During lunch while feeding him, my husband walks into the room and greets us with a big, “Hola!”
Gene doesn’t miss a beat, turning toward Bill and responding, “Hola, amigo!” then laughs heartily with the two of us. It is an absolutely beautiful moment, feeling the bounce of happiness as I look at the two men I have been the closest to in my life, and the two I have loved most fiercely.
What will our visit be like next year, I wonder on leaving. Will Gene still be walking? Eating? It feels like this disease is progressing rapidly. I bet Gene will still be laughing. Of course he will. He might die laughing. Just like that.
HAVING THE SPACE,
MAKING THE TIME
2017 (age 64)—Alamosa, Colorado
From the moment the question is posed by Bill or me about “having a date,” as we like to call it, lovemaking occurs through our reminders to each other of the date to the moment we pop a wine cork. By the time we are lying naked together in bed watching the evening light move across our bedroom walls, the present moments have spread out beneath us with welcoming and wide-open palms.
Before Bill and I remarried at age fifty-three, I decided to take a chance on being honest about what gave me the most sexual pleasure. In my thirties and forties, I experienced a comfortable, relaxed sexual intimacy with women. Perhaps some of this proclivity was a result of confusing and inappropriate childhood sexual experiences with my dad, then in my twenties experiencing a simultaneous, delirious yet numb promiscuity with multiple men. However, for the last fourteen years, I have chosen to be in a loving and monogamous relationship with a man. From the start, I wanted intimacy with Bill to be as satisfying as that which I had experienced with women.
Making time for sex here in our sixties has become a priority in our relationship. We like to set a date, and we prefer a particular time of day. Scheduling time for intimacy works better for us than skipping it altogether. Life’s demands and distractions, along with that frequent feeling that someone has pushed the fast-forward button on our lives, swallow weeks and months so easily.
“Could we have a date soon?” Bill asked recently as we were doing one of our twenty-second hugs that we try to do twice a day. I read about this somewhere and we have been doing it now for years. Frequently, one of us is asking, “Have we hugged yet today?” Sometimes, when we are feeling edgy with one another, this softens our hearts and pulls us into a different frame of mind. Since we both work out of our home, we run into each other all day when we leave our office and studio, and most days we eat all three meals together. Neither of us ever anticipated spending this much time with one another, and those hugs sure help.
We look forward to the day we choose for a date, and we mention it in the preceding days in an affectionate manner as a way to remind each other of the day, and that our head is moving in that direction.
“I’ll pick some wine,” I suggest on an afternoon we have picked for our lovemaking. Glasses clink as Bill takes them out of the cabinet. Soon the cork pops, wine is poured, and we go sit in the living room. I notice the same relief on Bill’s face that I feel. We are taking time to connect. It is easier to take a deep breath when we are like this. Feeling the wash of ease that can sneak into living when we let it, reclaiming that sacredness of living and loving that we have come to know.
It is only mid-afternoon, but on a date-day we enjoy relaxing in our bedroom right when the late afternoon light streams in, or as dusk settles over the day. Without talking about the timing any longer, our internal clocks are now ticking on date-time: leisurely sipping wine and talking; showers that often follow wine-time; then, just as the light changes, settling in the bedroom.
We toast our glasses, then listen to the ting signal that a special time, like a ceremony, has just begun. Our eyes meet. As wine is shared we slow down, chat, laugh a little, and relax. Passion feels different here in our sixties. During these date afternoons, passion creeps along, teasing with a pleasurable ease, nudging our hearts to remember how and why we appreciate the other.
“How about I shower first today,” I suggest.
In our old bathroom, the water takes a while to warm up, especially in February. Already I notice the soft hues of winter’s afternoon light slanting through the bathroom window. I can hear the original wood floors creak in this century-old home as Bill prepares some of our date-time rituals. Candles that surround our bed will be lit. Coconut oil spooned into a small special dish. A glass of wine will be brought into the bedroom.
I stand under the shower and languish in the comfort and luxury offered from hot running water. Sometimes we each take a little longer during these showers, because we are letting time slow down. This is all there is to do the rest of the day: letting moments lengthen, breaths deepen, and hearts widen. There is no schedule. We are not going anywhere.
As I dry off, I can barely see my face in the steamed mirror. I watch as I spread cream over that blurred image and imagine reading my lines and wrinkles like a palm reader would examine the map of an open hand. The past has clearly left plenty of scars, creases, divots, and discolorations. Can a forecast be predicted from looking at this present mix of evidence that has settled on my face from the life I have already lived? If the present moment were any part of a forecast, then I would pronounce this a damn good life. About time. It’s taken decades of me chaotically bumping into memories of sexual abuse with no control over the timing of when they surface. They still show up. But I know how to not let those images and feelings interfere with healthy living, love, and intimacy. And we are following that recipe right now.
I exit the bathroom. Bill gives me a flirty look and a soft nudge as he heads in for his shower. A mixture of dusk and candlelight fills the bedroom. I pull the covers down on the bed and take off a few pillows, then crawl under warm blankets and bask in time’s empty pocket until the bathroom door opens, letting steam escape into the hallway. Bill peers around the corner, “Oooo-wee, Darlin’! It looks so nice in here.”
