they pay to kiss your feet

since there's no one else around, we let our hair grow long and forget all we used to know. then our skin gets thicker from living out in the snow.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

without completely falling apart.

A close family member was raped by a man who forced his way into her house as she let her dogs out. After he was finished terrorizing her, he continued to breathe a wave of disrespect and pain throughout my neighborhood. His last attack was around the corner from my house.

When you get a call from your dad at 8 a.m. and the first words out of his mouth are “Honey, are you at home? I have some really bad news,” you freeze. The coffee you were drinking gets forgotten and you sit down. When he tells you that she was raped and robbed the night before and that he’d been over there since 2 a.m., you do two things. You lose your breath. And you get angry. Then you decide you have to do something. But there is no manual for what to do when someone so close to you is hurt so badly. So your sister comes over and you decide that maybe the best thing to do is to go over to the house to show your support. And to bring a pizza. When you get there, the police will still be outside, and she will, somehow, still be standing and strong.  You’ll cry because you’ll picture what happened there and also because you’re glad she’s still alive. Although bruised and limping, she’s alive.

As a woman we block a lot of things out. Memories of things that hurt us. Abusive language that was spewed our way. We compartmentalize events so that they don’t seem as bad as they really are – sticking them in sashayed and linen-lined drawers. But when your world is rocked by rape, shit gets unblocked. Things, like letting the dog out become feats of bravery. Sleeping through the night in a creaky old house means your bedtime gets pushed and pushed until eventually, you’re not sleeping at all. You spend hours trying to catch the fucker who dared to tread on your family’s turf. You help organize a reward-raising benefit. You plan, you work, you contribute. Because contributing is easier than doing nothing. Doing nothing might kill you.

And although you keep moving forward, it’s different now. Your drawers are opened, their contents splayed out like wounded soldiers, bleeding and dirty.

I was listening to this song and the lyrics talk about hardly being able to see what’s in front of you – it ends with a haunting echo “oh, God – where have you been.”  A question I’d been afraid to ask. Until then.

I think the answer is that while He didn’t go anywhere, it is no disrespect to allow ourselves to feel pain. And loss. And lost. Because when we don’t let our souls morn, we can’t fully heal.

My innocence was shattered beyond shattered the morning my Dad called me. And that phone call just got tacked on to my list of things I’ve lost. My first marriage was an abusive failure. I can’t carry a child.  I have a chronic pain condition. And while I can wallow, I shouldn’t. I need to realize that carrying a baby doesn’t make you a woman. That successful marriages don’t make you a woman. That respect doesn’t make you a woman.

But courage – courage makes you a woman. And strength. And being able to move over and through. Not getting stuck. Fighting back. Being light.

Radiant, light.

It’s not about how much was taken away. It’s about how much you hold on to. It’s what you reclaim as yours. And even more than that, I think it’s about honesty.

It’s telling our stories. Like the one about my family and my past marriage and my struggle with pregnancy and emotions and anxiety and you know what, I don’t think I’m alone.

Being a woman is about being proud. It’s about looking at yourself in the mirror – all naked and vulnerable. And accepting the scar on your knee, the cellulite on your thighs and the shape of your nose. It’s loving yourself enough from the inside that the outside starts to shine brighter.

It’s taking your drawers and washing what’s inside with forgiveness.

So that when someone calls to tell you that a member of your family has been hurt, you can go to her without completely falling apart.

 *note: this piece was originally published in The Womanhood Project - a compilation of essays discussing the topic of womanhood. you can join the conversation here.


  • At 11:33 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    I would like so badly to put a name with this comment. I came across your blog as I googled something almost a year ago about infertility-- I struggle with it too-- and Lovely, you couldn't be more right. It's about radiant light. It's about telling our story. I wait for your blog posts, every week I wait for your courage because in your little bit of sunshine, I find maybe somewhere behind my own clouds there is also sun. Your words become mine. Your truths, my truths. So all I manage to say is "Thank You". Thank You for your story, for the courage to tell yours, when my own goes untold. You are a radiant light. Thank you for being my sun...

  • At 2:05 AM, Blogger pom. said…

    love this and that comment and always your writing.

  • At 6:36 AM, Anonymous jessi said…

    you made my day. that is why i write. to give words to people who might not have them. to help people feel things. to let others know they are not alone in this common human experience. i'm so glad you found me.
    you have encouraged me to continue with my honesty. thank you.

    and pom, thank you - as always.

  • At 4:15 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    Your post was both powerful and empowering. I found your blog several years ago and have faithfully read your musings, even commenting every now and again. You continually evoke a sense of recognition in me.

    I, too, have a failed first marriage, one broken by addiction and selfish tendencies. The hardest road I walked down for years was infertility, and though I now have a sweet babe to hold in my arms, I will never forget what it felt like to be in the throes of it, nor will I ever forget my sisters still in the trenches. Last year I watched helplessly as both of my parents were each fighting for their lives in separate hospitals. It was grueling...I don't even know how we all got through that.

    Life is hard. But it is so beautiful. And courage is getting up everyday and being grateful for those precious people who you get to go on this crazy ride with.

    Thank you for sharing your story with the interwebs. You touch more people than you even realize.


  • At 10:02 PM, Anonymous jessi said…

    you are welcome. thank YOU for affirming me. this. why i write. that my experiences matter and can help people get through theirs...
    thank you. thank you.

  • At 8:37 AM, Blogger Unknown said…

    Bravo, my friend. Well done. You have successfully reduced me to tears.

    In light of recent events I have been questioning my own "womanhood" and WOW. You hit the nail on the head with everything you said.

    Having baby-carrying abilities doesn't make me a woman any more than having a little grease in my hair makes me a french fry.

    We are SO hard on ourselves, aren't we??!!

    This post is beautiful, and eloquent, and heart-wrenching. I am sending so many prayers up for your relative!!!!

    I must "refriend" you on FB! You were never defriended - I deleted my old account so I wouldn't be tempted to go back to it during Lent!

  • At 8:04 AM, Anonymous jessi said…

    thanks, rach :)

    yes, find me on facebook.
    and maybe we can actually find each other for a real life drink or coffee soon.


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