, , , ,



These thoughts torment me, and I feel the Lord pressing in hard on me, telling me to share them.  It’s as though I have bionic hearing, and I keep picking up on another frequency.  Everywhere I turn I pick up on bits and pieces, hints that these kinds of thoughts are tormenting others.

These are the deepest wounds and the thickest scabs that I’m about to pull off.  Stand back.  They are horribly infected and stink.

I struggle with my ugliness.  It confronts me all day long–every time I look in a mirror and every time someone else merely glances my direction.  I am acutely aware that they see my ugliness.

When I wrote Beauty and the Beast Mikafry commented in part, “Here’s an interesting piece of advice featured in the October 2012 issue of Oprah magazine:

According to Gail Saltz, MD, “Sex researchers have found that one of the biggest turn-ons for women is feeling desired. So believing that you’re desirable is key. Choose a part of your body you admire. It might be your eyes, your hair, the curve of your calves. Now focus on that part in your mind and ‘see’ it the way your partner…” (or someone else if you don’t have a partner right now) “…would see it. It may feel silly, but imagine he’s thinking, Wow, I want her so bad.”

So, I’m taking that to mean we feel most beautiful when we feel desired?  We desire intimacy when someone is admiring and wanting us?  If that is indeed what that is inferring, it cannot mean someone simply wanting to hump our leg.  It must mean someone seeing UNIQUE beauty and desirability in us as an individual and longing to experience our unique beauty intimately.

Well, there’s the answer to my problem, and it’s insidious and evil.

As I’ve shared before, my dad often said things like, “Women are only good for one thing, and most of them aren’t good at that,” and, “If I could lick myself like that dog I wouldn’t need a woman at all.”  My mom constantly told me from the time I was small, “No man will ever want you except for one thing.”

On one hand, my dad was teaching me that I only had one desirable thing and, on the other, my mom was teaching me that was the only thing someone as ugly and bitchy as me had to offer anyway, as though other women did have something more to bring to the table.  It was confusing to a child.

I saw more pornography before I was nine than I would imagine most adults see in a lifetime.  My mom showed me pictures of naked men, naked women, and various combinations of sexual activity.  She would sit at the dining room table with the magazines and the women spread wide open while she critiqued each one’s body. She would point out tall, thin women (the body type it was obvious I was going to have) and tell me that men don’t like the way those women look.

As a child it was weird to look at other people naked or see what they did with their private parts.  I was raised on a farm and saw animals bred all of the time, but there was something different about seeing human beings doing that stuff to each other.

Since I didn’t have anything else to offer anyone I guess my mother thought she’d help me out.  She’d give me a “leg up” on the competition.  I was eight years old when she brought out a pornographic magazine, laid it on the table, and told me to sit down in a chair facing her.  She had two fudgcicles in her hands.  She unwrapped one and, using her mouth, formed it to look like a penis and then handed it to me.  She did the same thing to the second one.  Thus, began my instruction on how to perform fellatio properly.  I could deep throat and perform a butterfly flick but didn’t have my multiplication tables memorized yet.  At Christmas time I had my first test. I was given an extra large candy cane pillar and told to deep throat it and mark it with my teeth.  She had one for herself, and she did the same thing.  My test was to see if I could mark mine lower than my teacher could hers.  All I really wanted for Christmas that year was a Chinese jump rope.

This early sexualization made the whole thing very dirty and nasty, shameful.  It was also terrifying because it was made to seem like a competition.  I knew when I grew up I would have to be better at it than the next gold digger or whore if I wanted to keep a man’s interest.  In high school my friends couldn’t wait to lose their virginity and giggled and whispered, speculating about men’s bodies and the act itself.  I’d seen the pictures and the movies; there was no mystery to me, just fear I wouldn’t measure up when the time came.

Obviously I didn’t because my football player boyfriend plied my virginity away from me with smooth, sweet words and then dumped me.  As I’ve shared before, that threw me headlong into every bottle of booze I could get my hands on.

One night about a month after R broke up with me I heard about a party in town at the house of a couple of older guys.  The words “free keggar” drew me like a moth to the flame.

As I stood in the old, dumpy white kitchen drawing beer into my little plastic cup a very good looking guy, another football player, struck up a conversation with me.  I knew him casually but didn’t consider him a friend.  He leaned against the counter in a James Dean stance and then leaned forward, grabbed my cup, and finished filling it for me.  We had been chatting for a bit when suddenly blue and red lights swirled all around the house.  He grabbed my hand and pulled me out the kitchen door.

He had a large cargo type van, and we hid in there waiting for the police to leave.  We were squatted down, watching the whole scene through the two small windows in the back of the van.  I remember turning to him to ask him if he thought it was safe to go back, and he was already looking at me, smiling.

The next thing I remember is waking up to the most excruciating pain I think I’ve ever felt in my entire life.  Every bit of my clothing was off.  I was on a couch in the back of that dirty van, and he was crushing me.  I could see a dirt bike; that must have been what he slammed my head against to knock me out.  That must have been what was causing this absolute mind numbing pain in the back of my head on the left side.  He was a huge farm boy, about 6’4″ and probably close to 200 lb of solid muscle.  You know, the kind of guy that was roping steers at 4.  I tried with all of my might to push him off of me, but he kind of lifted me a bit by the shoulders before slamming me back down into something on the arm of the couch.  I went out again.

When I woke up I was on the cold metal floor of the van, behind the passenger bucket seat.  He was urinating in my mouth and on my face.  I was gagging.  But, this time I could hear someone.  I could hear screaming and banging.  It was my friends I came to the party with!  They found me and wanted to leave.  However, they thought I was in there of my own volition and were angry with me.  The sounds of their voices gave me the strength to scoot nearer the seat.  I put my foot up to the window, so they would know I was in there.  He pulled on me.  I yanked back and kicked at the window.  That caused them to realize that I was not there because I wanted to be.  They began hitting the windows and trying to jimmy the door locks.  At the sound of their frantic attempts, he let me go.  I saw my jeans but didn’t see my shirt or my shoes or my underwear anywhere.  I managed to get the lock pulled up on the passenger door, and my female friend helped me out.  I’m not sure if she saw my bra or if I did, but one of us grabbed it as she pulled me from the van.

I was completely incoherent, and I think my friends thought I was drunk.  My female friend helped me get into my bra and jeans, and we hurried into my male friend’s truck.  I was torn so badly that I had absolutely no bladder control and urinated in his truck.  I couldn’t walk for three days due to the searing pain from the tears.  I stayed at my friend’s house, and she made me tomato and rice soup while I recuperated.  Until that weekend I had hated tomato soup but to this day when I’m sick or hurt, I want tomato and rice soup.

The farm boy/football player showed up at her doorstep the next day with the rest of my clothing.  He wanted to see me, but she told him no.  I could see him trying to peer around the door, and, again, he was smiling.

We told no one.  It was ten years before I recognized that experience as rape.