Moving on: period or question mark

“So you’re just over it? You sound fine. Philosophical, even.” Rachel sounded dubious – the first of my friends (those who do not read the blog) with whom I’d deigned to speak. I’d sent them email – let them know basically what happened since I’d told them about him before. Regrettable, that. Next time I do something blatantly stupid, it’d be good to keep it to myself.

So after several concerned emails and missed phone calls, I sighed and picked up the cell phone last night to tell the story and answer some questions.

It’s almost surreal, to be honest.

“It’s still hard.” I told her thoughtfully. “But… I don’t know. It wasn’t real – it’s hard to mourn – openly mourn – something that was basically imaginary at best and lies at worst. I was lucky, actually. I had all these feelings for him – well, for the man I thought he was – but we didn’t meet. I don’t really remember what his voice sounded like. Have no idea how he smells. If he’d rather hold hands or put his arm around me. There were no kisses, no sex, no waking up together. Only fantasy. And even that may not have been sincere.

“I don’t know. I did love him. But what is there to do?”

“I would have thought you’d be out of it for months.” She said. “You don’t just fall in love. You’re careful and hopeful and I know how much he mattered to you.”

“Rachel, it was bad. Beyond bad at first. I lost it – lost myself. All that existed was pain. Constant, overwhelming misery because I wasn’t good enough. I was stupid. And wrong. I couldn’t do anything but writhe in agony. So maybe the intensity of that week shortened the duration? I’m not sure. But I’m OK now.”

And I smiled into the silence as she fumed.

“Well, I hate him.” She finally offered.

“I know you do.” I soothed. “I would too if I were you. But it’s OK. I understand what happened – at least as much as I ever will. I’d rather believe he’s a guy who made bad choices than accept that I made a truly terrible mistake. That the man I thought I’d love forever was truly and completely cruel. So we emailed and I forgave him and we’re moving on.”

“You still talk?!”

“No.” I quickly responded. “Not anymore. Not at all. He doesn’t read my blog and I don’t read his. No email. I don’t even know his phone number, nor would I use it if I did. It’s done, but it didn’t end as badly as it could have.”

“I wish you hadn’t forgiven him. He didn’t deserve that. He should always think of you and feel guilty and bad. Why do you have to worry about people so much? Be so nice and try to make everything better? It should only be better for you!”

“It felt right to forgive him.” I said softly. “Like something I’d want to believe I could do. And who does deserve it?”

“The chance to be happy? Lots of people! Not him. But other people!” And I laughed at her passionate response. It actually helps me when other people are dramatic – I tend to seek balance, so I tend to look for the bright side when other people are sad. Am more stable when talking to someone who is emotional. Feel sorry for myself when other people are incredibly happy.

“I don’t know. I was thinking more of forgiveness though. We all screw up – sin against God or each other. I trust that there is enough goodness out there to forgive my errors. That people will seek my heart and note the possibility of love and forgive the possibility of selfishness or cruelty. I prayed about it and felt good about wrapping things up on a more positive note.”

“You’re amazing.”

“No.” I shook my head and smiled. “Not even a little. Not at all. I don’t think I forgave him for him – I did it for me. I need forgiveness and want to know that I can offer it even when desperately hurt. I needed to find a good part of myself after that week. I wanted to do something God might like. I don’t want to be bitter or angry or plotting revenge. I want to let go.”

“And have you? Already?”

The truth? Since I’ve revealed so much already? I dream about him. My subconscious absorbs the scary feelings and in the moments where I’m able to rest, those thoughts are allowed some freedom. So when I wake, I curl into a ball, cuddle my pillow covered its silky case close, and force the dreams back. Trust that the neurochemicals will make me forget as I’m supposed to do. I’m not ready, I insist. I can’t hurt anymore. It’s too much, too hard. I don’t want to go back to the bathroom floor, lose sight of myself, drown in misery again.

I’ve spent much of today in tears. Somehow talking to a friend – telling the story and facing how I’m doing – has brought those thoughts to the surface. And they refuse to fade without some acknowledgment.

It’s mostly words, I think. I dream of text – in the Gmail font. Little lines of letters spanning my vision. I read them eagerly – trying to take it all in quickly, before I can remember that none of it is real. I want the feelings, the hope. But I don’t want the inevitable hurt – the lies. I forgave him, I lecture sternly. I’m not angry! I understand! It just happened. Stop reading. Just turn away from the words. But I’m compelled to read them – confused as to what’s real and what I'll naively insist upon believing. But I can’t remember the content when I’m awake – what I learned, what I decided. Just the feelings - the generosity of love, the sparkling hope, the dreadful shame that I wanted to believe something that wasn't true.

