow all the way through to an inevitable conclusion when you knew he wasn’t a good fit? Is it because you’re curious, because you desire the sex/companionship regardless of the quality, or because you feel you owe it to someone not to “back out” once the process starts?

Our message string is deleted that far back but I clearly remember saying to you, when someone is lousy over text/phone it’s never good in person, and you were not acknowledging your gut feelings. You kept saying maybe it will be better in person. You kept reaffirming what you believed his good qualities were and that he deserved a chance.

I’m checking you on this because it was quite clear to me he was acting in an odd and uncomfortable way and despite your acknowledgment of this you insisted on pushing through to the date. Why is that?

Maybe it’s a FOMO thing, you just have to be 100% sure you’re not “missing” something and so you go all the way until you can no longer deny that it was bad to begin with. But that isn’t trusting your gut is it? That’s more like being a scientist, running the experiment until you have the hard fought data which ultimately proves the initial hypothesis.

I told her she had every right to check me, that everything she wrote was true, but my internal compass is off. Though my gut is always right I continually override it.  Why??

“Tell me why you didn’t leave,” my therapist pressed.

“Because I wanted something from him…” I sobbed, humiliated, hurting.  “We were supposed to go to my favorite brunch spot, then my favorite restaurant for dinner.

“It was like that with my father.  I would be trapped with him in a booth and he’d be telling me disgusting things or droning on and on about himself as if I were there simply to listen to him and I’d be begging him to stop, to see me, but I needed new tires on my car or I wanted that fancy dinner or some spare cash.

“I endured his awfulness so he could give me things and I could feel taken care of by him for once in my life, to feel loved.”  My whole body shook with remorse and disgust and shame.  “If he gave me something, then it proved I was good enough.  That’s why I never leave.”

The feelings for the girl I was welled up inside of me and poured out my face.  I felt like blackness rose from me like steam.  No matter how awful, how gross, how in appropriate my father was I stayed the course because we both knew I was there to get something from him, and him from me.  And I was never able to make him stop despite my efforts to make him be a decent human being to both me and my sister.

When I was 20 I cut him out of my life for a couple of years after a long visit of his prolonged vileness and him rifling through all of my things while I was at class.  I eventually let him back in, feeling stronger, and even lived with him for a year after college.  It wasn’t good.  He was mean and hard, but I was living rent free, so…

And then when I was 26 he sent my sister and I a revolting joke about how semen is calorie-free.  It was the final straw and I cut him out of our lives for good.  Shortly thereafter, my sister revealed he’d molested her when she was only 8 years old and I was 11.  Now our relationship was irrevocably over and I no longer had to suffer his pitiful attempts at being my father.

Daddy issues.

I’ve never really read much about the collateral damage of sexual abuse for a child not directly harmed.  Do those papers even exist??  I’ve read countless articles on trauma and personal accounts of abuse, I hear stories on NPR for Christ’s sake, but you don’t hear how it affects the other children in the family.

From the moment my father did that evil thing to my sister I no longer existed.  I never understood why I was suddenly #2 in everything we did, why he preferred her, why she was always right and I was always wrong.  I longed for his approval and love, but was shunned again and again.  He had sins to atone for and I was no longer a priority.  I was his made his mother, and used whenever he needed support.  When he didn’t need me I was invisible.  And so it went until the day he died an excruciating death, alone in a big city in the desert.

My therapist’s eyes were soft as she watched me, tear streaked and miserable fit the pieces together.  That is why I never leave.  That is why I override my instincts.  That is why I stay near a man who doesn’t care to be with me.  Because I want something from them and if I get it it means I am worthy.  I fucking exist. 

Sometimes it’s a nice dinner, sometimes it’s sex.  My father put a high premium on a woman being a “knockout.”  I never felt I attained that level with him, but when men ogle and drool I feel vindicated and seen all over again.  I am real for that moment.  I push aside a man’s poor manners or inconsiderateness because he has promised me something – unspoken, but promised all the same.  I will get his attention, his money, his body, his pleasure.

That means that I have evolved into the ultimate seductress, ever morphing to match the desires of my date.  I prefer white wine, but he has expressed a preference for Malbec, so that is the only kind of wine I buy when I come over.  He wants to watch golf?  Ok.  I will ask as many questions as possible, though really I’d prefer the TV to just be off.  I have no impact, I am not there, but when I am turned inside out, bare skinned and lost in my own broken darkness with a man deep inside of me I am all of me.

I am not thinking about how to win him over, I am only a raw, pulsing nerve feeling our atoms mingle.  Finally, I exist again by losing myself completely.

It feels like this revelation is what I’ve been working towards in the last 20 years of therapy I’ve been slogging through.  I have been trying to close the loop with my father every day of my fucking life since the moment he touched my baby sister.  I have been trying to be seen and loved and wanted in any way I knew how.  And boy, have I adapted.  I have been a machine at getting things.

In the days leading up to this revelation I cut things off with Milwaukee.  I was very frank with him about how I felt about his behavior and while he was crushed, he understood.  It is one of the most singularly healthy things I’ve done for myself since I ended my friendship with The Neighbor or left my husband.  I don’t look out for myself, the drive to get something is so overwhelmingly powerful.  I am terrified of asserting myself, saying No, that is not ok, and then being rejected and failing to get whatever it is I want.

The Saturday after therapy the The Golfer got too drunk on the golf course with the help of a Xanax and canceled plans an hour before we were set to meet.  My initial reaction was to completely accept it and reschedule for the next weekend – the words flew across text before I even realized what I’d done.  Hours later I texted again that while it’d taken a little while to sink in I thought flaking on me in the 11th hour was shitty and that it really bummed me out.

The next morning he apologized and last night as we lay curled together on his big couch between dick-sucking and ass-fucking goodness he apologized again with his lips on my neck.

It was terrifying to admit I was unhappy with him, such a small, reasonable thing, but I don’t do that: I am amenable, pleasing, ingratiating.  Yet, I was still there whole and real and I had promised myself that if he didn’t apologize – truly apologize – I would end it immediately.  But he did and I took a very small step towards being me and not just trying to get something.  I existed without the thing.

And this time I brought white wine.