We get in the car and my friend drives me across town to my church, a progressive Catholic church with a progressive priest, the only reason I’m still trying to stay Catholic. The receptionist doesn’t make appointments for the priest; I have to call him personally. I stand behind the counter and explain that I need immediate counseling, mentioning X to get her attention. She’s annoyed I’m still in the office when she clearly told me to go home and call the priest. I walk outside, call him on my cell phone from the rectory steps, and leave a message. It takes two messages and several days for him to respond.
Later, on another day, my sister will tell me about Saint Maria Goretti, virgin martyr of purity. My sister read about Saint Maria in her Catholic primer in grade school and, so disturbed, never forgot her. I research the story and discover Maria Goretti was eleven years old when an older boy attempted to rape her. She fought him, warned him he’d go to hell, and for refusing to submit he stabbed her fourteen times with a knife. In the hours of suffering before she died, she forgave him as she received last rites and held her gaze on an image of the Blessed Mother. The boy was sentenced to thirty years in prison and while imprisoned had a vision in which Maria met him in a garden and handed him white lilies. Because of that vision, he repented. The Catholic Church canonized Maria not only because she forgave the boy and her forgiveness reached beyond life into death, but also because she fought him in order to avoid sin, his and hers. Yes, his and hers. She was concerned for his soul and wanted him to join her in heaven. And she preferred death to the dishonor of losing her purity and virginity, which would have offended God.
Offended God? Patron saint of purity, young girls, and victims of rape? Pope Pius XII, who presided at her canonization in 1950, encouraged young girls to look to Maria for inspiration. Times have changed and I’m not a young girl, but there is nothing inspiring or comforting to me about this child choosing to die for her purity, nor anything commendable about a religion considering a girl who is raped to be in offense. What slick trick of faith is this?
Days go by, the sun, the moon, why can’t I feel? The splintered part of me left by the sea claws at invisible walls. I’m not whole. I crave sleep and more sleep, all I want to do is sleep. But I return to work, answer phone calls and emails, efficient, responsible. There’s a problem emerging at my job. The arts program I founded several years ago is no longer supported by the new administration. I sit in meetings, defend my program, try to find new sources of funding, but I’m asked to dismantle what I’ve spent years creating until it fits into their newly defined parameters. They know about X and say if I need time off I should take it; this is supposed to be my vacation. But I’m afraid if I’m not at work they’ll decide the program’s fate without me. I set an alarm clock each night, pull myself out of bed each morning, take a shower, drive to work, like a zombie, but I show up.
I get my period. It’s soothing and womanly, alive, plump. It gives me a little lift to feel feminine, my body reclaiming itself. I empty out the suitcase that’s been sitting on my bedroom floor. I put the clothes I was wearing in a bag. The bikini, T-shirt, shorts. I’ll deal with those clothes in a year when I ritually burn them in a friend’s fire pit, but for now I drive them around. They’re tied in a white plastic grocery bag in the trunk of my car.
My friend wants to surprise her husband by redecorating their bedroom. I go shopping with her, get caught up in colors and textures. We have fun for an afternoon, and I forget about the jaguar man. My friend is one of the only people I want to be around, everyone else exhausts me. Most of the time I’m a high functioning robot moving my arms and legs by habit, taking deep breaths when I get winded from drawing shallow air.
I’m supposed to be a bridesmaid in a wedding next week. I tell the bride what happened, but she doesn’t offer me an out and I don’t have the heart to cancel, so I go through the motions, help her with last minute planning, attend the rehearsal dinner and wedding, and smile at the people I’ve never met, which is most of them. I want to crawl under the table, wrap myself up in a silk brocaded scarf like a cocoon. I wish to be small, invisible, and alone.
