Dear Cary,
I grew up in the home of a raging alcoholic, drug abuser and emotionally and verbally abusive father. For the first 18 years of my life every encounter I had with any man was abusive and violent in some form. I spent my entire 19th year of my life crying, every day, all the time. It finally occurred to me that it wasn't fun being so depressed and that I could change it. I spent the next few years reflecting on all that had happened and eventually taking action to change my situation. I was determined to have a normal and healthy sex life, and good or bad I went about this by a series of love 'em and leave 'em "relationships," the longest of which lasted three weeks. I barely passed high school but started to read quite a bit, kind of a self-education.
At first I faked being happy, and started doing things to make myself healthier. Eventually I didn't have to fake anymore. I made a lot of progress over the years and really broke free of my past when I moved to a small college town out west when I was 22. I rarely even think about how bad things used to be. I am incredibly happy with my life and feel that I am very healthy. I am in college and making straight A's; I snowboard all winter and hike and backpack all summer. I am sure you have heard that you can see the face of God in nature; I am not religious but I found that to be true for me. I don't want to load you down with too much background, but I feel that some of this is likely to still be with me.
I had my first real relationship this year. I dated a man for 10 months; I ended it this October because after 10 months all he could see was that I was great fun outdoors, a blast in the sack and fun to drink with. I wanted more, the whole package, and I couldn't believe that after 10 months this was all he could see. So I ended it.
I started to date a new guy in November. Perhaps that was too soon but it is what it is. This man is wonderful; he's caring, sweet, really good-looking, smart, funny, fun and goofy, a lot of really wonderful attributes. He works in violence prevention and is very involved in the women's movement. He's giving me all the stuff that I couldn't get from my first relationship. It's small stuff but he cuddles, and stays the night, and holds my hand. There are problems, though; the sex is too sweet and caring, he asks me every time if I am sure I want to do this, and then follows up during to make sure I am OK. It makes me uncomfortable and unsure if I do want to do it. I suppose we started being intimate rather fast but I know no other way. I find myself comparing him to the guy I used to date. I want orgasms but he seems unwilling to go down on me, which is the only way it happens for me. It seems that for him sex is about connecting emotionally, for me it is about pleasure. It's strange because he's very affectionate except when we have sex. He has started to be more comfortable with me going down on him, but says that I shouldn't have to deal with that. Will this just get better with time? Have I rushed this? Can I talk to him about it? I've tried talking to him a little about it and he usually says that I am the most open and to-the-point woman he's ever known. Is it too soon to talk about sex?
We went skiing the other day and I found myself comparing him once again to my ex. He's not as playful and it just wasn't as much fun. However, later that night we had dinner and I had a great time and was reminded that I could really like this guy. I am still friends with my ex and we ski together on a regular basis and always have a blast. Is that being unloyal? Can I give my time and joy to my ex and still date this man? Did my relationship with my ex last so long because he kept it so very casual? Am I capable of a real relationship? Should I even worry about any of this?
I hope I wasn't too long-winded. Thank you for your time; I'll appreciate your thoughts on any or all of this.
Finally Having Some Fun
Dear Finally,
Congratulations. You've done remarkably well.
You know, a person could linger on your first sentence for a long time: "I grew up in the home of a raging alcoholic, drug abuser and emotionally and verbally abusive father."
A person could figure, that's all anybody needs to know everything about you. And indeed, while I'm trying to concentrate on your questions and think about your present, I am strongly drawn back into myself, to the dark, heavy center of memory, not because I was abused but because I share some ineluctable consciousness of the Fall.
I'm glad you're having a good time, and I think you're doing all the right things. It's great to be skiing. I'll bet just flying on the snow could keep you happy forever if you could just keep flying down the mountain.
But perhaps because I have a cold, which also keeps drawing me into myself, it's taking everything I've got to stay focused on you, there in your bright and shining ski suit. Regardless of what specific advice I can offer about these men, I want this encounter to be about the rest of your life. I want to give you something, in this chance meeting, that you may think back on years later. And that is this: What I have observed is that the effects of an abusive childhood never seem to go away completely.
I don't know the statistics. I just speak as an observer. I don't even know if it's possible to make statistics on how the immortal phantom of abuse lingers, how much it weighs, what electrical charge it carries, what kind of light it emits. I don't know if the phantom of abuse has any measurable reality at all; perhaps its footprints can be found in an altered brain chemistry. And against what control could we measure it, anyway? Would we not need a duplicate you, raised by a duplicate father except without the alcoholic tirades, the unpredictable departures, the simmering, acid explosiveness?
I don't want to be a downer, and I don't want to condemn you to a lifetime of therapy groups and self-doubt, like a cancer survivor always fearing it might come back. So I can only say what I have observed: Even though you feel you have banished these episodes in your early life forever, you need the courage to always bear them close to your breast, where you can see what they're up to. Because they may be working on you as you age. As surely as early musical training, the early traumas of chaos and abuse are there, a kind of language eager to be spoken again.
If you don't pay attention, in odd moments of stress and overwhelm, you find yourself speaking this strange language without realizing it at first. It's already installed, and there's no tag on it saying "this is your bad experience, don't replicate this." It won't even feel like abuse, because it's such a part of you.
Darn. I don't mean to scare you. I forget what your question was. OK, the new guy: He's obviously not your true sexual mate. You don't click. You need someone rougher, more self-assured. He's too tentative for you. But the first guy probably did not have the complexity you seek. So keep having fun, and keep looking. You obviously have a lot of depth, and a lot of energy to take on the world. The only thing that worries me is what I've seen so many times -- how you can overcome these early events by staying active and alive, but if life takes a bad turn, the only model you have for coping with adversity is this age-old raging father figure.
I'm sorry I got caught up in all this, but that first sentence speaks so loudly to me. Because I assume that you and I belong to a quiet society of secret sufferers, that we recognize each other on the street like an underground, that we know each other to be different because we don't react like others do. We're more driven, more crazy, more desperate, hungrier, touchier, louder, always breathlessly skating on thin ice above the dragon; we know better than to stop skating and sink into the water.
Visualize a loving childhood. Visualize what it would have been like if your father had been a strong, stable, loving, sober man who never left you waiting in a dark parking lot, who never slept the whole day through when he was supposed to do the grocery shopping, who never told you anything but the sweetest words a girl could hear.
And then, regardless of how well things are going, pay attention to how your reactions differ from those of people who were not abused. Watch for signs that this first ugly language you were taught is calling out through you to be spoken.
And if it has to be spoken, speak the vehement words on paper, speak the cruel glances in drawings, play out the tirades in loud guitar chords.
You can be perfectly happy. But the past never goes away completely.
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