My Secrets, Not My Shame
I don’t tell the following stories. Ever. I have never written them but in private letters or my childhood diary. One was splashed all over the newspapers once, long ago - but only the facts, “just the facts, Miss.” I don’t breathe life into these by recounting mainly because they’re painful enough in the transient, surreal images of reliving, that the retelling about sends me over the edge.
Sometimes though, in the sharing of secrets and shame, there is sweet release and revelation, maybe forgiveness, even acceptance. Of course, other times, there is only humiliation and the feeling of wanting to be swallowed up into the center of the earth and… just dead. I’m betting when I hit “PUBLISH POST,” I’ll feel a little of both. And I’ll be better for it.
I was 5 years old. My step-father grabbed my hand and said he was going to read my palm. I was hesitant, wide-eyed, still as a mouse. He dug his fingernail into a crease in my hand and said, “This is your life line. Oh… I’m sorry, but you’re not going to live very long.” His laugh was manic, the way it was very late at night when all was dark and quiet. I tried to wiggle my hand away but he held tight. He traced along another crease in my hand and said, “But this is your sex line. You’re going to have great sex.” I didn’t know that word, but I hated the way he looked at me when he said it.
I was 7 years old. A tall, black boy from the big grades shoved me up against the concrete wall outside the playground. With one hand, he held my neck, and with the other, my crotch. His breath was rank as he whispered right into my face, “I want to fuck you, white girl.” I went home to my mother and asked her what “fuck” meant. She brought me into her bedroom, and told me about the birds and the bees. I sobbed, hysterically, while she stroked my hair.
I was 11 years old. I wasn’t allowed to shave yet because my step-mom said so, but I had the lightest blonde hair showing up on my chicken legs and under my arms, and the boys in intramural P.E. made fun of me about it. I hid from them in the girls bathroom by pretending to my teacher that I had an asthma attack. Funny thing was I never had asthma. Funnier still, I was pretty certain she knew that.
I hated the Indian kids from the reservation because they all hated me. The boys especially were so scary. They spat at me, tossed my book bag on the floor of the bus, groped me when my back was turned; but, one spring during our field trip to Kettleman Hills Waste Management Plant, I let Jake - a 7th grade Tachi boy - hold my hand. The following Friday during our school dance though, he was said to have fingered my best friend Lacey. I didn’t know exactly what that meant but it sounded bad, and Lacey never spoke to me again, so I was sure it was true.
I was 13 years old. I was in the back bedroom playing truth or dare with my best friend Diana (pronounced Deeahna because she was very Hispanic and proud of it, or maybe she was Hispanic and very proud of it) and her big brother Juanito. Of course, being me, I wanted a dare. Juanito thought a moment, turned to his little sister and commanded her to leave the room. She argued. A string of angry Spanish words and a flying book sent her out, presumably to tell her grandmother.
Then we were alone.
He said, “lick it.” I had absolutely no idea what he was referring to. When he unzipped his pants, I was froze, looked away, instantly began to cry. He laughed at me, and told me to get out of his room. He became my boyfriend a few months later. I couldn’t get out of touching it, but I refused to lick it.
I was 14 years old. I was seated outside on the grass at my science teacher’s house while Mr. H readied the lawn mower. He had driven me home after softball practice that evening because my mom, sisters and I were having a crawfish dinner at his place that night. He and my mom were dating. Maybe. I didn’t know. I went inside to use the restroom, and he shouted to use his because the other toilet was broken. I walked through his bedroom and suddenly he was behind me. He took my wrists in his hands, spun me to face him, and asked, “Have you ever been kissed?”
I stuck my chin out and said, “I have a boyfriend.”
He laughed thinly, definitely at me, and I was angry but also embarrassed. He said, “You haven’t been kissed by a man.” He was holding either side of my face then, and without warning, he stuck his tongue deep in my mouth. My whole body shook with shock and fear and disgust and something maybe like desire, but I could feel his mustache and then his hands were kneading the flesh of my barely-there breasts and I was wishing I could die so I didn’t have to know what all of this meant. He shoved me roughly away, and growled, “Get out of here now before I do more than kiss you.”
