I know a boy who said his girlfriend’s body was a crime scene. Dad, my body is a crime scene…

- Jeanann Verlee, “Communion”  

My. Body. Is. A. Crime. Scene.

Mmmmm. I don’t know why but I find that description comforting. Actually, I do know why. I like it because when it rolls off my tongue, it doesn’t make me feel dirty. It doesn’t get hung in my throat. It doesn’t make me nauseous. I don’t have the overwhelming desire to crawl inside my skin and die. Tears don’t sting back of my eyelids.

My body….is a crime scene.

About two months after I moved home, my mom began barging into my room, demanding to know what was wrong with me. She couldn’t understand why I stayed in bed all day. Why I refused to clean up. Why I was so angry and irritable all the time. Why I never seem to want to leave the house anymore. Why I quit going to church. And during these times, I wanted nothing more than to SCREAM it in her face so she’d finally understand, “HE. RAPED. ME!” But instead, I spouted out an irritated, “NOTHING!” and she would turn and leave, slamming the door behind her, every time. And I would sit on my bed in the moments that followed, with tears in my eyes, wishing I could tell her the truth. Because this secret has left us oceans apart. And I’m the one drowning.

Dear Mom, my body is a crime scene.

I was never raped. But I was molested for the better part of a year when I was six years old. But somehow, rape seems a lot less dirty than what really took place on those days when every one was at the store buying lottery tickets or that one New Year’s Eve night when everything around me was quiet except his lips pressed against my ear, “Shhhh. Shhhhhh. Go back to sleep, Pooh, go back to sleep.” And I know actual rape survivors would beg to differ. But the way the word ‘molested’ feels on my tongue makes me cringe while simultaneously trying to silence the voice in my head that is always, always whispering, ‘no man is ever going to love/want you.’                                                                     

Dear God,

        My. Body. Is a crime scene.

        They broke me, Dad.

        All of them.

        But him?? He’s special.

        He is still the only one

        I’m convinced ever really truly loved me.

        That’s the sick part.

        Fix me, Dad. Fix Me.

I clicked on this video simply because it had “Drinking Version” in parentheses next to the title. That’s all it took. I was immediately drawn in.

I’ve always had this “thing” with alcohol. I don’t know what to call it exactly. Maybe I’ll have a word for it by the end of this post, but for now, let’s just stick with ‘thing’. I always tell people that I never drank until I was 21…that I had actually waited until I was of legal age. But that’s not entirely true.

My first taste of alcohol was at the age of 10. I was at my grandmother’s house, where I spent most of my childhood, being exposed over and over again to one elicit adult encounter after another. My aunt, sitting on the porch of my grandmother’s house drinking a budweiser (or a busch…I’m not so sure anymore) asked my cousins and I if we wanted a sip. They all jumped at the opportunity. I remember being a bit hesitant. I’ve always been a stickler for following rules (and laws). But I took a sip anyway because I didn’t want to be the only one not to. No sooner had the beer touched their tongues, they leaning over the side of the porch, spitting it back out onto the dirt. (I guess it wasn’t what they were expecting). I was the only one who actually swallowed it. Every single drop. And now, twelve years later, at the age of 22, that fact still fills me with this great sense of pride. It’s this sense of pride that gives me pause, but I’m not going to examine it here. Not now, at least.

That was the first sip of many (not really) in my young life. Growing up, my mom had an affinity for wine coolers. Strawberry Daiquiri Wine Coolers to be exact. She had a habit of pouring them into a cup with ice and putting it in the refrigerator. And I had a habit of waking up in the middle of the night thirsty, looking for something to drink. So, not wanting to pour my own drink, I would drink from hers. The first few times, I thought it was just red Kool-Aid or fruit punch. I would take a sip, taste the alcohol in it, and then promptly put it back. But as time went on, in the middle of the night when I would get thirsty, I would march into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and knowing full well what was in it before I even picked it up, I would take her cup and drink.

