For too long I have been silent. I have taken so many things in, held them close, and there they’ve stayed. I have decided that those days are over.

After I posted about my imperfections yesterday I found myself in a very pensive sort of mood. For me, it was a good thing. So I shifted and sorted my thoughts. I looked at each and every thought, every feeling and tried valiantly to give it its own place in the archive.

The things that Sperm Donor did to me do not define who I am. He did those things to me. I didn’t ask for them. I didn’t “seduce” him the way he tried to tell the court that I did. It has been a very long time, but now I’m pissed and I’m calling bullshit.

I was a child. What two year old could be so overwhelmingly seductive that a grown man was compelled to abuse her? None. Two year olds are NOT sexy or seductive. They are innocent and in need of protection. They are precious.

For far too long I have sat back and let the past exist without setting the record straight. I don’t know what I’ve been so afraid of. It’s not like I’m two anymore. The days of playing his victim are long over. I was a helpless child then and I couldn’t do anything about the things he did to me or to my mother.

It’s over. The abuse, the inferiority complex, the silence. All of it ends this very second.

I love that you come here to read what I write. I like knowing that sometimes my words reach people in very positive ways. For that reason, I have to say this, so please understand.

This is my life. However long or short it may be, this is my life. Finally, at the age of thirty-one I am ready to set the record straight. I am ready to speak up.

I will write about real life. I will write about reality and the difficulties that come with being married. Maybe I’ll even write about really hot sex with my husband again.

And I’ll write about Sperm Donor. I’ll write about childhood abuse. I will take off the gag and break my silence.

These are my stories and they will be told.

Email this post

It’s the one thing I’m not. The list of things that I’m not is much longer than all the things I am. As much as I would like to say otherwise, that’s just the way it is. Instead of fighting it, I have accepted it.

Sperm Donor fucked me up. Not for a little while. Not just in my sexual relationships. The things that man did shaped every facet of who I am in ways that I am just now beginning to understand.

As my father, as someone who was supposed to protect me, he failed in the most basic way a parent can fail. His actions violated my physical self as well as my mental self. Every single time he molested or raped me he promised that it would be the last time. He lied to me time and time again.

Not only did he lie to me, he played head games. I would fight him, yell and scream that I hated to be touched but he didn’t listen. Instead I was told that no one hates it, that I really liked when he violated me or took the time to (supposedly) school me in the ways of adult relationships.

I learned not to trust my body. I learned not to trust men. And I learned not to trust myself.

So here I am, all these years later, and what has changed?

Thanks to cancer, all the work I did on accepting my body, etc. has come undone. Oh, I’m trying. It’s just a very dificult thing to do.

I still don’t trust men. Or women. No one in positions of power. I try to develop healthy relationships with healthy boundaries but who am I fooling? I don’t leave my house except to go to the doctor.

The most terrible part of this is that I don’t trust my husband. I trust him more than I trust anyone else in my life, but only so far. And he knows it.

You know those exercises where they have you turn your back to a group of people then ask you to fall into the crowd, trusting that they will catch you? It would never happen. Not even with the man I’m married to. He is absolutely right to be angry and frustrated.

I don’t know that I will ever trust myself. Even if I go into remission, I will worry and wonder if it was what I was supposed to do. Was I meant to live? What if I wasn’t? What if my living took away someone else’s life?

I know that I have so very much to be thankful for. And I am. In ways that I can’t even begin to find words for, I am so thankful. I don’t take this life for granted.

I just know that I’m living on borrowed time. I want to spend it healing. If and when the end ever comes I want to meet it head on knowing that I have made my peace. I want to know that I have beat the odds that Sperm Donor stacked against me and come through on the other side with my sanity intact.

And I know I will never ever be perfect.

Email this post

I’m thrity-one years old. I have been married twice. I have two incredibly gorgeous biological duaghters and three incredibly boyish not biological sons. With my bare hands I have wiped away tears, wiped runny noses, stitched wounds, rescued beads from noses, dug for clams, and saved lives. I am not without reasons to feel okay about myself.

So why is it that when Mama comes to visit I feel like an inept child?

My parents were here with us this weekend. I love when they visit, even if it means that I probably don;t rest the way I should. I like having them here because I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like.

For the most part the weekend was fine. Quiet. Uneventful. Just the way I prefer it. I’m not a big fan of feeling pressured or being on the go from sun up to sun down, even when I had the energy to handle it.

I know my mother means well. I really do. The thing is, sometimes her best intentions miss the mark so completely that you can’t tell anything good was ever supposed to come of it. {I can this and not feel guilty about saying it because sometimes I have the same problem.}

It seemed that every time I asked the kids to do something, she questioned me. Every time I told them no or set a time limit or some other thing, she had something else to add. Even in the middle of a very intense heart to heart talk she had something to interject!

You have to understand that I have discussed this with my mother in great detail. She has always done this. It has always made me crazy. I told her again on Friday night that I want her to be proud of me, etc. but that I don’t believe she is. She says the words and tells me how wonderful I am, what a great woman I’ve become and how very proud she is of me, but it doesn’t ring true. Because she still second guesses and criticizes me.

How is that being proud of me?

No matter what I do. No matter what I say. No matter my age or my survivability. I have to accept that as far as my mother is concerned I will never ever be good enough.

{By the way, for those who have asked why I don’t submit stories to various publications, etc. this is why. My mother says to do what I want, that it’s my life but I know she doesn’t mean it if it means I’m writing erotica. Or posing naked. Or speaking frankly with our kids about sex. I don’t need to do yet one more thing to make my mother ashamed of me.}

Email this post