Sorry, this is going to be another trauma post.
Today I had a new patient visit with a primary care. I had asked about getting a bone density screen, and we needed to establish reasoning as it generally isn't covered until 65. My new doc asked if my mom had early-onset osteoporosis, and I told her that when my mom was 57 she broke her wrist and the ER had told her then that she had osteoporosis. After I left that appointment I was thinking, "oh yeah, and then she broke her arm a couple years later...". Only "she" didn't break her arm that time, her boyfriend did.
The boyfriend who moved in with us when she and I moved back to ND at the end of my junior year.
The boyfriend who, that summer, would rub up against me to feel my breasts.
The boyfriend who, after I moved out would frequently tell people at the bar that I needed "to have (my) cherry popped, and (he's) the one to do it."
The boyfriend who threatened to kill all of my mother's children in a "blood bath", and save her for last so she could suffer knowing all of her children were dead.
It was a few weeks after that last one that he went from being my mother's boyfriend, to being her husband. Nice guy. But, I digress. It was number 3 on that list that hooked me today. But before I get into that, a little side note from my therapy session yesterday. We've been working on an incident for a while, and I've been really struggling with "it was my fault because I didn't stop it." Now, cognitively, I know that I was in a situation where I was at a power-disadvantage, and that I tried to divert this individual, but that self-blame piece runs deep. So we explored that a bit, and the first time I remembered feeling like it was my responsibility and fault was when I was a kid and this couple would visit. The husband would always make a bee-line for me and tickle me, like the relentless, painful tickle where you can't breathe. I fucking hated it, but I couldn't escape this giant man. After they had left from one of their visits my mom said, "I don't like it when he tickles you. Don't let him do that." Here's the thing; I wasn't "letting him", and I sure as hell didn't want him to do it. But that message made it loud and clear that it was my responsibility to stop him, and if I didn't, it was my fault. I still tried, and still failed. He sure as hell wasn't listening to "no", and he'd just chase me down when I tried to run away.
Fast forward to my mother's boyfriend/husband. It was her who pointed out that her boyfriend was feeling up my breasts when he rubbed against me, and it was her who put the responsibility on me to not let him do it. It was my mother who informed me about his statements about popping my cherry, and again I was responsible for making sure he didn't do anything to me, while at the same time telling me that I needed to give him a hug and tell him I loved him every fucking time I visited. (Side note: Fortunately, in the fall after HE moved in, I moved in with my alcoholic father. For many reasons I'll go in to another time, it may have seemed like a bad idea to move in with my dad, but holy shit did I dodge a bullet by moving in with him, and away from HIM!)
Now, for what hit me today. I've always been grossed out by what he said, but as I watched the memories roll by today it hit me, "Why the hell did he think I needed my 'cherry popped'"? What exactly was it about me that made him think this was a necessary thing? Why the fuck was he even thinking about my virginity? And I thought about the violence behind that particular phrase that is so flippantly thrown own.
POP. verb
1: to strike or knock sharply: HIT
2: to push, put, or thrust suddenly or briefly
3: to cause to explode or burst open
A grown ass man, 30 years my senior, not to mention being MY MOTHER'S BOYFRIEND was going around telling other men at the bar that I needed my virginity raped out of me by HIM. (Lets not pretend it would be anything other than rape)
And my mother reminded me regularly that it was my responsibility to make sure it didn't happen.
And I wonder why I spend so much time in therapy trying to unravel the knots of self-blame for things that were done to me without my consent by men who had more power than me.
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