The jaguar man is still in me. I can sense the tension inside, like a conch shell, dried and scooped of its meat, still vibrating the sound of the sea. I pay my bills, buy groceries, and swim laps at the YMCA while he’s trapped in my right shoulder and right hip. He’s a barnacle, thorn, parasite, weed. Why can’t I feel? How do I click back on the knob to my emotions? My house is loud, screams at me through the TV and radio. I turn everything off, sit in silence. I eat when I remember to. My friend’s gone home. I tell her I’m fine. I tell the diver I’m fine.
You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met, the diver says. Anger makes people think and do things that make matters worse. I’m upset, but the sea is healing and I’m going on with my life.
I finally meet with the priest in the rectory. The priest listens to my story, admits he feels inadequate to help because he’s not a woman; therefore, he can’t relate. I assure him he doesn’t need to be a woman, but he can help me understand the experience from a spiritual perspective. I ask him about the bus. Was it a miracle? Does God work that way? I wonder why everything was clear at the time, now it’s cloudy and confused. He’s uncomfortable, says something about Jesus and the resurrection. He looks at the clock. I watch his growing unease. His fluffy white dog wags into the room, and he gives it his attention. Pet the dog, pet the dog, don’t look at me, pet the dog. He asks if there’s anything else he can do for me, but I can tell he doesn’t want an answer and I’m swept out the door without an offer to see me again.
I walk outside into the perfect California day and absolve myself from being Catholic. I’ve been hanging on by habit and hope but today I let go. If even the most progressive priest doesn’t have the tools to deal with real life, if Catholic teachings don’t have practical applications, this isn’t the path for me. I’m too tired to make excuses for the church’s failings. I walk down the sidewalk to my car.
I return a call from my sister in another state. She gives me information about a treatment center with one of the best reputations in the country. I’ve never heard of it, and no one has mentioned it even though it’s in my city. I make an appointment for the next day. My counselor is calm and kind, and I appreciate that the services are free. She says I’ve already gone through enough and shouldn’t be charged to heal.
I ask the counselor, Was it bad?
All X is bad, obviously. But still, I want to know about mine.
She says it has elements that make it one of the worst she’s heard in her years of counseling. Kidnapping, weapon, bondage, foreign country, two aggravated assaults, fear of death, isolation, and prolonged encounter with the perpetrator.
Is she sure? It doesn’t feel as bad as it sounds. I can hardly relate to the details of the night. It’s muscle detached from tendon, tendon jerked from bone.
She wants to know, Do you have nightmares?
No.
Flashbacks?
No.
Afraid to be alone?
No.
Shame, embarrassment, anger, guilt?
No, no, no, no.
Considering buying a weapon?
No.
Difficulty sleeping?
No.
I want to meet other women, but the center doesn’t have group sessions. Many women feel ashamed or are afraid to be further victimized. I think that’s even more reason to have group sessions, but I don’t express my opinion.
I don’t know it yet, but for the next few years I will be drawn to women (and men) who will tell me their stories of X. We will somehow find each other. Our skin must smell of it. But today I tell the counselor I don’t feel like a victim.
How do you feel? she wants to know.
I feel sorry for him.
I feel sorry for him.
That’s about him, she replies. How do you feel about you?
I feel splintered, split in two.
I feel s
plintered, split in two. There and here, then and now, me and her.
I ask her, Where do you think I’m holding the memories, and where are my emotions?
Every woman responds in her own way.
How should I talk to people who are uncomfortable, who say Y instead of X, or don’t say anything at all?
People will respond differently. You can’t push them.
I’m quickly learning. Don’t say X. Don’t say X. Don’t say X. Don’t say X. No one wants to hear that shit.
I ask her to recommend a book and I buy it the same day. My counselor says the book is very good, but I disagree. The author details the ways X ruined her life. She’s spent years in recovery and she’s not recovered yet. This makes me alert. The jaguar man has been disruptive, but dear God please don’t let him ruin my life. I figure I’ll give myself a few weeks to restabilize then put this whole thing aside. Done, check that off the list. Seriously? Seriously.
I tell myself my life is bigger than what he can touch.
