After Paul moved and I turned sixteen I had a new set of rules. Never, ever tell anyone about the sex thing. I prayed somehow my hymen might grow back. Never tell anyone that I was taking tranquilizers. This was a secret like Dad's depression. Never tell my parents anything I did not think they could handle. Dad was obviously quite ill at this point. Mother had high blood pressure and constantly looked like she might burst. She was always red in the face and wringing her hands. Brother had started college the same year I started high school and he was on the road to the first of his many college degrees. My parents were very proud of him but it was necessary to remind me how very expensive this was. Dad wanted everyone to know college was a financial burden.
I developed OCD. I don't think OCD was an actual disease diagnosable by a mental health professional but I definitely had something. My life became ritual, repetition, pattern, omens and signs. I had to walk a specific number of steps across the street. Things were done only in a certain order. I had to answer the phone by the second ring. I had to hear a certain song on the radio or bad fate would befall me. Certain clothes promised a good day. Certain clothes I hid from view if I had worn them on a bad day. Some days I would have time in the house to myself. Mom and dad would leave and I would check all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked. Then I would check them again. Then I would check them again. Then I would stand in the living room and yell, "the house is mine!!!". Soon everything had to be done in threes. Three seemed to be what worked. Five became evil for some reason. I did realize that this behavior was not normal so it became something else I hid.
Paul called once to say "Hi, you're not pregnant are you?" He went on to tell me how all the chicks in California were on the pill. How very nice for him. Dear God, after you strike him fat and bald please make him blind too. I did not know the word impotent.
I somehow passed all my classes and would be a Junior. My mother was so relieved she cried. And cried. And cried. Callie and her most perfect boyfriend Alan were pre-engaged. They graduated in 1969. I had started dating Alan's friend, Ringo. Alan was every mother's dream for their daughter. He was kind, thoughtful, considerate, sweet, polite, genuine and he adored Callie. They were adorable together. They even argued about cute things. Once it was about the lyrics to Spill The Wine. Alan was a music guy. He too had been bitten by the Beatle bug. I loved Alan. Callie's family loved him. It was perfect. Ringo was much like Alan. I felt safe with him. Sex was not an issue. Where I saw "Slut" on my forehead he saw "Jail Bait". My parents approved of Ringo. Although he was even older than Paul he seemed safe. He was safe. He was also a generation older than I was. I wanted to let my hair down and Dance to The Music, discover marijuana and be a hippie. He wanted to have a glass of scotch, listen to Frank Sinatra and be a member of the Rat Pack. (As an aside: Callie and Alan have been married almost 40 years and have two fabulous daughters. Told you they were perfect).
That summer passed and school started. I acted my way through the days. Smile, be cheerful, be funny, say "HI" to people I knew. Avert my eyes when the real cool kids walked by. I made myself very, very small in class so I would not be called on for anything. I learned how to artfully change the Ds on my report card to Bs. This saved me many days of my mother loudly mourning my lack of intelligence.
I don't really remember my junior year. I do not know what classes I took. One year I took Speech and Debate or Debate was part of Speech. I took English. I wrote a doctoral length thesis on the Simon and Garfunkle song, The Dangling Conversation. That song encapsulated my life in so many ways. I did start to smoke marijuana some time in high school. I think it was my Senior year. MUCH better than tranquilizers.
I remember the day I had to meet with the school counselor to discuss my future. I explained to him or her, do not remember, that I had no future and to please just come up with what I had to do to graduate with emphasis on electives. Typing was a must said the counselor. I was going to be a secretary.
I remember the day mother came and picked me up a school. This was usually reserved for days it rained or when it was real cold and windy. I remember this day being sunny. I got in the car and she started immediately. "Brush your hair it looks messy", put on a little lipstick you look pale, straighten up a little, tuck in your blouse". In my usual sweet way I said something like, "what is your problem? so now I have to look a certain way to ride in your precious car?" I think I growled at her then and muttered something about stupid under my breath. We pulled in the driveway and I got out of the car and slammed the door. I walked through the garage and opened the door in to utility room. I walked through the kitchen into the den and then I stopped breathing. I stopped moving. I stood frozen in one spot. Everything had a wavy halo effect around it. Time stood still. I was at a loss for words though my brain was screaming things at me to say. The Beast laughed with new vigor.
Paul was sitting in the rocking chair.
Now I had been having non stop conversations with this man in my head since he walked out of my life. These conversations went from one extreme to the other. I could see myself at his feet pleading to tell me what I had done. "Why? Why? What did I do? What can I do so I could be HER? Your perfect HER? JUST TELL ME I WILL DO ANYTHING Please, please, give me another chance." That was one conversation.
Did I mention that somewhere in here I learned to cuss? Like a sailor? Like I could peel paint off a barn with a sufficiently strung together sentence consisting mainly of words that started with F? I could have been the head writer for The Sopranos. Secretly I knew I could kill my mother and my father with one sentence. She would explode and he would slit his wrist. Callie, Jeff and I had a curse word we used: goddamnshitfuckscrew. All one word.
The other in-my-head conversation with Paul went more like this: You sorry, pond scum licking son of a bitch. What? Did you have a primal urge to do the "Look I have virgin blood on my penis" dance? Do you laugh every day that you are charming enough to ruin a 15 year old girl's life? For fun? Are you the fucking king fucking bastard of fucking California? Have you fucked every fucking girl there? Did your penis leave a trail of destruction? I hope you die a long, slow, horrible death, alone and soon, ASSHOLE."
OK, here was my moment.
I ran and sat on his lap. Kissed him on the cheek. "Welcome home! Wow, what a surprise!!! SOOO Glad you are back. I have a fabulous new boyrfriend named Ringo!!!" Then I whispered in his ear, "you were right about those birth control pills. They have come in handy".
Ah, the gift of bull shit.
No comments:
Post a Comment