Sunday, February 12, 2012

True Love

Warning-Sexual Content


I am 16 years old.  I am in love.  He is a Pastor's son- impressive and attractive with the stuff of true rebellion.  He doesn't care that my hair is greasy, that I am not like the other girls who are endlessly cheerful, well-dressed- who come from the families he sees in his father's church.  He likes me- he loves me, because I am not any of that.  I am the  Nancy to his punk-ish Sid.  Together, we are grungy and edgy and, by a landslide, we have established the upper echelon of coolness at school.  We are half-way through  our sophomore year in high school- no longer babies- heady with divinity.  He has seen me through things that I am sure he never would have imagined taking part in- my step-father's insanity, my mother's frigid detachment, deep gashes and scabbed-over words carved into my flesh by my own hand, shrouds of long bulky thrift clothes covering a boney body that refuses food- a wild-child who is willing to follow love, no matter where it leads.  We have had our first drinks and smokes together. We have stood united against our parents in defense of our star-crossed love. He is the devoted keeper of my first real kiss- the one who makes me want to surrender my heart.  He is the first person I have ever trusted.  We are united in our disdain for my parents and they hate him, and I like that just fine.


We have spent stolen time in his father's church doing felonious things by church standards.  We have kissed, we have petted.  I have showed him the things I know. I assume that every male who loves me will receive the specialities of my long-term call of duty. With him, I like it because he does not demand it and is gracious for my gifts.  I have done these things to him whilst on my knees in closets, stairwells and on the pulpit.  I am a product of degradation yet I know no shame.  I am proud that I know how to make him happy- how to keep his love close.


There is one thing we have not done yet.  Though I know he loves me, this will deepen our covenant.  They say blood- pacts do that and I know that when we make love, there will be blood.  It is going to hurt.  But as we say goodnight in my car in his parent's driveway, somehow all of that is overshadowed by the last fifteen minutes of forbidden rapture.  My skirt is lifted, his pants are undone and somehow this is the perfect time and place. 


He enters me, and there is a keen sensation, but there is no pain.  A meadow of butterflies and leaping grasshoppers blooms inside of me- I wonder how this could be painful to anyone.  I laugh as we finish our awkward entrance through the portal of immaculate youth to the divine discovery of affairs perhaps too grown up just yet. 


At home, I check my car seat for blood and find nothing, nor do I find any on my skirt or body. I do not feel the wound between my legs that I had expected. I know there is something strange about this, but I consider myself lucky as I go about getting ready for bed.  It is as I have pulled the blankets over my body and have allowed myself to accept slumber that I am washed by an unforeseen storm.  Flashes of light that expose specters accompany the tempest of a memory I have long held at bay.  Now I feel the pain between my legs. Now I feel the warm blood oozing from me.  I feel it dried and crackled between my legs as I rock myself, a young girl of nine years, broken too soon.


...

Some information about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder:

About Recovered memories (includes controversy over whether they are repressed memories or false memories):



6 comments:

  1. This gives me chills. It follows exactly how it went with "K", no pain. I didn't remember anything else may have happened to me until later on. I can't believe you and I had the same expectations, yet thought it was no big deal...and then we remembered.

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    1. It was one of my first recovered memories- not fun. I wonder if this story rings true for a lot of abuse survivors?

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  2. I can relate with one thing.As a child with "Daddy issues" I relished in what I could do for the boy that I loved, who loved me, who was so grateful for the things I did for him. I know that feeling. the power, the appreciation for the appreciation. I was thirteen the first time I had sex.I needed the approval. I needed that male that chose to love me. When the one that was supposed to didnt. I remember feeling that this was the way to make him love me and never want to leave. sigh...

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    1. I was lucky that he was my best friend too. He did not take advantage of my screwed up head. He was a comfort and thank God , because I would have retreated further into my psychoses. Unfortunately he was an innocent victim and put up with a lot of my insanity. His family had to allow him to learn on his own that he could not fix me. He is still a wonderful friend of mine to this very day.

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  3. preacher's sons, love rebellion, parent's disdain. being accepted for who we are. saying 'fuck you' to those who doubt it's intensity, even it's reality. these are things i knew. things i relished in. they have served me well as i have gotten to know who i am in these last 30 years. and they're why i love me. k

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    1. Yes, I suppose that punk-ass anarchist of a teen that I became served me well. I am not and I suppose, in thinking about it, never was one to lay down and take any crap for long after it dawned on me that things were terribly wrong. It is interesting to me how different personalities make for different healing processes. I came out like a screaming banshee. And I am going to keep making noise until our culture is roaring right along with me and you and all of our healing brothers and sisters.
      I love that you love you. That is something that makes my heart strong. :)

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