He walks into the bedroom, a sweet smile on his cleanly shaven face, and slides into bed. His body feels warm and full.
Glancing around and appreciating the light and space, Bill props himself up for a sip of wine. We pass the glass between us for a while as we talk and listen to music.
“You sure look nice, Darlin’,” he says, handing me the glass of wine. I set it down and move into his welcoming arms. When Bill says “nice,” I hear “beautiful, wonderful, lovely, precious.” I’ve learned he uses the word for a variety of things, and he says it with different intonations. Right now, nice is really nice, and I understand exactly what he means.
Our lips know one another as surely as our hands fit together. As we kiss, our hands move over the other’s body. I have placed the bowl of coconut oil between us, and periodically we dab our fingers into it. Our purpose and passion have learned to transcend obstacles like dryness and discomfort. Now, here in our seventh decade, both of us notice how our bodies respond differently, and we accommodate. We have discovered it helps to not be in a hurry. Hence our wine, showers, setting up a special time and space, and taking time to relax. The oil provides us both with relief once we get moving. Bill applies some around my vagina as my oiled fingers slide up his firm penis guiding it inside me.
“Ohhh!” I moan, with no hint of pleasure. Bill moves slowly and patiently. I breathe deeply through the burning and focus on my vagina relaxing and expanding. And it does. Intention mixes with passion and patience, and we are soon moving together with ease and comfort. Candlelight spills across Bill’s silhouette. Music is the background to his love utterances, “Darlin’, you feel so nice … just right … thank you …”
He thanks me. He acts honored to be having sex with me, like I’m a sacred vessel to fill and to treasure, not just to use for his own pleasure then discard.
Bill climaxes and comes to rest beside me. While nestled in the fold of his arms, I reach for my vibrator. Although I can feel sexual pleasure in my vagina, it is secondary to cli
toral stimulation and pressure and, in our sexual relationship, it is as important for me to have an orgasm as it is for Bill. Kissing and feeling Bill’s hands on me, I soon feel my lips curling and a moan of pleasure coming from deep in my throat.
“That sounds like it felt good,” Bill whispers, holding me closely.
I sigh with relief in response and relax in his embrace.
Being completely open with Bill about sex has been a leap in trust for me. I know about his past, and he knows about mine. He knows I have been intimate with many people, and how I learned about sexual pleasure as a child with my dad. He knows what I like and don’t like about sex, and is aware of what helps me feel safe, and what makes me feel good—and I know what makes him feel good. I have learned to trust Bill, just like he has learned to trust me. It’s important for us to give sex an honored place in our relationship, regardless of our ages, because at last we are in a place of no secrets and no shame. Making the precious time to be this open and this vulnerable with one another, in all our nakedness, feels like one of the most nourishing steps we take to strengthen our love.
We lie quietly. As the day’s light fades, our candles flicker more brightly.
EPILOGUE:
MORNIN’ BLANCA
2017 (age 65)—Alamosa, Colorado
The levee that crosses Alamosa ranch land is flanked by the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the east and north, and the San Juan Mountains to the west here in south central Colorado. In the middle, at an elevation of seventy-five hundred feet—barely ten minutes from my home—lie the San Luis Valley and the levee where I walk most mornings.
Our valley offers cool, comfortable summers and damn cold winters and, even then, this place is extraordinarily beautiful. At sunrise we sometimes wake up bedazzled by what I call “Disney days.” Every single twig on every single tree is outlined with fragile ice crystals. As the sun burns through the fog, even at zero to forty degrees below, these crystals become prisms that reflect a rainbow of colors. As the frost melts, it’s like the gentle rain of glitter cast from Tinker Bell’s wand.
In another season, chilled mornings reverberate with the distinctive rolling utterances of thousands of sand hill cranes flashing graceful six-foot wingspans as part of their exuberant mating dances. Later, the evening sun creates its own magic show as it drapes gauzy pinks across the Sangre de Cristo peaks before slipping behind the San Juan Mountains.
In full view of my little town, Mount Blanca is the highest of the four towering peaks that surround us and is regarded as the eastern boundary of the Dinetah, the traditional Navajo homeland. I have learned in Navajo lore that Mount Blanca is considered to have spiritual power, illustrated with a bolt of lightning running through the mountain, fastening her to Mother Earth. For many, Mount Blanca is a strong, sacred symbol. Perhaps this location accounts for the diverse collection of resilient people throughout this valley whom I have come to respect. On my walk, when I reach a place on the levee, whether Blanca is in plain view or hiding behind clouds, I cast a prayer beginning with, “Mornin,’ Blanca,” then proceed to walk and talk my prayers. Blanca has such a good vantage point and towering strength. I need both.
Coming into my sixty-fifth year I question, what carries my life story forward? Why am I unable to let my history be? Why not keep my sexual abuse memories to myself and let bygones be bygones? Why would I chance besmearing the memory of my parents with what I recall from so long ago, things that my mother adamantly denied? As the fog rolled in during my teens, twenties, and thirties, I could no longer see what had happened to me as a child, nor where I was going as an adult, but that did not stop me or slow me down. I forged ahead, periodically believing that somehow, someday, I might see through the obscurity and, with determination, figure things out.
