Post 250: It’s Raining Men

Anyone else roller skate to this music?

Lately, I’ve been admitting love.

I post love on my blog, on my social network page, and admit love to my friends.

It’s been very freeing and healing.

I’ve also been processing through past relationships with men.

Until last week, I saw myself as a real victim in love relationships.

In the beginning of my “dating” years, which actually started at age five, (No kidding; I always loved boys. My first “date” was at Keith’s house, where he introduced me to his favorite delicacy, peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches. I politely gagged.)….

In the beginning of my boyfriend-girlfriend years, I attracted very safe males: sweet, kind, friendly, and truthful. I was fortunate to have two boyfriends in high school (at separate times), after I moved back to California, that treated me with the up most respect and love. But something shifted at about the age of twenty. Perhaps it was being away from my extended family and not having a father that adored me. Or perhaps the shift was brought on by insecurities surrounding college or finally “growing up.” Regardless, at the age of twenty I began falling for whomever paid attention to me. For seven years my relations with men were bleak and tumultuous.

So often, in my twenties, the man I “chose” was addicted or abusive or both. I felt used physically, and was often dumped out like last week’s beer bottles—left clanging and spinning down a steep hill of depression. For years and years I blamed these men for their character and callousness. I cringed at the thought of these people not loving ME! How could they not? What was wrong with me?

A few days ago, I suddenly had a knowing. I suddenly saw in full picture, a truth. I wasn’t a victim. I wasn’t used and tossed out. There wasn’t a right person or wrong person in my sexual drama. I attracted men at the same level I was at spiritually and emotionally. (I had to leave out mentally, and just giggle. I was always smarter! Lol.)

But most telling, I realized at the center core of me the profound truth: that in fact I USED THEM.

In my mind I had thought that their “crime” was using me physically; and how could any crime be worse than that type of invasion? However, my crime was equal. I was a “villain” too. I used them. I chose to be with a man I didn’t like and didn’t respect, in order to not be alone. I used men!

Suddenly this ah-ha moment swept me away, and time stopped. I traveled back to a dozen relationships, and revisited and swept clean the energy attachment. Within seconds, I’d forgiven the men and myself. The labels were released. The words of scumbag, loser, liar, addict, etc. that I applied to the men, vanished. And then, presto, the labels slut, stupid, blinded, desperate that I’d branded to my energy field disappeared too! I began to see the men as other spirits on their journey. I began to see I was never victimized. I understood that using is using, whether it be of flesh or emotion. And then I released the using label, too. We weren’t using. We just were. We were existing, surviving, journeying. We just were. And so it goes.

Here is a prior entry about my experience with men

(reposted from past entry)

The Dance with Don

(notice the tone of this…written before my ah-ha moment.)

The highlight of my dating career had to be the season I spent with the habitual lying, sexually addicted Don—a spineless man five years my senior who behaved ten years my junior.  At first glance I’d fallen head-over-sandals in love with Don.  The summer day he confidently strode through the Catholic daycare where I worked, I’d tucked myself halfway behind a shelf of books and drooled over his perpetually sun-kissed skin.  He was everything I’d wanted, dark and handsome, and tall enough to look down at me with his bedroom eyes.

The times Don and I were together weaved in and out sporadically through a span of half a decade.  When I first met Don he was separated from wife number one; when I last reunited with Don, he was struggling to patch it up with wife number two.  I was the in-between, but one Don swore up and down he intended to marry.

The majority of our relationship played out like an ill-plotted soap opera, with me as the dimwitted, star-struck mistress and Don as the notorious villain.

There were definite reasons I stuck around. With Don came a familiarity of unpredictability.  He was my locomotive, the one I could catch a ride on and speed through the world with a view I remembered—one of constant change and chaos.

For a long while, I’d do anything I could to win Don over. I’d forgive his shortcomings and mysterious disappearing acts, and demean myself in different ways.

In our first months together, when I was still hopeful, there’d been major red flags.  Don had no home phone number or address.  His scorned, soon to be ex-wife, had warned me to have nothing to do with Don.  And Don’s truck was mysteriously breaking down, in an accident, short on gas, or had a flat tire, many of the nights he was supposed to be with me.

I was good at rationalizing his actions and taking his lies as truth.  I found reasons to stay, like the fact that Father liked Don and that Don eventually showed up.

I was twenty-years-old and newly accepted into the teaching credential program at the university the weekend I learned of Don’s other woman.  It was either the Saturday I’d scrubbed Don’s toilet, or the time I’d obsessively lined his kitchen shelves; no matter, it was the eventful afternoon I came face-to-face with a woman out for blood.