Apparently that was far too subtle though. So my subconscious stopped screwing around.

So the night before last, I dreamed that I was home – in my parents’ house. They weren’t there, nor was Brother. There was a dog – though I can’t remember if it was our family pet or little Chienne. But I looked around, smiling over the old portraits of Brother and me that hang in the hallway. Dusting the trivets that hang in the kitchen – they came from Grandma’s house. I’ve always loved them – heavy, black twists of metal that somehow manage to look elegant and beautiful. So I was thinking about how pretty the house was – how the past integrates so effortlessly into the present. How it was a shame that I was all alone – that nobody was around to hear me tell the stories of where items came from. That my parents used the same microwave since they got married nearly 40 years ago. Preen over a picture of the Little One – she looks like us, you see, and we think she’s rather exquisite.

I smiled when there was a knock at the door. I had just been hoping someone would come. So I walked easily through the living room toward the door, feeling a vague sense of unease, but pushing it aside to welcome the visitor. I don’t remember who it was – time skipped ahead and I found myself standing in the dining room, behind the half-wall that separates it from the living room. There were too many people, I decided. Men. Too many men. They were making too much noise, taking up too much space. And they didn’t want to hear my stories – they weren’t paying attention to me at all. Just sitting on the furniture without removing their shoes. Looking for food in the kitchen without asking permission.

One of them came over to me, raised his eyebrows and stared. I stood silently. Nervous. Upset. And completely quiet. The man smiled and turned to another woman. I hadn’t noticed them come in, but there were a few other females standing in corners. They looked moderately fearful – some beautiful, some average. But none of them spoke. So I decided that it was OK to be quiet. Perhaps my instinct to allow whatever the men wanted was appropriate.

Eventually, the women – myself included – were led to bedrooms. Mine resembled the one I have in my house. A large suite, though the closet was located in a corner of the bedroom rather than off the bathroom as it is in reality. I was alone in the room without windows, though sunlight came in through the open door to the bathroom. There must be a window in there, I decided. My feeling was that the bedroom was located near the center of the house, and I closed my eyes, trying to hear what was happening outside.

I was worried about the other women. I didn’t want them to be hurt or scared or upset. I took several quick steps toward the door, but stopped. Too fearful to move any closer to the entrance to my rooms – I was temporarily safe and I didn’t want to compromise that. Wasn’t sure how I would help the other women even if I found them in need. And maybe they were OK, I tried to comfort myself. Perhaps they didn’t mind being told what to do. It was likely easier than fighting.

I stood there, staring at the door, for a long time. I remember thinking I should lock it – make some effort at keeping people out. I decided it wouldn’t stop the men – locking the door – and would probably only irritate them. I didn’t want to provoke their anger, so I pressed my fingertips to my lips and stood frozen with indecision.

Then I turned, walked toward the bed, lay down and tried to sleep. To escape the consciousness of this strange, fearful reality. And I did rest for a while, I think. A couple of hours, perhaps.

When I realized I was awake (though still dreaming), I didn’t think anyone had been in the room with me while I rested. They’d forgotten I was there, I decided, unsure if I was insulted or relieved. Maybe it was good to escape their attention. Because I wasn’t very pretty. Or capable. Strong. Smart. Adequate. But that was OK – perhaps being of below-average desirability would keep me safe.

Feeling secure, I decided I wanted to change clothes. It seemed like a bad idea – removing the cotton garments I had on to exchange them for different ones – but perhaps I was too cold or vulnerable in my current outfit. For whatever reason, and though I was nervous, I decided to walk to the clothing in the corner of the room. I took off my pants first, deciding that my t-shirt would be covering enough should someone decide to enter. But I removed that as well, and that weird dream thing happened – when I know I should be moving quickly, making decisions, avoiding danger, but time slows and I’m frozen in place. Unable to choose new clothes with which to cover myself, though I very much did not want to be naked.

I turned to see the door opening, and grasped for a shirt. I dropped to the floor, sitting and pulling my limbs close – my body curling into a ball as I tried to cover myself with my arms and the small bit of fabric. I looked pitifully up at the man who entered – feeling at once repulsed and attracted.

He was relatively nondescript. Thick hair – reddish brown – and a full, but well-trimmed beard. Not overly tall, facial features that were average. A button down shirt. He didn’t look at all sadistic, and not all that powerful. But given that he was standing – dressed and confident – and I was cowering – naked and confused – the dominance was unmistakable. He looked at me, his expression more blank than anything.

I looked toward the open door, afraid that someone would look in and see me. They’d think I was trying to entice this man – that I wanted him to want me. Wait. Did I?