My life is bigger than what he can touch.
I tell my counselor my instinct is that X can somehow push me to a better life. I tell her about my prayer for a love so big I’ll have to change my life to comprehend it. I tell her I’m confused by the compassion I felt, and still feel, for the jaguar man. I tell her I feel affixed to him, hooked in, connected. It feels like we’re push and pull, or give and take.
FACT. The trunk of the Give-and-Take Palm is covered in poisonous thorns. The most effective antidote is from the tree’s own inner bark.
Together the jaguar man and I went into the jungle beside the Caribbean Sea, and somehow together we emerged. What happened in that furtive corner of the world—a place so remote that even as I tell its story it seems to streak like drops of green dye in water—changed me. And changed him. One can’t change without changing the other. Right?
I tell my counselor I trust deep meaning can emerge from X but I need a guide who can help me see beyond the visible.
TRUTH. I don’t realize yet that I’ve been changed all the way down to the cellular level and I need to relearn myself.
TRUTH. I don’t know yet that my guide is in me.
I ask the counselor what I should call him, the jaguar man with no name.
She doesn’t have an answer. She suggests she see me once a week for at least six weeks. I agree.
SIXTEEN
I sit in another church with a different friend, one who used to be Catholic like me, before she got fed up, like me. This church is based on universal principles, the power of thought, and quiet meditation before energetic chants. There’s no mass, procession, wine and bread symbolizing body and blood, no kneeling and bowing my head, no asking for forgiveness, no disappointed God. People are happy, they smile and hug, and I glare at how fake they must be; their happiness can’t be real. Tears well in my eyes, but I push them back. A lady with tissues keeps passing. It annoys me that this church is prepared for my tears. Something churns inside me, and I tighten so I won’t explode.
The reverend at this church seems authentic in his love for God, unforced, easy. He preaches for a long time and somewhere inside his sermon everyone else in the congregation evaporates, even my friend, and he preaches directly to me.
He says look at the trees, the ocean, the stars, and I’ll see myself. All the power of a star is in me. All the earth’s joy is in me. God is in all things, despite appearances. He says challenges press our boundaries so we can be bigger than we ever thought we could be. He says every obstacle is an opportunity to develop a quality that’s not yet actualized. I can give myself permission to be strong, even if the world expects me to be broken. Obstacles can lead to blessings. The reverend says something in me wants to be birthed.
FACT. A star is hot gas bound together by its own force of gravity with internal burning and exploding and external pressure trying to make the star collapse. This balance keeps the star alive.
He speaks so quickly I can’t capture all his words, but I pull out the words I need most. The reverend preaches that life is good, despite circumstances. Even if there’s an appearance of disease or pain, God is still love. No matter what I’ve done in my life, God is love. No matter what’s been done to me, God is love. Gratitude for all things will open the way for something new to occur.
Suddenly, anger like hot lava sears through my veins. No matter what’s been done, God is love? My challenges are blessings? I feel myself crack and for the first time I’m angry X happened at all. Why couldn’t I just have a nice trip? Why couldn’t I spend two weeks falling in love? If life is trying to birth a new quality in me, there are better ways to get my attention. God’s greedy mouth bit down on me too hard.
I’m mad at you, I tell God.
It’s all right, God says inside my mind.
It’s not all right. Tears of rage and a fury of knives tap into my skin. The lady with tissues walks by, and I ignore her.
Our relationship can’t survive this, I tell God.
It can, God says.
I clench my jaw. Where were you? I challenge God. Watching? Was it entertaining?
A scream enters my throat. I scream inside my mind while all around me people are clapping.
You could have stopped him, I accuse God. You play too big, I yell at God. Do you hate me? The words are thick and mean. Are you punishing me?
The reverend leads an ovation for God. I refuse to stand. My animosity makes me deaf. I hate these people silently clapping. I hate the reverend mouthing words about God, blah, blah, blah. I hate God.
