I was born invisible. The ability to walk through a crowd unnoticed was my superpower. Through the halls of a house, a school, a world without making a ripple.
Not a superstar or a super intelligence or even a troublemaker. Just the nice one.
I learned early on to live with a “sit down, you’re rockin’ the boat” mentality. And, I played that role well.
And, I was comfortable with it. For a while. Until I woke.
It wasn’t a floodgate moment…
more of a
drip
drip
drip…
The Scarlet Gay
I don’t have words. I have thoughts, emotions, feelings, all jumbled up in a burning mass of red hot...
Scarlet.
It is the one word I keep coming back to.
“It [the scarlet letter] had the effect of a spell, taking her out of the ordinary relations with humanity, and enclosing her in a sphere by herself.” Nathaniel Hawthorne
We all have our own scarlet letters, burned deep into our souls, far away from society’s judging eyes. Do I wax philosophical the entire societal faults leading up to this moment in time, or focus on those letters radiating brightest?
Twenty-six letters, and we start with A.
This is where I should tell you that I am a whore. A big f***ing slut whore. Notice the neon lit A flashing brightly on my chest. It flickers a bit. Just to add some twentieth century imagery to your mindshot.
I had premarital (gasp) sex (gasp) with the man who would become my husband. I know. Take a minute. He is the only man I have (lean in) F***ED!
And, shocking plot twist. NOT! I GOT PREGNANT! Prego! Bun in the oven!
Pregnant at my wedding. Yeah, it happens. Having a baby born with ’tiny hands’ before it was the new, in-thing, was considered the Scarlet Letter from GOD. Four point six billion people on the planet, and the family believed God pointed his finger at me.
THE biblical WHORE!
Try living with that kind of shaming.
It may seem like A would be the very first red letter in my alphabet, but is not. That first letter in the list is much harder to define. It is never talked about. The family secret no one will admit to, even now. I’ve buried it so deep, it is burned right into the center of my heart, where no one could ever touch it.
Ever find it.
It could be S for, ‘oh so shy.’ I wanted to disappear. Fade away to invisibility. Vanish into the background most of my life. C for cruelty. N for narcissistic personality disorder. M for mental illness.
Or, M perhaps for the hardest word added to any sentence in my entire life: Mother.
But, instead, I will go with V. Voice. Her voice whispering I wasn’t good enough. Never GOOD ENOUGH. Her screaming, “Failure!” The snarled, “I'll jump,” as her car careens down the highway, “Agree or I’ll jump.” Unintelligible screaming! Her kicking, rolling on the ground, howling at the local Super Valu, because I dared to make plans. Any plans.
I decided, during my freshman year of high school, to count how many days in a row I was screamed at. Not the, "Do you your homework," parental nagging, but full out, top pitch screeching. When the Christmas Holidays came, without one single days break, I stopped keeping track.
At sometime during my mid-twenties, I was informed I would not have a right to an opinion until I was thirty-six. I have no idea what made that age special, but it too came and went.
Standing in her back bathroom painting the walls white, while my husband was in the front room working on her computer, I heard her telling my oldest sister on the phone, "Mary and Greg refuse to come over and help me."
After all the years of the abuse, that was the beginning of the end. Foolishly, I thought, if she is already lying to people about us not helping, when we were there all the time, doing this and that and everything else, what else could she possible say?
In the end, she told lies that we stole from her and my father. Tried to get custody of our two youngest girls and made death threats. I finally shut it all down, after I found myself on the floor with a bottle of pills, and no place farther to drop.
Still, her voice echoes. Reminds me, almost daily, that I’m a failure…failure…failure. Won’t let me look in a mirror. Or call my own children, for fear of becoming the voice in their heads.
In the years since I closed that door and saved myself, I have not spoken to any of my brothers or sister. So, I guess i need to add a B for black sheep, now, as well.
My truth is 'fake news' to everyone else.
Then, there’s D on its own dark cloud, so obviously for depression. It doesn’t cut so much, as smother. It sucks the breath right out and sucker punches in the dead quiet of 3:00 am or crowded bread isle at Target.
Relentless.
But, in this case, it also stands for doctor. Not red, but shimmering bright with hope. This doctor didn’t give medicine or hours of therapy, he gave me back myself. He listened.
“Walk away.” He said, “Jesus loves you. Jesus understands.”
Simple, isn’t it? But in a lifetime of, “You didn’t pray hard enough.” Or “You’re a whore.” It was a bolt of sunshine.
Ah, G. Or as I have been referring to it lately, my Scarlet Gay.
I'm cut raw by the so called ‘super’ Christians. You know the ones. They are so sure they are on that yellow road to Heaven, they stopped being decent people long ago. Their claims of being oppressed, because LGBTQ couples can now marry must be taken seriously! Obsessing about what happens inside my adult children's bedroom is HOLY and NOT Lust or Coveting the Neighbor!
And claims MY children will “burn in hell,” based on ‘behavior’ which, of course, implies SEX, and their not full-time work with severely disabled autistic children or groundbreaking advancement in Alzheimer’s research. People who, veritably, are making the world a better place, now and into the future, are going to burn because of LOVE.
Yet, those who spend their days spreading hatred and condemnation have a place in Heaven? Really?
Every single time, I consciously choose not to post photos of my son and his long-term boyfriend kissing, I become the shy girl who just wants to disappear. There’s the guilt of a Mother, who can’t seem to stand up for her own son. This isn’t shame. It is mental exhaustion from living in a world where people believe they walk on water.
Try thanking God for the blessings in your life. There are many, so many, many people who
These past few weeks, I can’t help reliving those days where bullies ruled the schools. Sending a sweet little blonde girl off to start kindergarten, both of us were oblivious to the cruelty of the world ahead. Her coming home and saying, “They say, I’m bad luck.”Watching the sparkle fade.
Worse yet, was hearing people say she was cynical and angry, after years of abuse. As if, somehow, being treated poorly needs to be accepted with a smile and a thank you.
Yes, there were kids who bullied relentlessly, but the ones that stick out the most were adults.
In fourth grade, the teacher hardheartedly informed my daughter she couldn’t go out for recess, because the other kids didn’t like her. The bus driver said, “Bullying doesn’t happen if he doesn’t see it.” (while driving.) The school system later reinforced, if an adult didn’t see it, it did NOT happen, policies.
The best (you know I mean worst) of all, was the typing teacher, who gave her an F for not being able to keep up in class. She has no fingers on one hand and half fingers on the other. No amount of reasoning could get said teacher to change her mind. So, F apparently stands for fail, fingers or F***k you, little disabled child.
And, praise the Lord, that teacher is a vice principal, now.
This mother, who still wants to shyly fade into the background, has no choice but to become an advocate, instead.
I look around, and I see a world where the bullies are shouting that not just my children, but America's children, brothers, sisters, families and friends are not good enough. They tell me to get back into my corner and be quiet. They say, “Don’t post. Don’t speak. Don’t exist.”
After a lifetime of being bullied, battered and abused, they want me to close my eyes to the abuse of others.
Red, Brown, Yellow, Black and White... link
I was, quite literally, born to stand up, and fight this fight. I see behind the facade of “We’re good people.” Good people have been battering me down my entire life. I might not always be strong. I might crumble onto my knees in despair at the utter heartlessness of some good people.
But, I will always get back up and fight.
https://youtu.be/53GIADHxVzM
I love my children, all of them. Without one flicker of doubt or hesitation. I will wear the Scarlet Gay and A and every other letter I need to, to protect them, and everyone who needs to be cared for in this bitter world.
I can do this, because Jesus loves me. And, love is all that really matters.
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