I longed to have a fresh start in life, to have a snow storm come and spread snow all over my old life—my mistakes, my hurts and disappointments, my losses, my traumas—and make it all disappear. As I sat alone, enjoying the snow-covered ground, I imagined the snow covering up all the negative things that had happened to me, and giving me a clean slate—a crisp white easel to paint my new life on. I wished it was that easy.
In some ways, I was getting a fresh start. Being with Sharon and Grace showed me a completely different way to live—a life without chaos, drama, or darkness. A life where you could focus on pursuing your goals instead of constantly being sidetracked by personal problems.
But as much as this was inspiring to me, I could feel an undercurrent of boredom simmering inside of me too. I found myself wanting to stir up some drama and bring some excitement into our lives that week. I don’t remember actually acting on this urge, and even if I had, Sharon and Grace were just too healthy and grounded to go along with it. But the fact that I couldn’t just be happy with good clean fun disturbed me.
Aside from spending winter vacation with Sharon and Grace, there was someone else who helped bring me out of my depression about losing Sunny and Yvonne: Judy.
I met Judy at one of the YWCA weekend retreats. She lived downtown in one of the old Victorians and went to a different high school, but we had a lot in common. We both wanted to travel and see the world, we both loved art, and we both had single moms. Like me, Judy’s father was nowhere to be found and was never talked about. The difference was, Judy had a loving and supportive mother who gave her free rein in terms of expressing herself.
Judy might have been described as “bohemian.” She wore wild, multicolored skirts, colorful scarves, and flowers in her hair. She also was an artist, and a good one at that. While I just dabbled at painting, her bedroom walls were lined with her beautiful oil paintings, which looked professional to my untrained eye.
Even though Judy didn’t have a car, she had managed to find her way to places in Bakersfield I’d never even heard of and to make friends with people I’d never encountered. Case in point: Basque Town and the Basque people. There was a small community of Basque people in Bakersfield, who were hired by sheep ranchers to watch over their sheep. Judy explained to me that the Basque were from the Pyrenees Mountains, a mountain range between France and Spain, and that raising sheep was a major industry in that region. The Basque people had their own language and customs totally separate from the French or Spanish. She had befriended several of the Basque families, some of who owned restaurants and bakeries in what was considered “Basque Town,” a neighborhood close to the downtown railroad depot.
I started meeting Judy at the Pyrenees Bakery on Saturdays throughout the winter and into the spring. We’d buy sourdough French bread and a wedge of cheese, and then go to Woolgrower’s Restaurant, where the owner, a friend of Judy’s, would sell us a bottle of red wine, even though we were underage. We’d take our bottle of wine and our cheese and bread and climb some outside steps up to the roof of one of the buildings nearby and have a picnic while we sketched the railroad yard and the buildings around us.
Being with Judy introduced me to what life could be like as an artist—a free spirit. I knew I couldn’t afford to live that life. I needed to get a college degree so I could get a good job. Still, I tucked the idea in the back of my head. And learning about and being around the Basque people gave me a taste of what it would be like to travel and meet people from different cultures.
I’d lost a lot that winter, but I’d also gained a lot. My life with my mother up to that point had been so empty and painful that I’d longed for stimulation and friendship. But my forays into the world outside our dark apartment had often ended in so much pain that I had begun to feel there was no way out of the life I’d been born into. Fortunately, that winter I got a glimpse of how life could indeed be different. I got a sense of what it was like to be around people who I considered to be normal and healthy, and to live a life with minimal drama and chaos. And most important, I had been given renewed hope—hope that I, too, could one day live the kind of life where I could afford to go to the mountains on vacation or travel to foreign countries and meet interesting people from different cultures. A life where I wouldn’t be dependent on anyone else to make me happy. I’d gotten just a taste of this kind of lifestyle, and that taste had made me hungry for more.
chapter 39
It was Easter vacation during my second semester of junior college. Sharon and Grace, the girls I’d gone to the snow with the previous winter, invited me to join them for a trip to Avila Beach, the closest beach to Bakersfield. Once again, Sharon’s father drove us there and rented a hotel for us close to the beach.
As soon as we unpacked our suitcases, we ran down to the beach. It was the first time I’d seen the ocean. I couldn’t believe how breathtaking and expansive it was, how exciting it was to see the tide coming in and out—to feel the power of it.
I wanted to jump into the waves right away. I tried to persuade Sharon and Grace to join me.
“I don’t know how to swim that well,” Grace said.
Sharon shook her head. “I just want to relax and take in the sun.”
So I ran into the ocean by myself. I didn’t know how to swim well but I had absolutely no fear, no hesitation. The first time a wave crashed over me, I was forced under and had to fight my way to the surface, sputtering and gasping for breath, but it didn’t deter me. I kept it up until I learned to duck under the water just before the wave crashed over me.
I felt exhilarated being in the ocean. I felt alive in a way I never had before. I vowed that one day I would live near the ocean so I could swim in it every day; let its expansiveness remind me that my life was no longer confined to small, dark apartments; and take in the crisp ocean air, reminding me that I was no longer trapped in Bakersfield’s polluted atmosphere.
