She Fell in Love. Can’t be help responsible!

Back in 1974,  I was a kid,   only 18 years and probably was witness in some way to a date rape.   It sure felt like it because as I was leaving out the dorm that night,  guys were pulling a train on a teen girl and some guy asked me if I wanted to have ‘some.’   I said, “no.”   And besides,  the choice of words haunts me too as well as the whimpering that went along with her disorientation.

I was so naive but a part of my soul has been tortured to this very day.   If I knew then what I know now,   I might have gone postal because I cannot imagine a crime worse than that.     You see,   she was drunk and whimpering.   Damnit.   That really pisses me off.  No girl asks for ‘it.’   Not for that.

 

But date rape characterizations are nothing new and for the longest time just generally accepted.   In the movie ‘Animal House’  the guy was contemplating having sex with a passed out underage girl.    Did she ask for it?  NO! Does it happen?   Hell ya!   Is it any wonder so many women want to spread the pain around.

Going a few years into my adult life,   I had a girl friend and she was given a roofie.    The net effect according to her,  was she never felt the same about anything!    Date-raped by her boss at the mall.   She and I went through hell afterwards and my anger @ jerkoffs intensifies.    My girlfriend was only pieces of ceramic,   like Humpty-Dumpty,  those pieces can’t always be fixed.

I suffer too,  knowing that seedy men with seditious desires lay in wait,   like Jack The Ripper or the Boston Strangler.   In these instances the pain is far worse than death.    It is a slow blood-letting of one’s spirit and sense of control.    We had great times and every once in awhile we would talk.

From her bosses abuse of her,  of us really,   she went on a self-destructive binge with an older guy who was a criminal.   Arrested for a crack ball and spending time in prison,   he seemed to like finding young victims.   Her sister said he liked to read magazines like ‘Barely Legal’ and ’18’.      Yeah one of those!    One day her sister gave me a journal she had written and she had talked to her sister about the parasite she was with and how she missed me and my steady decisions and what would I do in a particular situation.   She said I am the guy that returns the shopping cart.    For awhile I was miffed by that but then got the gist of what she was trying to express.     She also got a disease from this miscreant,   Herpes!

(She fell in love in the first place)))

For some reason these words tick me off.    An otherwise innocent girl and not perfect by any  means,   paid the price for both of you and you both should be ashamed.     And I harbor guilt for not being able to protect her from the smarmy underbelly of the beast that lurks with a touch of wind and a wiff of illicit drugs.

If her mom had not been a prostitute and subjected her to so much,   she might have been able to cry on her shoulders.    She could have  told her Mom what he said and did  and your Mom would turn away.   Flushed with anger and disappointment,  words she heard once upon a time. Now reverberating like a song that plays over and over on a music box.   The ballerina fell suddenly and her porcelain dreams laid like a million shards of what ifs.

So let’s examine some of the dubious comments made by men and boys and mostly they are one and the same.     Your high school heroes and high society icons flickered as capriciously as the stories of high school football players and date rapes.   The bottom-line being the reputation of the boys and a girl who was allegedly asking for it.    She was collateral damage in the game of cat and mouse.

He gave you wine or drugs and told you it was okay.    He promised you everything to dance in the sheets and tomorrow he denies that he even knew you or the things you said,  you couldn’t have meant,  if you did say them….

Their friends and influences probably had mixed emotions about the destruction,   from the boss to the drug abusing narcissist whose real romance is a synthetic cesspool of misery.   Both now share in a common malady with excuses and no care for the damage they were doing.

What once was a fairy tale happiness transmogrified into a hellish world of missed chances.   Where lightning does strike over and over again(in the same place) and the pain still flows,  if even now to more or less a trickle.     In the video above  Boy Meets Girl they dance and sing with a love that we all want and yet finally,  even they play a requiem to a love gone strange.     To me,   as I worked in the media in Tampa,   the song was a fresh time.   A promise.   Together with Paula Abdul’s ‘Straight up’,  it seemed life had spectacular promise,  even after a lost preemie and the mother who ran off for a decade and a half with our daughter.

But life has second chances even if those chances require some modifications to retrofit them to make them work.    I do remember what my daughter said about her 16th birthday and how much she loved me.   That that was her best birthday ever.   This after being lost to me from her early post natal days to about fifteen years later.    Still,   I would NOT change things too much because what if we never rediscovered that and that is why the blog about ‘Ten Years a Single Mother’  and her kids love for her touches my heart.   Kids get the connections and their love is pure if they are loved.

The theme of this entire post is what are we going to do.    Rather than just complain about the pain,  how can we fix a thing?   You,   I and many others have lived on both sides of the track and nothing……  nothing gets fixed by complaining.    We need to put people first because a warm place and a hot dinner matters.

To the abuse of women,  children and the vulnerable,   you and I can change the world.    I have a few things going now.    One is to get Emotional Support Animals and Service Pets for people who need them.    Let’s teach men and society in general how to treat a lady and your kids.    We need to focus on identifying potential abuse and treat the family not a case number but take care of it as a village.  With compassion.    No tolerance policies does not heal a family.    Making rules is what politicians do.   Why do we punish people like Aileen Wuornos the way we do?   Why not find out where at-risk people are and help?   That gives us all a better chance of surviving the obstacles in life.

