He Rubbed My Back...

He rubbed my back... several times, often, regularly, as a common occurrence. The type of rub that was slow, that pulled you in, that was the full length of your back. It went slowly, up and down and there was some pressure to pull me in closer and talk about important things. 
These things were so important I had no right to pull back, no right to draw out some space. These things were important and intimate, I needed to come close, so close that I could feel and smell his breath. I could hear the licking of his tongue with his words. It flicked out in between sentences. 
Then I tell myself, what if I am making all of this up? What IF it is my imagination? My perception of the relationship; skewed by poor male relationships built from day one with my most primary one, my father. 
Has that and all that had followed up to this point damaged me this severely that I perceived the Pastor as a pervert?
Yet, my husband saw it. I brought it up, he saw it, and he agreed. On more than one occasion I begged for his protection or defense. 
I was left as wounded prey.
It built up and I eventually shut down and refused to attend anymore. 
Yes, I could have acted in a healthier and assertive way. I can "see" what I could have and should have done. I was not emotionally able. 
Now, I am very reactive to men. If I am shown any interest I sort of reply back like an aggressive dog. 
As far as if this contributed to my fall from grace, no. However, it did demonstrate how fake religious belief is for those in higher position. 
It is power and it is a mask. The ones below are more sincere but more likely to be abused in some form. It did not destroy my faith but it did help open my eyes. 

You are Hurt

I am having a hard time with this. I guess if I were honest, I would have to say that I am in denial. 

I get the daily updates and I see the Gofundme. I am sorry, but I read those updates very quickly. I skim them for the most important parts. You are alive. 

Then I think of you throughout the day. I imagine what you look like lying there. I imagine the beeping of the machines, the shuffling of nurses, the cold and uncomfortable hospital chairs. In my mind I am pacing.

I do not know what to say to you. Do I tell you everything will be alright? Will it? What does that mean? What does that look like? What if it will not be alright? I cannot say it. I cannot say it if there are still too many questions and unknowns. Where are you? Are you present in your body? Can you come back? It has been a series of holding my breathe, then crying, then being corrected on information, then holding my breathe again.

Yes, I am angry. Yes, I am sad. Yes, it is hard for me to have hope. No, I am not a neurologist. No, I do not understand what is happening.

I have seen several gofundme fundraisers for very serious causes. This time, it is for my family, for my cousin that was really raised next to me like a sister.

They have described your state as a “vegetative state”. Those words are blaring in my head. They are like a revving motor or a sounding horn that never lets up. Everything I am doing those words are echoing in the background, “Vegetative State”. Honestly, with all the progress in medicine they have not come up with a better fucking phrase!?

Yes, I am in denial and I am angry. I am accepting it from afar. I am over 13 hours apart from you; I have not seen you, how can it possibly sink in? I have my moments of breaking down, of crying, of hurting, however I pull it together real quick. I put it right back together into pieces of anger and tension.

The Story Begins

I wish that I could do THIS. Write and be organized. I wish that I could start from the beginning, tell you what happened, and then finish at the end. I wish that it made sense, that I were chronological, that I were logical. 
Alas, it is I. I jump, weave, tumble, tunnel, and end up having to go back with my tale between my legs. I not only missed it, I forgot the point completely. 
A lot is going on in the present. Yet, I am thinking of the past. 
I am wondering if I will ever "write that book". If it is even humanely possible. 
Would I need an elephant tranquilizer to quiet and slow myself into production? 
Tonight, I am thinking about "the book". 
I am thinking about the process and all of the parts that I cannot leave out. When is the last period dotted? The last thought grappled and freed? Is it for me or is it for an audience? Does anyone want to read a word of it? 
I guess that is not important. It simmers, it boils, and it wants to come out. The stories, the images, and the imprints. I can hear voices, these memories are sharp. They want to come out and breath and be known. I will tell you and I will tell myself that is ok in the process. 

The People in Your Neighborhood

I started my day at CARMAX having my car appraised and bought. The salesman that helped me was a wonderful encounter.