He noticed my discomfort immediately and closed the door behind him. To protect me? Or to have privacy to damage me to a greater degree? I wrapped my arms tighter around myself and continued to stare at him.

“Are you changing clothes?” He finally asked, then shrugged when I didn’t respond. Just blinked up at him, wondering what his plans were for me. “You can get dressed. If you want.”

I reached for a large shirt, trying to cover my body with one arm and my drawn up legs. I looked away from him briefly, considering pulling it over my head but not wanting to expose myself completely in order to don the protective cotton fabric. I looked up at him again, wanting him to turn around, but unable to ask.

“Go ahead. You don’t have that much time.” He said lightly. He didn’t come closer – was standing about 10 feet away. He just watched me, no strong feelings in evidence. Mildly curious - that’s how I’d describe him. So I scolded myself for sitting there, nude, and quickly struggled into the shirt. Covered, I felt slightly better. So I stood, letting the shirt cover my thighs, and met his gaze again.

“There are rules.” He said, and I remember thinking that it was my house. Why was he able to make the rules? I should get help – call someone for help. Or ask them to leave – I’d never done that. I should tell him to go. Then at least I would have tried – said I didn’t want this. Been clear about my feelings and desires. I was scared. I didn’t want him there. But I still didn’t speak and realized I’d missed his recitation of the rules as I internally debated.

“You get 2 hours each day for sleeping.” He finished. “But I assume you were in here napping?” I nodded. “So that’s over. You’ll need to come out of this room now.”

I backed away, toward the bathroom. I didn’t want to leave my room. What if it was worse in the rest of the house? What if there were men worse than this one? What if the other women were being hurt? I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t want to know – just wanted to be alone and safe in my room. To try to sleep again and hope that they were gone when I woke up.

“I’ll give you a couple minutes to get ready.” He sighed, and looked back at me as I crawled into bed, pulling the covers up and closing my eyes. I peeked at him through a squint and saw his face pull into a frown. He felt badly for me – that I understood. He appreciated my fear and confusion – I somehow felt he knew me better than I knew myself. He considered, in that moment before he opened the door again, letting me go. Coming back, offering his hand, lending me his strength and power, and setting me free. He knew I wouldn’t do it myself and the desire to protect someone weaker than himself was present.

In that moment, I hoped. I desperately wanted his help – I regretted that he was torn, but he wasn’t a bad person. In that moment, he wanted to be kind. Then, as though I was in his head – seeing his thoughts – he considered what I could do for him. Work, provide financially, clean, provide sex and perhaps children. Give emotional support if I ever decided to speak, or at least the illusion of power if I continued to cower in his presence. The sex I could see most vividly – He would enter the room at night and join me as I tried to sleep. There would be pleasure, I decided, but not love. And was it rape if I never said no? If I never said anything at all?

He left the room, closing the door softly behind him, deciding to take me later rather than help me now. And as I began to emerge from the dream - still half-asleep, I urged dream Katie to get help if she was afraid. Call someone – the phone was right beside the bed! Open the window in the bathroom – it wasn’t locked! Finish getting dressed, exit the room, and demand these men leave! Help yourself, I urged as I watched her try to sleep – wanting her to escape from this situation she had done nothing to prevent. Had she encouraged it? I couldn’t remember as I opened my eyes and looked around the room, rolled toward the edge of the bed, stood up and slipped into my pink robe.

I know this is hardly good – I’m obviously very afraid and confused and lacking any real trust. Does it mean the forgiveness I prayed over then offered isn’t valid? I don’t think so. I hope not. I’m not angry at him and I’m grateful for that.

Perhaps my forgiveness shouldn’t stop with him though. I might need to offer myself the same gift – pray for me, tell myself it was OK to love someone, to encourage bad behavior, to hide the truth from him – and perhaps even myself – until the situation had disintegrated to a point where I finally was honest on my blog. I’m terrified that I accepted feeling inadequate and sad for so long. That I opened the door. I think I’m angry at myself – bitterly angry that I screwed up so badly. If I’ve damaged my ability to trust men who might be interested in me, I did so willingly.

And my thought – even now – is that had I not pulled myself from the dream and out of bed, I would have let that man in my bedroom have anything he wanted. Would have followed the rules I hadn’t heard but would later learn, would have offered him everything that I was and had. That’s a bad realization for me. One that leaves me feeling scared, confused, ashamed and terribly vulnerable.

So, am I over it? Completely OK?

Not so much. But I think I eventually will be. But for now, I’ve simply pushed it into my subconscious. Where it escapes in disturbing dreams.