Do you love him? I spit at God. Do you love the jaguar man?
Yes, God says.
Do you love him more than me?
My joints scream, the church applauds, the reverend prays, and I’m mind to mind with this God who whispers back a drastic truth, I love you both the same.
You love us both the same?
I love you both the same.
MYTH. A jaguar’s rosettes light up like stars, the sky looking back at itself.
In that instant I turn off God. I don’t mind if God loves the jaguar man a little bit. Even I showed the jaguar man love. But God should love me more. The sun and moon should shine more on me. I manage to control my outward appearance but inside I come completely undone. My thoughts collapse, doors of my mind shake off their hinges, an internal earthquake, a release of tectonic stress along my fault line. I realize if I’m going to understand X from a larger perspective, I’ll need a new understanding of love. But I don’t know how to do this and even if I had a guide only part of me is willing. Love has gotten too close. Love is trespassing now in my life, pushing me too far, too fast, violently shaking my earth’s crust. I think if I can make it through the service I can walk out the church and never come back. The congregation settles back in their seats. My friend hands me a tissue.
Someone sings, the reverend prays, time runs forward and backward. The reverend ends the service, and people file out. The reverend stands at a receiving line, but I walk right by him, turn into the bookstore with my friend. The bookstore has hundreds of books. Some of them would probably help me, but I’m overwhelmed by the choices so I look at a rack of greeting cards and try to calm the temblors in my mind. I walk out the bookstore back into the hallway, which has cleared. Two people remain in the reverend’s receiving line. On impulse I join the line. My friend follows and stands beside me. I ask her what I should say. She tells me to say whatever I want. I step out of line. I have nothing to say. She asks if I’m sure. I step back into line and now it’s my turn, no time to think. The reverend asks how I am. I say fine and ask him if he takes appointments. He says sometimes he does, but usually he has practitioners who meet with people. I nod my head but don’t say anything. I figured he’d say no, another preacher too busy to help, and anyway I don’t care, I’ll probably never be back.
Why, he wants to know, what’s going on?
I bluntly tell him two weeks ago, X, and I’m really mad—I pause for emphasis
—at God.
He says he’ll meet with me. He turns to his assistant and tells her to set up an appointment with me this week.
All the muscles in my face I’ve been contracting soften. I say thank you and tears release so freely I can’t control their volume or speed. He’ll see me. I notice a tiny sense of pride. My problem is big enough for the reverend to see me. The reverend who doesn’t take appointments. The reverend who knows how to love. This reverend who didn’t flinch when I said X; he’ll meet with me this week. Thank you, I say inside my fractured mind. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
SEVENTEEN
The story of X isn’t about X. It is but it isn’t. It’s about parts and pieces. Yes and no. Big and tiny, jagged and smooth, questions and answers, ahead and behind. Him plus me.
The story of X becomes my story about his story. My focus is on him. There’s danger in my focus. The jaguar man and I become constant companions. He’s already been stuck inside me, taking up space, but I make more room for him. He moves in. I think I can tame him if I know where he is. I think I can figure him out. So I study him carefully through the door of the internal cage where I keep him. My body becomes heavy with his weight. Distorted.
FACT. A male jaguar can weigh 200 pounds.
SOUVENIR SNAPSHOT. Jaguar locked in a cage with a pig used as bait.
I pretend I’m in control, rational, measured, but actually I’m thinking in circles, a spinning top that’s bound to topple.
FACT. If you try to rotate a spinning top in a direction it’s not already moving, it will wobble off in an entirely new direction until its inevitable crash.
My crash comes the night of a full moon. I’m looking at the moon, talking on the phone with the diver who’s sitting under the same moon countries away. It would be romantic except the diver is lying to me about another woman. I know it, and he knows it.
FACT. Jaguars cover an enormous territory, marking it with urine and scratches on the ground and trees. Their tracks are unmistakable.
The Jaguar Man Page 9