I ran halfway down the block. I think part of me never came back.
I was 16 years old. I wouldn’t have sex with my boyfriend no matter how much he pleaded with me, because it was a sin. I was waiting until I was married. Jesus had forgiven me for letting Mr. H defile my body and I was born again, washed clean by his blood, a virgin where it counted. Turned out my boyfriend was gay and he knew I wouldn’t even have sex with him, which is why he chose me and pretended to want me and love me and have intentions of marrying me one day. It was a good cover.
I was 19 years old. It was my wedding night. We were in a quaint, little bed and breakfast right down the street from our house. We were both nervous, so we drank beer and played Scrabble. For three hours. As I lay there afterward, I felt disappointed, and proud. Because I had waited. I had voluntarily lost my virginity to my husband. On my wedding night. Then I wept, because I wanted it right back.
I was 20 years old. Nate was a recovering crack addict from my mother’s Narcotics Anonymous group. I wanted to divorce my husband, kill my mother, and run far away from everyone I knew - but mostly myself. So I let him. A few months later, I packed my car, moved to Hollywood, and slept on his friend’s couch for another few months, all the while letting him… I pretended this was my choice, it was freedom, it was me finally breaking free. But I was lying. So was Nate. He was not recovering at all. He stole my wallet. He stole my car. And even then I knew that was the least of what I had lost to him.
I was 23 years old. My mother was dead because I abandoned her. I was hiding from my family, my memories and my guilt down in San Diego - living with my boyfriend of nearly 2 years, playing at a fairytale. I tried to cry it out in the shower, and when he was at work, but the tears wouldn’t stop. He was disgusted by my grief and depression. Toward the end, he wouldn’t touch me anymore. I tried to give him a blow job one night and he stopped me, asked me turn and face away from him. He said he wasn’t attracted to me because he had seen me cry too many times. And I died inside.
I was 26 years old. I was pregnant. The tissue that once tried to murder me from the inside out with its toxicity… the body that was once so broken and emaciated from chemo and whiskey and guilt… the skinny ankles and freckled nose and long toes and smallish breasts I loathed all my life were all rendered irrelevant… because I was a goddess. I adored my soft, supple skin and the roundness of my tummy and the sway in my buttocks. My husband didn’t delight in me anymore, ever, but I delighted in myself enough that I didn’t much care.
I was 28 years old. I wore a tiny black nightie and a shy smile. I sauntered into the living room and stood adjacent to the television where his eyes were focused on some CNN news program that was giving me a headache. I said, “Hey baby. You want to come to bed?”
He looked up. Saw me. But didn’t. He said, “I’m kind of hungry. I think I’d like a bacon sandwich. Will you make me one?”
I stood rooted to the hardwood floor, my cheeks burning with embarrassment, my chest tight with… hurt so deep and fear so vast… but I said nothing. I walked into our kitchen, rejected and humiliated, crying silent tears as I made my husband his sandwich.
I’m 32 years old.
I’m 5’2 and 127 lbs. My hair is wavy, but not curly enough to be pretty, and I’ve noticed some grays - which are really more silver, and I’m glad for that. My eye teeth are crooked. Someone said it gives my smile character, but I always feel self-conscious about it. I have an ass that won’t quit, but my breasts are mediocre at best. I have a garish scar on my right hip, a cigarette burn mark on the inside of my left wrist, and a dark mole that looks like a chocolate chip near my belly button.
This body is mine. It’s mine to photograph, mine to write about, mine to learn and loathe, live and love in.
Yes, I want to be touched. I’ve always wanted to be touched so very much; but, I’ll decide by whom, and I’ll damn sure be more discerning… because a body this strong, this wildly fierce, honest, and wide open as mine deserves to be touched by only the most worthy. Or not at all.
xo. Sara LeeAnn