From murderers to offenders of all kinds,   punishment is the easy part,   preventing tragedies can happen and should happen.    That takes  more than a Breathalyzer and seeing if you can walk a straight line.    How much better will this world be with solutions and not grandstanding politicians and other nabobs using the moment for  personal gain.

Education is the key to everything.   Not just laws but helping people be better people.    Not projecting how good we are,  but how good we can all be,  if we just try.   Ghettos are going nowhere and neither are the homeless,  the drug users and other kinds of abusers.   Let’s get this done and stop maligning others.    The old speck and the log thing.

 

 

Life, Love and the Devil.

In 1970s there was a song written by Terry Jacks and sung by the Poppys.    It went something like this,  “Evil Grows in the dark where the sun it never shines,  evil grows in cracks and holes and lives in people’s minds”.

In my mind one of the scariest scenes in any movie,  was in the Exorcist and not for all the obvious vulgar things but a more subtle scene at the start of the movie.   Where the Priest is in the Middle East and where the music,  the chaos and more specifically the Dogs Fighting.   Evil v. Evil.

It is in those cracks and holes and scary dark places,  the imagination can run amok as the incessant hammering in the old town and blind sages suggesting something truly unhuman.

I remember as a young child jumping off the teeter-totter and the guy on the end bounced like that ball in the cartoons where you sing a long with silly songs.    Was that an act of evil or me playing the game and testing it’s limits?   Was this part of my Dad’s favorite pastime of wrecking me on my little red wagon or dumping me on the sled.   A habit that has in part made me hyper-anxious and mistrusting.

For me the darkness was a kind of shield where I could go unnoticed or maybe it was caused by being molested in a storm cellar in Texas by an older boy.    Maybe it was a grim reminder of some kind of attention even one I had no idea of that time.

I loved watching the snow at night and where there is little or no snow,  rain or wind.    Waiting for school to be closed and not having done my homework.     My kind of passive-aggressive Russian-roulette.    I also like walking in it,  I was virtually alone and safe.   Like maybe the cold prevented THE antagonist from inflicting more pain and sadness.

I was also a sentinel guarding the gates against sudden fury.    Like a life-size chess game I planned several moves ahead and this usually gave me the upper-hand.   In a grocery store I still feel trapped and almost feral.    I feel as if I can detect evil just by looking at a person.     So if I see that kind visible clue in the store I am more inclined to try and flee as soon as possible.

The thunder and the rain also is a weapon of mine.    The sounds of violence and the washing away of tears.   Those tears like Teflon let the fears ease as they run into the gutter.   The sun impinges upon that sanctuary like heavy steps they are first heard and then felt.

Fear like Poppy seeds float to find  a new home and  like Pollywogs in a muddy ditch they hide.   So too,  I hid.  The hot Texas sun and my friends in a segregated neighborhood marched in harmony while wild-eyed monsters with seething hate got to the front of the bus.

Evil cannot manifest itself in the seemingly sublime while underneath the dark moist rock were hiding earth worms and Rolly Pollys in eggshells.   A blue day sunwise can be quite a sight and when people talk about how wonderful it is,   I wonder.

To me a mean person is an icicle falling off a house and then that person reveling in it’s mayhem.   Kind of like that dude on Oz who plays Mayhem in the insurance commercials.    A mean person is even meaner who rapes the soul of innocence and the sharper of the knives are the ones who hold hostage.   Maybe my intense aversion to kidnappers are a reaction to my Mom’s pain.   Like the time in Florida she hid in my garage from my own father.

This is why to me you can not judge the sky by it’s color or love by ‘I love Yous’.

I want to shake you down. My child(ren) Love Story

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uc8wmLul3uw

I used to feel something.   Something like desperation.   

 We were like fugitives from another life, 

  riding the waves of orgasm and then

with little outlaws and outstretched fingers.  

The first blessing of two,   faded like a stranger, 

although I felt his spirit as he left,   saying “Dad do not worry.” 

I just had to say,  “Goodbye”,  because I really did love you both.

Then I told my lover,  “Little David is gone”.  

  I sat and watched as mother and child spoke silently, 

as only a mother can,  now—

  Another empty rocking chair creaked for the last time.

and the rocking chair sang a lullaby,   “Hush little baby,   don’t say a word”.  “

Surely as one ship sails from view,   another will come.   And it did.  

The news came about as a lighthouse parted the fog

but the jagged rocks once again appeared,  

 like little daggers that lined the halls,  

just getting their was perilous.   But the fury of the sea calmed, 

and another blessing appeared upon the stoop.    

But as one tragedy had faded,  another conspired,  

by this time mother and I were tired.   Little did I know or suspect,  

that the next day it was like a hole swallowed them both up,   

mother and child.    The twists and turns of this hallway with many doors, 

had very many vistas,    but some doors were locked.  

   Then one day some 15 years later,  an angel reappeared,  my daughter.  

A friend of my X said Rachel wanted her dad.  A tear and excitement

rocked me like a spewing volcano.  

   The  mother of my child was now no longer a harbor,  

but a battered port and Rachel,  my daughter,  paid for it.  

   The end of this story is a reunion that seemed like continuity.   

Like heartbeats over some rainbow,  the colors appeared brighter, 

than even before.    To hear my sweet day say,   “This was the best birthday of her life”.     I do

not know how to even express the waterfall of love that engulfed me.  

my story