Then, there was the time we celebrated my cousin’s 21st birthday at Chili’s. She ordered this frozen drink. I never knew the name of it, but I remember being completely taken by the color of it. It was the most beautiful blue I had ever seen, mixed with swirls of perfect green. And she let me take a sip (or two). From then on, whenever I thought about my own 21st birthday, I dreamt of that drink. I didn’t need beer or vodka or four shots of tequila. No. Just that frozen mix of blue and green.

All those times were pretty innocent though. But that changed the year I was 14. Anybody who knows me knows that 14 was the worse year of my life. I was a complete mess. I was clinically depressed. I was suicidal. I was hospitalized. I had one emotional breakdown after another and I couldn’t stop taking razors blades to my arms and wrists. I was in so much pain. And I figured, if I couldn’t stop it, I could at least numb it. So, that’s what I set out to do the day I went into my mom’s room, opened up this really small bottle of barcardi she had, and poured half of it into a cup of peach soda I had been drinking.

I really just wanted someone to recognize how much pain I was in…and do something about it. But, of course, that didn’t work because I did in secret. I did everything in secret. I drank in secret. I cried in secret. I ate/binged in secret. I threw up (on purpose) in secret. I cut in secret. I searched for pills in secret. I wished for death in secret.

And to be honest, not much of that has changed. I still live most of my life in secret. Hiding out. Struggling with things that none of my “friends” know about. And some days, when I am tired of dealing, I have the overwhelming desire to get drunk. Like piss drunk. Shit-faced (I’ve always liked that term) drunk.

People often ask me why I’m so drawn to addicts and criminals and the broken things of this world. And others answer, claiming it’s because I have such a big heart and am so full of compassion. But really….that’s not it.

The truth is that I identify with addicts. I don’t sympathize….or even empathize with them for that matter. I IDENTIFY WITH THEM. I swear, I get in a room full of addicts and I am at home. Suddenly, I can let my guard down. There’s no need for me to pretend and keep up false pretenses. THEY are my anonymous support group. And my overwhelming compassion for them comes from the fact that we are one and the same. I understand addiction. I GET IT. And not in some intellectual psych textbook kind of way. I mean I really get it. I understand what is it to be so full of hurt and pain. To be so utterly broken. And not have the strength or the will to go through this life un-medicated. I understand the pull and the hold that alcohol and drugs and food and sex can have. It is appealing. and enticing. and so so attractive.

“And you can’t take that away from me until you’re ready to give me something in its place.” - Author: Another woman who gets it.

GOD, I LOVE THIS SONG.

He and I had something beautiful
But so dysfunctional, it couldn’t last
I loved him so but I let him go
‘Cause I knew he’d never love me back

       I’ve been listening to this song on repeat for about nine days now. And when I’m not listening to it, I find myself singing the above verse. A friend of mine posted it on her blog and I was immediately taken with it. It came at a time where I’d been thinking a lot about relationships - unhealthy relationships - and why people (women) stay in them. This was prompted by observing (being caught in the middle of) the relationship between my mom and my stepdad. To say that their relationship is dysfunctional would be a huge understatement. He isn’t physically abusive or violent but sometimes I wonder if the damage he does to her self esteem, self worth, and self concept is any less than hitting her in her face. I HATE the way he talks to her. She is NOT his equal. She is much much less than. Merely an ignorant child who never does anything right and constantly needs to be scolded…and disciplined. You can hear it in the way he talks to her. In his tone of voice.

      At church on Sunday, the pastor gave this sermon on trusting in and waiting on God during troubled times. And he focused a lot on relationships, claiming that God can still heal and restore relationships. We just need to to stick it out. Wait. He’ll restore. And the whole thing just PISSED ME OFF. No, I don’t dispute that God can restore broken relationships. But some relationships don’t need to be restored. SOME NEED TO END! They are unhealthy and destructive and I think it is a sin and a tool of the enemy to have messages like that spewed from the pulpit.

      A couple of months ago, I was reading this book called “I Asked for Intimacy: Stories of Blessings, Betrayals, and Birthings” written by Renita J. Weems, an African American professor of Old Testament Studies and an ordained minister. In one of the chapters, she talks about a friend she had named Bonnie.

