I don’t know what it was when I was little, but all I ever wanted to do was play like the boys. Maybe because I had two brothers. Perhaps I secretly wanted to know what made them tick or how they were wired. I was not a tomboy by any means, but I could toss the football, throw a baseball, played a mean fullback in soccer and raced on the swim team. All the while playing barbies, wearing dresses, not by choice, dabbled in makeup and wore mama’s high, high heels around the house.
At that young age, the boys tolerated me because they were my big brother’s friends. Then sometime in junior high boys started acting mean to me. Not all of them mind you, but the ones that obviously “liked” me. That’s the message I was told when one, Kevin something or other, left a stuffed animal (raccoon, I believe) on my doorstep and when I returned it to him, because I liked Gilbert, something or other, he punched me in the eye. I think that meant he wanted to marry me!
What was happening to me, I began to wonder. I watched my only three female role models, whom I loved and adored, (mom, aunt and grandma) interact with the men in their lives. I took mental notes and kept them etched on my brain as I grew up.
Mom was a beautiful teenager when she had my big brother and me. She even married dad, then divorced him when I was two. (abandonment issues begin) Grandma was a loving, doting wife. I wouldn’t classify her as feminist, but she teetered on the brink of it. Then there was my aunt, whom back then referred to themselves as stewardesses, a waitress in the sky. She took pride in her, “coffee, tea or me” oozing with sex attitude, but to you men, don’t you dare cross her! I think she is on her fourth marriage today, but who’s counting?
So what was this young girl to do? I looked to these three beautiful women and entered into my teenage years, loved by them all yet untrained and floundering. See, by 7 mom had remarried the asshole of the year, decade, no, lets just make that the century and call it good. By 10, they had a beautiful baby boy, a new little brother whom I absolutely love. Who knew my mom’s drinking would become an addiction by my 13th birthday and I would continue to grow up learning, through observation and media dictation, about expectations on growing up female.
Next that left grandma for me to continue observing with a watchful eye. I adored my grandpa and thought they were the epitome of love and commitment. They’ve been gone awhile now, but I still hold that vision close to my heart. That may not be the reality, but who am I to mess with it. I’ll leave it where it is, framed in a golden heart forever.
So by now my aunt appears to be the coolest chick on the planet to any young teen girl. How could she not? She was what all the magazines and t.v. commercials told me I needed to resemble and since I had my very own live Barbie doll with an attitude to look up to, that’s just what I did.
Back to my mom for a moment. I loved her with all my heart. We were as close as any mother and daughter could be, until that abusive man continued to ruin the most beautiful lady I had ever known. Today I can look back and sort of realize his frustration with her alcoholism, but I truly loathe that man, so no compassion goes to him. Mom only lived until the age of 41. The year that followed was the most difficult year of my life. That story is another blog all in itself. One worth taking my time on…
By the time I was 20, I met the “man” I would marry, have three sons with and seven years ago, happily divorce. Yes, I quit trying to hang out in the boys clubhouse long before that, but I still tried to figure out their hard wiring. Because of my own fucked up messages from my childhood and lack of direction on how to be a lady, wife or straight up female, I had to wing it. Sex was my best tool and the only means possible, so I thought, to entice and keep a man. Who knew they would come and go as they please regardless. Huh…
Some would say I was blessed with a “pretty face” and a decent body, that I literally work my ass off for today. After all, that is what society has always told me, that the only thing that mattered was how the garden looked, not how rich the soil is.
The message yet again, I didn’t need to work hard, get a higher education and be self-supporting, so I could boost my own confidence and self-esteem. A man would be all I needed to do that for me. That was the hardest, bluest pill = (blissful ignorance of illusion) I ever swallowed.
I was always caught between wanting an alpha and being cursed with a beta. Problem was, I didn’t recognize it when they were served up on a piping hot platter of bullshit and false bravado. They were all the same to me. One day I thought, maybe it was the broken parts of me all along. This is not a self-pity thing, more of facing my own reality checkpoint. How much of my upbringing and misguided learning had I brought to the table in my relationships loaded with expectations that when they weren’t met, I would raise the bar. How many hoops will he jump through? Gross, revolt, YUK!! REBUKE!!
This epiphany did not emerge over night. It took several flushes of the blue pill and many refills of the red pill = (embracing the sometimes painful truth of reality) to embark on this beautiful transformation I have willingly entered into. I thank God for recovery of self discovery. I have learned about the true nature of submission, obedience and respect. The gifts that dove tail are adoration, honor and love.
Sometimes there is just a lot inside this girly brain when she has two claws on the wheel and two dug into the ground and the only way to climb back down is to rant!