I would say he was in his 20's, this was his second job, and he immigrated from Pakistan at age 12. I ate up every word. I asked about the immigration process, about his IT career, about Pakistan, about the role and expectation of women in the culture. 

He will be getting married in the next year to a Pakistani woman. She will immigrate, she does not know any English, she is studying pre-med now, and it is arranged.

I knew it was likely an arranged marriage, so I asked. He said yes. and then I proceeded with all types of follow up. I am not judging. It is culture.

If you never take the opportunity to travel abroad, then you are more likely to be ethnocentric. You would be thinking your county is King that knows all things perfectly. That doesn't sound like American Mentality at all!!!

He said he prefers the arranged marriage concept. It takes the heartache and trouble out of the dating equation. 

In the time that my car was evaluated I went halfway across the globe in conversation. His name was Ali. 

At the end I asked if he got a cut from CARMAX purchasing my car. He replied that he did not.  I boldly said, "and you still talked to me that entire time!". He could have sat me in the waiting area. He knew I was not buying from them. 

What a great opportunity I had to share that conversation. 

Ask questions, care about people, and learn. 

Inner Musing

What is this body like? It is certainly not “home sweet home”.

Sometimes I move so fast I do not know where I am,

and sometimes it is a foreign land.

I am going through the motions of being an adult;

paying the bills, clocking in, sharing a smile and a laugh.

Ultimately, it is awkward. I am settled to a solitary life. 

Some people just cannot fit.

Some people just survive, and give, and pet their dogs.

It has been over thirty years, I do not see things changing.

They are actually becoming more solid, more routine, if one can get used to alienation.

I come and I go. 

I make the decision, I take the action, but in the end, 

I feel awkward.

Separated from my skin, separated from my being, 

not sure who is talking when I speak.

My peace is the safe moment in my home, my peace is the safe moment I share with those I have known the longest. 

I rest in you. I rest for a moment in my dear friends, in my mother.

A moment, an hour, but hardly a day. 

I become tense. I question my movements. 

It starts all over again. What is progress? What will 60 or 70 feel like? Still like this? I hope not.

The Shadow of Grief

I hear your steps, at first it is normalized. Then, I make a quick hard turn in that direction.

I can hear step, step, step. I can hear your laugh, I can see you tip your head back, I can see the finicky things you would do with your fingers.

I can see your fingers. I can see the shape. The rounded, narrow, almost like a child's fingers. I hear your laugh again. I hear the step, step, step.... It is just my memories.

The sound of my memories.

Fleeing, leaving, coming, and haunting. I shake it off, I shake you off, I do not have time for this. I do not have time to hurt, time to feel, time to remember, time to listen to your laugh, or the step, step, step.

This could have been our time, our time was always going too fast in the wrong direction. I can see your walk, I can see you walking away from me, your unique gait. Your clean shoes, your hats, your scarves, your fierce ideas.

My intense, solitary Jeff, I keep saying your name. As if you will reappear if I say it in a certain sequence, or as if I can make myself disappear. I lost more than a piece of me. Much more.

Untitled

I look at myself, from the outside looking in. Maybe I should try from the INSIDE looking out. I ask myself, can you love in a relationship? It causes stress and conflict. All in the same hour I feel I am falling, I'm relaxed, hopeful, I feel at ease, affectionate, the world stands still, I see him, I want to drink him up. I want to understand and communicate kindly, care for him, make him feel like the king of the fucking world. Suddenly, I have a whiplash reaction. I am scared, I want to be alone, I cringe at touch, I become critical, I refuse to let myself depend on another person. I am terrified of the future, I want to run and stand at a far distance. This all happens so fast and back and forth like the rocking of a boat on a subtle and dangerous sea. I find myself holding onto the side, gripping it for dear life. In actuality there is NO danger, it is just a steady rocking cradle. I am panicking. I throw myself over and into the waves, no life jacket, no bouey, and while all backs are turned. I rather fall beneath this water to my own demise, on my own terms, by my OWN hands. Maybe it would have been something, maybe it would have been stable and loving. But how can ANYTHING be stable with me?! Either I will ruin it or you will add to my ruin. I do not even take a full breathe, I breathe out and sink under.