Square Peg

I’ll be honest with you guys, I didn’t think this would happen. I didn’t think that I would get to a Christmas and not feel a sense of dread.

When I was a kid, the holidays came to mean the time when I would go to my grandparents’ house, which meant the time I would have to sleep in the same room as my brother, which would mean the time I was molested. For survivors of sexual trauma, all kinds of things are triggers. The smell in my grandmother’s kitchen, which I have encountered elsewhere. Collie dogs (my grandparents had 6 in succession), decorative soaps, and the color pink (never wear it, and when I skated derby, I always wanted to be on the black team).

That doesn’t mean I freak out and scream like a little girl around those things, but it means I get nauseated. That seems to be my trigger alarm, feeling sick to my stomach. Years later I’ve learned to use it to my advantage. The same applied to hot summer days as when my dad kept us over the summer (and didn’t exactly keep his eyes on us) the same thing would happen. There aren’t as many specific triggers attached to summer as there are over the holidays, though, so that’s easier. I moved away from Alabama for a lot of reasons. I didn’t exactly fit in there. I don’t exactly fit in anywhere, I’m fully aware of that. I don’t have a filter.

A lot of people will tell you they don’t have a filter, and that they are “no nonsense, no bullshit, tell hard truths, blah blah” but then those same people will tell you they hate confrontation, which I take to mean they have no problem telling others hard truths, but don’t like it when the same is done to them. I was blessed with no regard for confrontation at all, it doesn’t phase me. If something needs to be confronted, I will do it, to my detriment sometimes. This puts me at odds with…most of the world. People will tell you they love that about me until it’s their turn. And I don’t take issue with others confronting me, I prefer it, in fact, to low level (or high level) negativity bubbling under the surface, otherwise known as “the elephant in the room.” I am highly empathic, so if you have an issue with me, I can tell, and if you lie to me about it, I can tell that too. And I’ll probably lose a little respect for you. But it also lends to me sometimes being the “bitch” (the assertive woman who speaks her mind), and I’ve had people try to guilt me or shame me into being quiet. It doesn’t end well for them. Men, especially, take issue with me. I’m frustrating, just ask my husband. Maybe that’s why he married me.

How I ended up that way after being a painfully shy little girl and an anorexic teenager who stuck to her group of friends because they were safe, I will tell you, it is simple. I got PISSED.

I confronted my father on his lack of supervision, lack of protection, his judgement and shaming of me as a female, and the fact that I got molested on his watch because he was too depressed to do anything. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I was sitting outside of my apartment complex in Monrovia, my first marriage was disintegrating, I was in therapy for suicidal depression, and I had “Joyful Girl” by Ani Difranco on repeat in my CD player because it (and the cigarettes I was chain smoking) kept me from slitting my wrists. I sobbed while I told him how his treatment of me allowed for my eating disorder, my drinking, my promiscuity, and my self-harm. I won’t say I blamed him, but I won’t say I didn’t either. He listened, he tried to relate, he tried to explain, but most of all, when I told him I would be coming home for Christmas that year, but I wouldn’t be seeing him for a while, he was silent. He called and asked for my forgiveness 2 months later. I’ve never cried so hard in my life.

After that confrontation, the rest of ya’ll are cake.

That was Christmas 7 years ago. Since then, I got divorced, lived on my own for 5 years, joined a roller derby team, made some awesome friends, did some awesome things, did some idiotic things, dated some awesome (and not so awesome) guys, met my (future) husband, got pregnant, got married, and had the most amazing child in the world. Somewhere along the way, I started to fit a little. Not much, but more than I ever had before. I feel a part of my job like I never have before. I’ve mellowed quite a bit since having Daniel. I don’t party anymore. I don’t really want to, because I realized while the rest of my friends seemed to be in this constant quest for adventure when we went out, I was running, always running. I would drink until I was drunk, go home and sleep it off, go to work, work until I left, go out and do it all over again, so I never had to think, because thinking hurt.

I didn’t stop drinking until I got pregnant and I had to, but from the minute I knew Daniel was there, I wanted him so bad. I never knew love until he was born. He’s like a little piece of my body walking around and talking. When he hurts, I hurt. And when he is happy, I’m happy. Which is why I got so excited for Christmas this year. There was no dread, there was no being triggered, there was just me wanting to watch my little boy learn about Christmas and get his presents. I feel like he’s given me a fresh start maybe. Maybe. And I’ve always been okay with not fitting in (after high school anyway, but I never really noticed then either), but I have become someone I really love.

I wish you all the happiest of holidays. I really never said things like that before this year.