What’s My Story?

V is for victory

V is for victim

This weekend I am both. I have accomplished victim my entire life. I am a victim of emotional abuse by my parents and my sisters, a perfect triangle tip on which to balance my life. I fall one way, then the other, it’s a win for them every time. I’ve fallen victim to nuanced targeting of guilt, shame, and apathy at the dinner table, in the car, through text messages, Facebook, anywhere the family united. I get it. It’s a power play for them. Power is found everywhere. Especially in scaffolded towers of denial.

It took me 42 years to finally get it. The subtleties of its form are hidden in context crafted to appear caring, thoughtful, nice. Heightened sweet talk is my cue. “Honey,…” is the trigger to the gun pointing at my head. “Honey, you’re overreacting.” is the bullet.

How many times have I pulled that trigger? Over and over. I’ve ceded the power to the sweet talkers, the caring, the nice far too long. As a child it was inexplicable questioning why my life was so hard.

I am humiliated to confess to you it took over four decades to recognize this manipulative mind-game. The danger of emotional abuse is that unless it’s stopped by the victim, the dirt road will continue.

I crossed the road. I named it. I illustrated it. I demanded no contact until the gun is taken to the factory for repairs. I am worth it.

V is for victim

V is for victory

“Oh, geeeez”, she said, pressing the points where my neck and shoulders meet. I was face down, naked. Layered between sheets, a blanket on top for warmth, I was privy to her hands, slicked with coconut oil and whatever other oils she needed. I inhaled lavender, breathing in on the release, exhaling on the cutting pressure. Using her elbows, her forearms, she stressed, “They’re rock hard.” As if I didn’t know.

I didn’t know IT would be so hard. Physically or emotionally. Prostrate on the table, gravity and her hands pushed the ill-effects of recent turmoil out from my muscles, down my back, from my buttocks and legs, to a final exit through my toes. IT‘s no longer mine. The world can have IT to do what it will, or whatever it won’t.

Stony with worry and fear, an emotional uprising of my youth surfaced and creeped around at night, sourcing out hiding spots where it could cower undetected. Circles darkened under my eyes, pimples appeared, smiles were forced, fatigue conquered. For the past few weeks, I have not been myself. More appropriately, IT was my young self. The vulnerable child, the angry teen, the broken spirit that sadly piggy-backs them all.

The difficulty of writing my childhood memoir has forced a detour, more aptly, a construction sight. Intended words on paper detailing the events of the little girl I was and formed the person I am has backlashed. I didn’t know she was so rigid, so forceful, so rock hard. She used to be small, fragile, vulnerable, and now she is coming at me with a vengeance.

At night when she appears I hug her. I call her “Sweetheart”. I tell her, “Everything will be OK. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She’s scared. She’s voiceless. She’s meek. And she’s exposed.

And though she has hidden herself amongst my skin, hardened herself in my muscles, buried herself in my shame, I can’t let her hide anymore. She is beautiful. She is true. She is me.

And with any luck, she will be the world’s. I hope you love her.

“I love you. Have fun.” I ended the conversation with my husband while sitting on the couch in my pajamas, envious, but happy for him. He called from Austin, Texas. Neither of us had ever visited the Lone Star state. Why would we want to visit Texas if they only have one star? We live in Big Sky country where the stars are so thick you can scoop them with a spoon and eat them.

A star? A star. A star! So many meanings to the words, a star. A nighttime object, a perfect grade on a school paper, a celebrity. Which star is Texas boasting? Do we get to choose?

While I’m at home ignoring bathing rituals, my husband is on a mission, a mission to live life to the fullest. This mantra, though not included in our wedding vows, is what makes our marriage so strong, malleable, in a way. He’s partaking in the Austin City Limits Music Festival.

Huh? You’re home while he’s there? You’re crazy!

Well, yes, I wish I could be with him, but the kids kind of need a grown-up to guide them through their days. So, while he’s there, I’m here. And when I’m in Iceland, going to Iceland Airwaves, he’ll be doing what I do, though not nearly as well.

It was his idea. Tit for tat. He goes to Austin, I go to Iceland. Fair enough, right? I’ll take it. I’ll grab that lone star and run as fast as I can. That’s how we roll, rock and roll, actually.

Music has always been a priority in our lives, minus the baby years when a show was as foreign as a single star in the Montana sky. We’re ignited through music. It fills our lives, connects us to the world, and while it sometimes brings distance to our days, at the same time, it brings us together. We love to see each other happy.

The benefits of traveling great distances for music, though sometimes difficult and costly, is always worthwhile. We experience the world, we connect with strangers, we participate in life in a way we never could if we stayed home in our pajamas. We meet stars. We are the star. We are united. Isn’t that what life (and marriage) is all about?

Today’s Photo Challenge: Signs

This sign wanted to speak English to me. I wasn’t going to take any of that.