It couldn’t have been more romantic. Sitting around a beach campfire on a moonlit spring night, two young strangers catch each other’s eye, then casually start to talk.
His name was John and he looked like your typical, all-American boy. He had short, light blond hair, blue eyes, and a light complexion that had been tanned from spending so much time at the beach. He was six-foot-one and had a nice build, his chest and arms muscled from working out. I loved how he looked—his smile and the way his eyes twinkled. But there was also a sadness just below the surface. A darkness to him. And I loved that too.
John suggested we take a walk along the beach—after all, it was such a beautiful night. We walked in silence for a while. A comfortable silence. Before long, we began to hold hands. There was such a feeling of familiarity—as if we had known each other for a long time. We sat down to rest with our backs to an embankment, facing the sea. Soon we were kissing. They were long, sweet kisses that drew us closer and closer to one another, not the passionate kind of kisses I’d experienced with older men.
John wanted to drive me to a secret place above the cliffs of Avila and I agreed without hesitation. We walked back and I introduced John to Sharon and Grace and told them where we were going.
We drove up, up into the hills overlooking the beach and the town below. We parked at the top of the cliffs, John took my hand, and we walked to the edge of the cliffs, down a small embankment onto a ledge. There it was: a spectacular rock formation, cut into the cliff from years of sea and sand erosion. An archway leading into a kind of cave, illuminated by moonlight.
We walked up a trail to stand in the archway. We could see the ocean below, sparkling in the moonlight. It looked like diamonds glistening on the surface of the water.
We stood silently for some time, holding hands and staring at the glimmering sea, taking in the moment. I would later paint a picture of this scene—two lovers standing in an archway with the moonlit ocean below.
Later, we sat in John’s car and told each other our life stories, talking long into the night. He told me about how his parents’
divorce had been a huge blow to him, how much he missed his father, and the difficult time he’d had adjusting to his stepfather, who was a real tyrant. I told him about my mother being so neglectful and critical and about her drinking problem. When I told him about the sexual abuse and rape, tears filled his eyes. The fact that he was so moved by my pain touched me deeply and I felt closer and closer to him.
As it turned out, John and I had a lot in common. Like me, he had gone through a rebellious time. His mother was very religious, and after his parents’ divorce he had defied her and the church, hanging out at the beach, drinking too much, and having sex with lots of girls. He said he wasn’t proud of his behavior back then and no longer ran around with the same crowd. And he stayed away from the bad girls. He said he wanted to be with a good girl—like me.
I felt conflicted about this. On the one hand, I was glad that he viewed me this way. I had worked hard to shed my “bad girl” image and behavior from Janice Drive. I wanted guys to respect me. But on the other hand, I was getting tired of guys seeing me as a good girl and not recognizing the blossoming sexuality inside me.
It wasn’t until after 2:00 a.m. that John drove me back to the hotel where I was staying with Grace and Sharon. We had a hard time saying good-bye, not wanting to let go of each other, wanting to hang on to the specialness of the night.
I woke the girls up when I came in and they were eager to hear all about John. I was giddy with excitement as I told them how wonderful he was and how crazy I was about him. I could tell that they got a kick out of hearing this; they were clearly living vicariously through me. But they also seemed genuinely happy for me.
I was too excited to sleep. I kept seeing John’s face in my head; I went over and over everything we’d said and done. I couldn’t wait to see him the next day.
John picked me up early the next morning and we spent every waking hour together for the rest of the week. I had never been so happy in my life. I felt more accepted than I had ever felt, more understood. John was a stranger but he saw me more than anyone ever had.
For the first time in my life, I felt loved unconditionally by a male whose feelings I returned. I’d felt this with Pam and for a while with Sunny, but never with a boyfriend. There was no pretense, no worrying about what the other person might think—not even worry about hurting his feelings. It was all so easy.
I no longer felt alone. I had found my soul mate. We were in love. Without a whole lot of talking about it, we knew we would be together for the rest of our lives. We made plans for him to come see me in Bakersfield the very next weekend. He lived in San Luis Obispo, a town a little inland from Avila Beach, with his mother and stepfather.
John had recently come home from a tour of duty in Panama. He was a Green Beret. It was 1966, just before the Vietnam War, a time when patriotism was still a virtue and fighting for your country was seen as a noble act—even when it wasn’t so clear how fighting in Panama was really helping the U.S. There was a popular song called “The Green Berets” that extolled the virtues of the brave men who risked their lives for our country, and there was also a movie of the same name.
Although John didn’t go into details about his experiences, I knew he had been traumatized by his time in Panama. This was the darkness I recognized in him that first night we met at the campfire. He cried and shook when he first told me he had been a Green Beret, and that his mission had been top secret. For that reason and because it was so difficult for him to talk about, it was the first and last time he told me anything about it. Still, his whole experience lay heavy between us—speaking volumes about who John was and who he would become. Perhaps our mutual trauma was what drew us to one another in the first place.
