Jared and I got in a fight today. And the content or reason is not important, nor is how it resolved other than to say that it is over now.
In the process, though, I found out something that reminded me of why Jared is my hero:
Before my October meeting with the man-who-shall-not-be-named, Jared sent said person a message demanding respect for me during said meeting.
Jared never told me a word about it, until the heat of the moment today, when I accused him of never standing up for me against said individual.
And that specific knowledge goes a long way toward both healing last December, and also making me feel very, very, very safe with my husband. It also rather dramatically explains that while verbal harassment occurred in October, physical boundaries were observed.
I’ve long known that Jared will go to bat, at great length, for me.
But knowing that he warned this particular individual as to protecting my safety, regardless of what actually happened, I am certain went a long way toward ensuring at least physical boundaries were observed.
I love my husband. Emotional and physical safety and protection are just two more reasons why. Indeed, they are the whole reason I chose Jared 22 years ago, when presented between the choice of the two of them.
I’ve been pretty strong and determined the last few days; since the 12th, actually. Able to hold my head up and all that. Last night, the facade crumbled.
It all had to do with the newest jute purse. It’s going to be big enough to hold both cameras but Jared makes my liners. And I wanted him to make a round pocket large enough for my GF lenses. It was a random thought I had not long before we sat so Jared could look again at his measurement notes to cut the felt and canvas.
And Jared had reservations about the fact that I wanted the pocket to be round, and I pitched a fit.
Jared said he had been expecting the meltdown, when I came to enough to realize what was happening.
I am so very lucky I married the man I did.
And, I wore my hair in pigtails on Friday and yesterday afternoon. And apparently the trope is universal; a guy on the square gave me a big smile and someone at the football game (a man) “complimented” the style on Friday night.
sigh
It’s been an experiment, this hair thing. Not a sexualizing sort of thing; having even just below chin length hair is still a novelty and it’s fun to be able to do anything different with my hair after years of baldness and super short hair.
But even as strong as I am, I have limits. And the realization that I have been objectified by the person I’ve written about is still very, very painful.
It’s still painful in the same way that the realization that the whole situationship was really one giant trauma bond is.
I am strong, and I put on a brave face. And I never have to see him again.
And that is hard too: working through a trauma bond is a process.
But it’s not the first time I have done this breaking of the trauma bond, even with this person, and I will be fine.
Jared said last night that getting together with him in October 20th was progress; last December I had no earthly idea what to expect. This time, I was prepared with boundaries.
But really: what kind of professional as successful as him (especially in his particular field with the connections he has) meets with someone he at least at one time pretended to care about, knowing this person is on SSDI and is desperate for a job, and offers absolutely zero assistance?
Someone who is morally bankrupt, that’s who.
But then, moral bankruptcy with that particular history is a given.
I like to think the best of people. Maybe that is where I went so wrong.
When someone tells you who they are the first time, believe them.
Because it actually serves this person’s ends and ego to have me in an economically disadvantaged position. I am well-aware of this fact, too.
We were having lunch on October 20. That room-service grilled cheese was among the better grilled cheese sandwiches I have ever had in my whole life— it was a double-stacker with cheddar cheese and despite the room-service delivery, the bread was not soggy at all. Perfect temperature, too. I guess that’s what you get with luxury hotel room-service.
There was a client call to make. I offered to step out of the room. He said it wasn’t necessary. He called two minutes late; I had to remind him he had to make the call because we were busy talking.
I listened as he made the call to the client in question. They were on speakerphone, so I heard all.
And as I sat there chomping on my grilled cheese sandwich, slightly concerned the party on the other end of the phone would hear my chomping, I sat, thinking about the absurdity of it all.
This guy made a power play by giving client advice, right in front of me, on speakerphone.
He gambled that I would remain silent for the call. And, I did.
I did not ask questions. He offered just enough information after the call to let me figure out later exactly who he had been talking to, though.
It was a reckless show of pretend power by a very arrogant man with the maturity of a 11-year old boy, showing off to me.
It reminded me of sitting in his office in the late winter or early spring of 2000, transcribing bits of his cornerstone paper.
It didn’t take me long to realize exactly what had happened, or exactly what it all meant.
It didn’t take me long to realize that we had come full-circle from November 12, 1998.
It was later that afternon that he asked if I wanted to show him the concerning skin spot that led to my recent diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound.
It was later that afternoon that he asked if I ever dressed up as a school girl for my husband.
And it was about the middle of watching the movie “Uncle Buck” with him that I realized the entire situation was absurd; that he was not interested in substantively helping me with my job search or with career advice. He was not even really interested in being my friend.
He was interested in himself. And that was pretty much it.
It’s a tired trope, isn’t it? I mean, isn’t it the most tired, boring stereotype that a lot of men fantasize about being with a school-girl in the bedroom?
Apparently it is something alive and well, nonetheless.
And it never, ever occurred to me, though I suppose it should have, that I have, for the entirety of my adult life, been the object of that precise fantasy. A fantasy that did actually play out in real life 27-22 years ago.
The realization hit me like a mild ton of bricks a couple of weeks ago.
It’s so boring though, isn’t it?
I’m going to talk about something personal here— I mean, we don’t need fantasies or games or role playing fantasies in my marriage. Just saying. That bond is just that intense, that real for us.
So when, recently, the person I talked about in my last post suggested that I should perhaps “dress up as a school-girl,” for my husband…. I remained silent, as I recall, and said no, when he asked if I ever do that.
Because I don’t. The honest truth is, I absolutely 100% do not have to.
Of course, it was none of his business, but that was beside the point. I knew that too, and I know harassment when I see it. I may not have known it 27 years ago at 18 years old, but at 46 years old I 100% do now.
And I recently have actually started wearing my hair in pigtails, actually, at 46 years old.
And I realize I do look slightly younger than my age anyway.
And I realize too that even though the pigtails are legitimately the best way (and most comfortable way) to put my hair up at its current length:
I am aware of the stereotype that hairstyle, especially at my age, feeds into.
sigh
Except when I was an actual college student, I ignored the possibility that I was being objectified.
I was so desperate for positive male attention. I was so very desperate to escape the emotionally manipulative relationship I had been in for so many years at that time that, to be honest: my standards were not high. I was attracted to what I read as confidence at the time, that I so clearly see now was exhibitionist narcissism.
And that’s the honest truth of how I let myself become objectified for so many years: I wanted to only be with one person sexually forever, and it happens that something unfortunate happened and I latched onto someone who objectified me.
And it’s true that that happened to me at age 19 while I was in the midst of a psychotic episode.
And for years, after I realized the truth of that situation in 2010, I really and truly thought I was the defective one.
But that is clearly not the case, in so many ways.
I was ill but I was in no way defective.
My character was not defective. Still isn’t.
Except now I am 46 years old. And I pay close attention to what happens around me. Especially when intimate details regarding my marriage are questioned, except it’s funny because actually, my particular husband would 100% find that particular old school-girl trope completely repulsive.
Because he has no perverted tendencies at all; my Jared is the real deal for sure.
And, you know what? I didn’t actually wear my hair in pigtails when I was in high school or college. I was much more likely to go for a french braid.
So, I am going to wear my pigtails, at age 46.
And I am going to hold my head high, knowing that I stuck up for that college-aged version of myself that didn’t know she needed to be protected.
And I am going to write my stories, and I am going to continue to get stronger and stronger. Because I am no longer afraid; I realize I was never the one that was defective; and I am on a rampage of telling my truth.