I’d been oblivious of course, hadn’t a clue Don had flirted with a seventeen year old outside of the construction site where he worked, slept with her, and possibly fathered her baby.

For some time there had been hints of another woman.  All along Don had pushed back our framed photos or even turned them face down, forgetting to place them back up in their right position when I arrived.  And I love you posters and cards I had made for Don had been rearranged on the wall or re-taped in another room of his cheap apartment.

The one of many climatic events of our relationship began with a loud knock at the door, an initially startling noise that momentarily displaced me, until I assumed Don missed another rent payment or lost another spousal support check.  By the second series of knocks, I’d headed toward the front door, and would have unlocked the knob, if Don had not, in one swift pull, yanked me backwards by the tail of my shirt and whispered, “Don’t.”

It was then I heard her voice for the first time, a high-pitched scream to the tune of:  “Open the damn door, Don.  I know you are in there.”

I wasn’t that far gone in my oblivion love state, not to recognize the voice of another woman.  With immediacy I scowled at Don like he’d taken my only prized possession, and pushed my palms into his chest, wanting to hurt him like he’d just pained me.

Don stepped back, taking my hands into his, and mouthing, “I’m sorry.  I love you.  I only love you.”  He then released my hands and tugged down nervously on his neon-green tank top. “I meant to tell you.  I swear,” he said, widening his dark eyes in remorse like I’d seen him do a dozen times before. “If I told you, if you found out, I was afraid you’d leave me.  And she was a horrible mistake.  I didn’t want her to be the reason we lost such a good thing.  I love you so much.  You know I do.  You have to trust me.”

Before I could make up my mind about what to do, there was one final series of knocks, and the voice came again, only louder and more determined: “If you don’t open this damn door, I’m going to kick it down!”

What happened next still amazes me, and proves once again the strength that can be found in pure rage.  Within a few seconds of her last knock, there was one heavy kick of her foot, followed by several more, and then, without warning the door broke off of its hinges, the side paneling splintering, and the whole of the door slammed down inside the apartment.

There, amongst the settling dust, in marched a skinny girl, no taller than five-feet, cradling a screaming newborn in her arms.  Boiling with revenge, she charged Don like some creature from a Japanese horror flick, with her arms outstretched growling for revenge.  On reaching Don, she punched him once in the chest and then shoved the baby at him.  “Take her!” she ordered, back stepping and turning her head with a whip of her dirty-blond hair.

From behind the couch, I tracked the baby’s wrinkled arms flailing, and then gasped as the girl moved towards me.  Her eyes were on fire as she shouted at full-throttle, “I’m going to kill you, Bitch!”

Without thought, I ducked around Don and attempted to make my way to the doorway.   Don didn’t waste anytime.  Before I had a chance to maneuver myself around the girl, Don had tossed the baby on the couch, grabbed his bike, carried it down the apartment stairs, and rode off.

For a few seconds both the girl and I stared out the doorway with disbelief, and then we stared down at the tiny infant crying on the couch, until the girl’s raging eyes met mine, and she roared, “You’re dead!”

From where she stood, prepared to launch, I could smell my scent on her, the expensive bottle of perfume I received from my father for my birthday, which had recently gone missing from my bathroom shelf.

As the girl stormed forward, I managed to swerve around her.  She lunged at me, barely swiping my shoulder.  I jumped over a small ottoman, snatched up my car keys and practically flew down a flight of concrete stairs.

In the narrow carport, I started my sedan and backed up.  Just as I was about to turn out of the apartment complex, the frenzied girl’s enormous boat-of-a-station wagon came charging forward and blocked my way out.

Seconds later, leaving the baby wailing on the front seat of the car, the girl marched across the parking lot to my car window and ordered, “Roll down your window!”

Caught between a place of disbelief and hysteria, I shook my head and whimpered, “I didn’t know.  I didn’t know.”

The girl’s face turned from one of frozen-ice to empathetic-disgust.  She tapped on the glass of the window a few times, and then rolled her eyes up letting out a long heavy sigh.  Finally, seemingly understanding my predicament, she waved me off with a shake of her hand, before stomping back to her car.

After she sped off, I remained in the parking lot, uncertain of what I’d gotten myself into, and more uncertain of how I would ever find my way out of my contorted labyrinth.