I couldn’t wait to tell my mother about meeting John when I got home from my trip. But as soon as I saw her I knew that something bad had happened to her: her mouth was set in a grim line, and her chin was all scraped up.
My happiness about John was replaced with concern for her. “What happened, Mom?”
“Some teenage thugs knocked me down and stole my purse,” she said angrily.
“Oh my gosh. When did this happen? Where were you?”
“The night you left. I was walking to the liquor store. I had all my vacation money in that purse.” In addition to being angry, she also sounded sad.
I felt terrible. Here I had just experienced the best time of my life and all the while my mother had been suffering. She hadn’t planned on going anywhere, but she had taken a week’s vacation from work while I was gone.
“I’m just going to sleep in and relax,” she had told me before I left. “I don’t want to have to worry about doing a damn thing. I’ll paint if I feel like it. I bought a new mystery to read. But other than that, I’m doing nothing the entire time you’re away.”
But instead of having a relaxing time, she’d spent the past week getting over being traumatized and nursing her wounds. In addition to her chin, she also had two scraped knees. And she hadn’t even had the money to buy herself beer. She’d finally borrowed some money from Mrs. O next door to get her through the week.
I couldn’t help but see the parallels in our lives—and the irony. My mother always seemed to need to knock me down whenever I was happy, and here she’d been knocked down herself when she was looking forward to a relaxing time, a time without me.
I had never seen my mother so vulnerable. She always seemed strong, no matter what came her way. As much as she complained about other people and about having to work, when bad things happened to her she never complained much about it. She just moved on. But she seemed to be having a harder time getting over this. She looked hopeless and helpless—broken in some way.
And something else happened because of the mugging: I felt guilty. Guilty for not having been there; guilty for being off having my own life. And especially guilty for having such a great time while she was home suffering.
I wanted to have my own life, to be away from my mother and from Bakersfield, but not at her expense. This incident gave me a glimpse of just how hard it was going to be for me to leave my mother and start my own life.
John drove two hours to Bakersfield every Saturday to spend the day with me. We spent no time at my mother’s apartment— we’d always drive to a park where we could spread out a blanket and lie down on the grass together. It felt like when we were together we had to lie down. The passion and intensity between us made us dizzy and we simply could not stand or even sit up for very long. We kissed for as long as we could stand it—usually until John became so aroused that he had to stop. Then we just lay quietly in each other’s arms, clinging to one another for dear life.
Feeling the impending separation between us at the end of each Saturday was almost unbearable, and yet we knew, as evening shadows lengthened, that we had to part. We didn’t talk about it—how painful it was, or when it would happen. We just shored ourselves up for the inevitable. We both knew when it was time and we’d get up, shake out our blanket, fold it, and put it in John’s trunk.
I sat as close to John as I possibly could and he put his arm around me as we drove to my apartment, where he silently walked me to the door. With one final, lingering kiss he was on his way. I stood in the doorway with tears streaming down my face and waved good-bye.
We talked on the phone every night, and this sustained us until we saw each other the following weekend. We said all the things to each other we couldn’t say or didn’t want to waste our time saying when we were together.
I love you.
I adore you.
You are everything to me.
I wish we never had to be apart. 283
But we didn’t make any definite plans to live together, mostly because John wasn’t in a position to make plans. He didn’t have a job, and although he looked for work, he wasn’t actually in any shape to work. PTSD wasn’t an official diagnosis in those days, but John was definitely suffering from it. At times, he had flashbacks so debilitating that he couldn’t get out of be
d. He told me that whenever he heard a helicopter fly over his house he would automatically fall to the floor. He said the sound catapulted him right back to Panama in his mind. And whenever he heard a loud sound, like a car backfiring, he went on alert.
I didn’t know about “triggers” at the time, although I had my own. I couldn’t go into an auto repair garage without getting dizzy, or be around a man who worked on cars and had grease under his fingernails without becoming nauseated. The sight and smell of Vaseline made me gag. Much later, I would discover that these were symptoms of PTSD, and that my triggers were things that reminded me of Steve.
John and I had both been traumatized and we both suffered flashbacks because of it, but I was too cut off from myself emotionally to address my own problems. So I focused on John’s instead. I listened to him the few times he opened up about his pain, and I expressed empathy and compassion for his suffering. I told him I imagined it must be horribly difficult to live with the pain. I soothed him with my voice and let him know I understood how difficult life had been for him. I did all the things I wish someone had done for me.
Looking back on it now, I wish I could have given myself the same compassion—compassion I so desperately needed— instead of constantly being self-critical. I wish I could have countered my mother’s criticism and my own tendency to shame myself with self-compassion. I wish I could have given myself the support and understanding I gave John, told myself the things I told him: “You’re going to be okay. You’re doing the best you can under the circumstances. It’s understandable that you would be having a difficult time getting your life together, you’ve been through hell.”
chapter 40
Raising Myself Page 24