A few years after graduating highschool, Bonnie married a man who, within six months of their marriage, was in jail for some unmentionable offense, leaving her pregnant and back home in her parent’s household. He remained in jail for the first ten years or so of their marriage. During that time, Bonnie raised their son, joined her mother’s churce, worked hard, visited her husband virtually every month for ten year, and remained celibate. Her husband was finally released, only to be sent back to jail within eighteen months for further offenses. This time he wnt off to jail, he left Bonnie infected with some sexual disease she couldn’t bring herself to speicify. And he left her again pregnant. By the time I saw Bonnie that morning in church, she had, according to her testimony, prayed about it, forgiven her husband, and resumed the routine she knew best: She was working, living in her parent’s house, visiting her husband every month in jail with their two children, attending church (a different one), and remaining faithful to her wedding vows. Bonnie ended her life’s story with a rehearsal of verses from the bible about submission, forgiveness, marriage, faithfulness, and love, which she explained served as the spiritual foundation for the decisions she’s made. Finally, she said, after much soul-searching, God had given her peace of mind. God had assured her that the next time her husband was released, their lives would be better.

With a couple paragraphs in between, she goes on to write:

       What makes it difficult to get through to someone like Bonnie is her belief that her suffering is redemptive. Her religion is her cape of captivity. It both chains her and protects her. It chains her to a life of abuse and it protects her from having to take responsibility for her own life and happiness. She is waiting to be rescued, whether by God, by another relationship, or by a transformed husband. To rescue herself is to not trust God. To initiate her own deliverance is to preempt God. To make a decision is to lack faith in God. To save herself is to deem herself worth saving. To free herself is to not trust God to ‘save’ him.

         [But] when is enough enough? Every woman has to decide this for herself. One woman’s waiting on God is another woman’s ‘enough is enough’. One woman’s testimony about how God changed her husband is another woman’s testimony about how God changed her. Some women prefer freedom to testimonies.

        Eventually it came to her [Leah, from the bible]- with no intervention from her god or angels- it came to her. What is the ‘it’ that came to Leah? Perhaps, “I don’t want to live like this anymore.” Perhaps, “I have a right to be happy.” Perhaps, “I don’t need to live like this anymore.” Perhaps, “I have a right to be free from being addicted to a man who hates me, free from being humiliated, free from being afraid.”I

       To be completely honest, I didn’t exactly receive this chapter and the one that followed it very well. I was still stuck in this dangerous cycle of “maybe, just maybe, things will be diffierent this time,” desperately wanting to be able to say, “Yes, we have a really good relationship now.” But these days, the last thing I want to hear is some “Man of God” from the pulpit telling me to wait on God. No, what I need is for someone to look me in the eye and tell me (and keep telling me until I believe it for myself) that I deserve better than this. That I am worth MORE than this. That the daughter of the ‘Most High King’ doesn’t have to live like this. Right???? Right.

        I’ve been listening to this song on repeat for a few days now and weeping periodically throughout it. This song has meant different things to me during different times and seasons of my life (it really hasn’t been out that long….), but these last couple of days, I’ve been stuck at this one line “My heart is set on you…I don’t want no one else” and I’ve mourning the death of a dream. The dream of going to USC. It sounds so trivial and overdramatized written on paper (or screen), but I really wanted to go. I really did. I didn’t make a big deal about it during the extremely long waiting process. In fact, I found myself really detached from it during the whole application process. But once it became real…once it was no longer a ‘maybe’ or an ‘if,’ I got caught up in this whirlwind of want and desire…of lust and longing….of yearning and craving………of dreaming. And I didn’t think it would matter this much…that it would hurt like this not to go.

       Getting the acceptance letter 2 days ago was indeed bittersweet. Regardless of whether or not I go, it still felt good to get in. For someone who is constantly seeking the approval of others and whose self-esteem fluctuates with the opinions of others, it felt really good to get accepted. To receive validation in writing. But the feeling didn’t last very long because I had done the numbers in my head (and on paper) and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to go. At least not this year. So I retreated into my room where I wept (I don’t cry….I weep).

      and I was reminded of this poem by Langston Hughes.

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?