And the shame I have felt about my life? I am not sure what impacted me most, the shame I gradually began to feel from sexual abuse as a young girl, or the shame I felt from decisions I made as a maturing young woman. As I grew older, my feelings were frequently out of control, whirlwinds of emotion that left those around me dizzy and confused from my intense and manic swirls of energy. My life was helter-skelter. I lurched forward, teetering on precipices, and daring myself to fall off. An abundance of careless living and a reckless, frantic energy kept me on the move. Like author and therapist Francis Weller says, “Everything that is happening above ground is because of what’s happening below in the shadows.”28
A tsunami was building, rolling along, and grumbling deep in the ocean of my life. There was no way I could have fathomed how such confusion about love and sex and intimacy and boundaries would place my life at risk over and over again.
Finally, at the age of thirty-seven, twenty-eight years ago, I voiced my memories of sexual abuse, writing and divulging much in therapy, but never saying more with family or friends than I felt they were ready to hear. But no one asked. Not my mother, my sisters, many close friends, lovers or—for a long time—even my husband. Perhaps awkwardness, embarrassment, denial, or desires to be sensitive effectively prevent others from asking about the most deeply disturbing experiences of anyone they care for and love. And, for the most part, I feel like our culture doesn’t really want to know about childhood abuse or any type of sexual abuse, and certainly doesn’t give us any lessons on how to have that connection.
These memories continue to churn within me.
I’ve realized a decision to not talk, to stay quiet, to just move on, simply won’t work for me any longer. With such silence, it feels like I am indirectly supporting childhood sexual abuse. Plus, I’ve learned that a refusal to think or speak about incest or pedophilia can sometimes result in failure to protect a child. Author and childhood sexual abuse survivor Marilyn Van Derbur notes that children abused under age twelve are those most severely traumatized because they lacked the protection they needed during childhood.29 I have two young grandchildren whom I cherish. I can’t stand the thought of anything happening to them.
I want perpetrators to understand how deeply harmful it is for a victim when they deny what they have done, or convince themselves that what they have done didn’t actually hurt anyone.
I say let a perpetrator’s denial be questioned more fiercely than a victim who finally finds her or his voice and speaks the unspeakable.
Even after my memories began surfacing, I have had to continue to deal with them and decide what to do. The struggle to see my dad for who he was, and my mom for what she allowed, has been monumental. Often, I have had to push the little girl I was aside and use my adult eyes and heart, and attempt to have compassion for my parents—and myself—even when that has felt impossible.
Here in my seventh decade, supportive therapy has continued to help me to gain clarity, balance, and an expanded perspective. I have improved my abilities to confront and reframe trauma rather than numbing, minimalizing my experiences, and pursuing distraction and dissociation—all responses that change a person’s physiology in unhealthy ways.
For those of us who have been sexually abused, a variety of tools can be gathered and practices developed that may help us on our journey: therapy, spiritual explorations, meditation, religion, prayer, journaling, exercise, maintaining good diets, a healthy sex life, spending time in nature, finding mentors and support groups, having healthy conversations with close friends and family, enjoying pet companions, and careful use of medications, alcohol, and medicinal drugs. I have tried all of these, finding some more supportive and helpful than others. The practice of keeping as many conversations as possible open and honest has been crucial.
Overall the greatest tool for my survival has been to trust the choice of being truthful. Like my lifelong friend Carolyn reminded me after reading this book, “Transparency is liberating, but it is not easy.” I have worked hard to not allow my past to take away my willingness to look at my story and explore how to best live with what happened to me, and also how to better understand the choices I made throughout my life. Recently Sister Antoinette to
ld me, “We aren’t loved because we are perfect and good. We are loved because we are here.” Her words gently cup my heart as if held by loving hands.
It has taken me six and a half decades to be able to stand before what I have lived and admit to it all. From this more secure place of reflecting on my life, I have chosen to peel back the layers and dig through the rubble. The risk I’m taking now is to accept who I am and to continually take steps to forgive myself and be willing to live with joy. As I learn to do so, the weight of shame lessens.
I am not able to change what is in the past, but I can hold to the belief that writing my story carries the possibility—and it is worth repeating—that by speaking up I am not only helping myself heal, but I am also helping other victims, perpetrators, those who care about a victim or perpetrator, and anyone who is willing to recognize the pervasive injury that results from childhood sexual abuse.
Silence hasn’t made it stop. Ignoring it won’t make it go away.
HELPFUL RESOURCES
FOR NAVIGATING CHILD
SEXUAL ABUSE
ASSOCIATION FOR THE TREATMENT OF SEXUAL ABUSERS, dedicated to making society safer by preventing sexual abuse. Has an anonymous referral request form that results in five professional referrals for a treatment provider in the zip code area given.
http://www.atsa.com/
CELEBRANT FOUNDATION AND INSTITUTE can direct a person to a Life-Cycle Celebrant®, a skilled ceremony officiant who can help create and guide a customized, thoughtful healing ritual or ceremony to help strengthen an individual, family, partnership or community.
Being Mean Page 29