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18 thoughts on “Post 250: It’s Raining Men

  1. thank you. my past is littered with men, abusive men, that “i used” in the same way. i cannot yet forgive, the cruelty they inflicted, i dont if i ever can. but i have matured to the point that i now realize i stayed with them because i didn’t want to be alone. i’ve had to be alone, to begin to know who i am. me.

  2. Thank you so much for your words! I always kind of knew that those love-disabled guys were reflecting me somehow. What an insight!

  3. Um, you know a, um, book might just be a wonderful thing for you to do. It’s already mostly done on the blog. How could anyone not want to read it. I am mostly amazed, but also grasped full on by the ordinariness of most of the things that happened. It’s the fact that they ALL happened to you that makes me stop and think.
    You have led one heck of a life, Sam. Truly, think about a book.
    Scott- BB

    1. That’s a super kind thing to say. I hadn’t thought about it that way, But indeed a lot has happened to me in my life…and it’s only 1/2 over! (at least that’s what the psychic said..hehehe) I am praying about the book idea. Have been for a long time. Trying to see what happens and working towards the benefit of everyone. Sure was a lovely comment, though. Thank you. 🙂

  4. Yes I agree – a book ! so much to tell. I also agree that we don’t use and are not used – we usually are doing what serves us in some way on our journey, at any given time, in one way or another (unless force or violence is involved). We learn so much in retrospect don’t we sea sis?? xo Sending hugs ~ R

    1. I love how you and kindred spirit and debauchery soup keep mentioning book. It is such a delight to hear. Oh, and I see Deb is too now. Maybe you all can put it together for me?? I’ll pay you. hehehehe I don’t know…I get what you are saying about force and violence, but even that, I wonder if that is not brought on by a vibrational energy I attract. Not that I self-blame or anything. Just processing that one. You are so wise and so get me…how lucky I am…. I will pay you… I’m thinking short story, reflection, poem, for book hehehehe 🙂 hugs you!

  5. Wooooooow Sam, that sounds really crazy. And liking anyone who would give you attention, i can relate to that. Especially with thinking someone was my friend, when they had other things to do. The thing with having Asperger’s when i was younger is that there were things i didn’t know to ask, or that i did not wear clothes that were more tight fitting. I have never dated, yet with the history of people i have liked, one of them had their own issues and were not present enough to be a good friend. They asked if a friend of theirs who made me feel like crap, over to my house with them, yet i said it was alright. They haven’t apologized, which led me to think that i did something wrong, that i needed to be a better friend. My mom and sister tried to tell me that she was not worthy of my friendship, but like you talked about, i would find loopholes like saying “well, yeah, she didn’t call earlier, but imagine walking in her shoes” while i was feeling like crap, on top of being confused about my Asperger’s and what it meant for me. She also told me something relating to me making excuses for me not being honest with her. She did not understand how sensitive i was and already vulnerable i made myself by constantly forgiving her, yet feeling so empty. I convinced myself for so long that i always needed to try harder, put more energy into making a friendship work, but i always did what i knew, not because i could not change, but because the limitations i had with social interaction were not very visible, yet i felt it deeply. And i can understand that pain of feeling like you want to find reasons to stay with that person, yet feeling deep down inside like you need to let them go from your life…like they are eating away at your soul. Bear hugs soul sister Sam and i am happy that you are with a man you love and who loves you, because that is what you deserve more than anything.
    Love and light soul sister,
    ~Maya

    1. I can really understand your frustration and pain. Thank you for sharing with me. It sounds like you have experienced much growth and self-awareness. Thank you for your kind words and thoughts. hugs to you soul sister. ~ Sam

  6. I am loving this post so much!!! Yes, I agree. While some of the things that others have done for me were completely out of line I have been able to take responsibility for the fact that I decided to stay in order to meet my own selfish needs as well instead of breaking it off despite feeling wronged. And I love how you see it as well…that the word “using” implies a black and white division of one who has all the power and one who is a victim. It’s never that simple. It’s a journey and good intent is everything.

    I cannot explain how much you have changed my life already with your writing and sharing your experience. It was the final push I needed to decide that a diagnosis is important for me for my own healing and development and in order to have “proof” for any future medical or mental health professionals I may see in the future. A lifetime of invalidation made me feel afraid to seek a diagnosis in the past but now I see that it is not their fault, they just do not understand that Asperger’s doesn’t always present like the Sheldon Cooper stereotype (especially in women). I feel lighter already. Thank you, thank you, thank you for alchemizing your pain and past into art which in turn transforms the pain of others into healing and feeling understood.

Thank you for your comments :)

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