So here I am writing my first blog. A little bit about me is that I am a 32 year old wife and biological mother to 1 and step-mother to 1. My whole life I was a writer be it diary entries, journals, poetry, so on and so forth, that was until I met my husband 9 years ago. I guess there are a number of reasons I stopped writing such as time, privacy, and just maybe not feeling the need any more. Most of what I wrote was sad, depressing thoughts that I couldn’t scream so I wrote.
Recently, I have regretted dearly my lack of writing. I have a terrible memory and my diary was my gateway into my life and my experiences. My last entry was 7 years ago. Shortly after my mother passed away. A sad time in my life which I thought prompted some sort of record of my thoughts and feelings.
The purpose I suppose of this blog will be my new diary of past, present and future. My “private” domain away from the eyes of my close friends and family [I understand this is actually very public but somewhat anonymous]. This will be my stories as a broken child, a broken teenager, a broken wife, and a broken mother. All the things I dared not to be but despite the happiness shoved in my face, I was and am these things none-the-less.
So my first story I thought would be to start at the beginning and, given all the stories currently taking over the news and internet right now, more specifically my Dad. First off, for the most part, my dad was an amazing father. He was completely understanding and accepting of me and everyone else who crossed his path. One time he literally took the shoes off his feet to give to a friend of mine who was desperately in need of shoes. He was kind, thoughtful, and never left a conversation without saying “I love you”. He did love me with everything in his being and I never had any doubt about that.
My parents divorced when I was in the first grade. It was oddly a very happy time for me. My parents screamed at each all the time. It consumed our home and mine and my sisters nightmares. I hated it so much. Often my sister and I would sit at the top of the stairs while our parents argued and hold each other weeping. When my mother told me we were leaving, I felt relieved. And I was so right about those feelings. Life after that got to be somewhat normal and happy. There was no more fighting, no more screaming, no more late night cuddles with my sister at the top of the stairs. We were finally able to be a functioning family, despite being broken.
After the divorce I would spend every other weekend with my dad and it wasn’t long until he was in a new relationship. [My mother always suspected he was cheating on her but something he denied until his last breath]. Things were going really well and my sister and I liked the new girlfriend. They stayed together for a few years until one day they stopped sleeping in the same bed.
On this day I remember that my dad couldn’t sleep in his own bedroom so he and I shared the pull-out bed while my sister slept in the spare room. It wasn’t the first time sleeping next to my father, it wasn’t a big deal, I actually enjoyed sleeping next to a parent. But something was different this time. My father was sad. He was lonely. I was warm body. After all the lights were out he started to cuddle me. This was fine. He started to rub my chest. It was weird but I didn’t think too much of it. Then he asked me something that has burned my mind every day since. “Can I touch you?” Initially, my 7 or 8 year old mind thought “What a stupid question! Of course he can.” But what I said in a low, soft voice was, “Yes.” Then is hand moved down under my nighty to where my underwear elastic met my skin. His fingers were rough and felt fat. Before going any further he asked again “Can I touch You?”. I have never felt so terrified in my life and with every ounce of courage I could muster up I said in my soft, quiet voice “No.” He rolled over away from me and it was never talked about again.
I don’t know what this encounter was. It never happened again and was never spoken of again by either of us. And though he never actually touched me, his words and knowing that he wanted to has haunted me throughout my whole life. I don’t know if this was the stem of all my “brokenness” or just a contributing factor but it does play a large roll in my other relationships throughout my life so I thought it important to start with it. I can say that writing these words just now was extremely difficult but, for you to understand me and for me to maybe understand myself, it needed to be told.
I’ll leave it there for now as it was heavy and I need a break. Thanks for reading.