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.
Jared and I joke about my “sleep emergency” tendency a lot, both to each other and other people.
But it is a real thing. And it turns really, really dark if I ignore it.
Last night was one such occasion. And it has seeped into this morning.
In a matter of minutes I go from feeling relatively okay about my life to feeling like I am a literal waste of space on this planet.
And, I cry myself to sleep if I am lucky enough to fall asleep.
And the next morning, depending on things, is not good.
This morning, for instance, I had my alarm set to take Oliver to school. And I took my morning meds. But I climbed right back under the covers. I did not go check on anybody. Jared was already up and taking care of things because he probably knew I wasn’t going anywhere this morning.
After tending to me for a few minutes before he left, Jared encouraged me to think of this morning as a “refresh,” not as “hiding.”
We both knew I was hiding.
And, I didn’t go anywhere to help get anyone to school. I didn’t leave the bed until about 9:45– about 20 minutes ago. Jared took the car because it is not good to take Oliver to school on the scooter when it is this cold outside, and Liam drove himself to school in the other car.
And I won’t go into all the reasons my life is sucky right now. I know to a lot of people it wouldn’t make sense that I view it as sucky. But to me, it’s pretty dark at the moment, even as I sit here with my light therapy lamp on.
I try to clean it up sometimes. Both the state of the house and the state of my inner being. It just always ends up a mess again.
Because here’s the truth, for anyone who might actually read this besides the internet bots:
I sit in my house all day, every day, alone. My phone never rings. Ever. Unless it’s Jared or once every couple of weeks, my good friend Dena (who is really one of the best friends I’ve ever had in my life). Or random telemarketing bots. Nobody texts me except Jared, or occasionally Porter, or occasionally every few weeks my friend Sam (also one of the best friends I ever had in my whole life). Or random telemarketing bots. I don’t get emails except group ones related to church, or spam asking me to spend money we don’t have. My own family doesn’t even call or text me, generally.
And I’m sorry: I generally consider myself a decent friend to others.
But in the darkest of the darkness, which now apparently qualifies, I sit here in tears and wonder why, what is wrong with me, that I deserve to spend what should be the prime of my life sitting in my house, all alone, with nobody in the world besides my husband caring whether or not I am lonely at all?
And that, that is why I cry myself to sleep sometimes, saying to myself that life is just not at all worth it. It’s not the severe money problems that I blame myself for because I don’t have a job and haven’t had a good one in over a decade. It’s not the “keeping up with the Joneses” mentality that I have to fight because I was conditioned to be this way from infancy because that’s just how my family of origin is.
And yes. I could get out of the house. But literally anything I would do would cost money– gas money if anything– and we are in such a shape that I cannot afford even random once a week coffee out right now.
I wasn’t kidding– if we could afford to sell the house right now, my dream house– I would. It’s that bad. As I sit here: We have a broken garage door opener. We have plastic over the windows because our energy bills are regularly $350 (more than, it’s $350 because I signed up for flat bill) because we need new windows and new double doors in the living room. We have a dual wall mount oven and microwave combo unit that has had chicken nuggets nuked to oblivion for nearly 3 years in the microwave portion because the door to the microwave stopped working, and then eventually the whole microwave itself stopped responding, but the oven works so we just bought a new microwave to set on the counter instead. The flooring we put in is delicate– we need to have someone come in and repair a portion in a bedroom even though we have the flooring. We have a leak in the shower in the boys’ bathroom. The garbage disposal needs replacing. The air conditioning hasn’t worked in Liam’s car in over a year and a half.
We really cannot afford to fix any of it. And I’m out of expensive toys to sell that won’t harm my mental health.
And there’s more debt than I will name here that we will be paying on for years and years, which is why we can’t just take out loans to fix all of the above.
And I stupidly seek out drama as a way to soothe some portion of myself that feels not alive anyway, as I sit in the house and have no life while the world turns outside. And that drama turns into uninvited harassment, which I then blame myself for having invited the drama into my life all over again. And I tell myself I deserve it.
And I’m sorry: therapy just will not help loneliness. I need more than just the professionals in my life. I need a sense of purpose. I need a decent income. I need a miracle, honestly. I’m not afraid of hard work.
And so I sit. And I cry. And eventually the despair will pass.
And when you see me in public, I will have a smile on my face, and I will say I am better, when you ask how I am doing. And that part won’t be a lie, because I will make myself better in order to even be in public.
And maybe I will be better. Or maybe I just will publicly deny that I know I am headed next time I go home to sit alone while Jared works, while I have nothing to do while my relatively brilliant mind rots away doing nothing except making hand-type crafts which nobody really wants, and typing into the ether that nobody probably reads, either.
Here’s what I don’t talk about with my photography gear…
Probably half the time I have my gear out, I just hold it, sitting in my lap. Not for pictures…. It is my security blanket.
I did it last night at the Marina when I snapped the selfie with Jared, with the X-S20.
This morning on the way out the door to church, I knew I’d want to hold the GFX after we dropped Porter off at UGA this afternoon, so I threw it into my purse. So here it is, now in my lap as Jared drives us back home to Carrollton.
I’m sure I’m not the only person in the world with security blanket-type object.
It’s just that mine have doubled as professional and hobby-type tools at the same time.
I’m feeling fairly anxious this week. I stood up for my 18-23 year-old self on Thursday, and also my 45 year-old self as well.
And then I drove to Athens for my oldest.
And I spent a good portion of the weekend hiding. Because that is what I do.
And I’m probably going to spend some more time in the next few weeks hiding while I try to get my mental health back in some semblance of equilibrium.
I’ve lost my laundry routine since before October 20.
Dishes sit undone for days on end.
It’s been rough.
I’m determined to turn a corner, but for now, I hide.
