A Thriving Monologue

*Trigger Warning: sexual abuse, PTSD, flashback description*

I was cozy there, in my dark little spot of service backstage. I could still see the bright lights from the slit in the curtain. I could hear applause. I could help keep it on track, calm nerves, run for food. straighten tight’s seams and hair pieces.

But those days have passed.

It’s time to figure out how I fit in the Theater world I love so much. This weekend I stepped into those bright lights.

It was an Audition Call for the Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler. I’d heard about the play and a preconceived idea. Purity Culture and Evangelicalism didn’t talk about Vagina’s. That was Feminism. If it wasn't Feminism, then it was glorifying Victimhood.

Anyway, I knew what a Vagina was. I learned about it in elementary school. They had a special after school assembly for Mothers and Daughters in Fourth Grade. We watched a movie and they gave me a book to read.

But Summer shifted my life paradigm.

This fall, I had a monster flashback after watching Daniel Sloss’ X comedy special on HBO. I loved the it and thought I was fine...

Until the next morning.

After a night filled with terror dreams, I woke up to what was happening. I checked through my list of questions before I give into the Simmering Flashback:

I had a person close to help me.

I realized the flashback’s agenda.

AND

For the first time I could hear a resolution to the trauma.

So, I let it go.

The Daniel Sloss Special triggered small common threads from every negative experience I had over my lifetime. Tied them all together and plugged them in. As if I was standing in a media room with 20 televisions turned on and each volume was at 11.

The focus of this cacophony: My Vagina never belonged to me.

Each channel played a different owner:

The person who discovered it when I was 6.

Every person who told me belonged to God.

Whomever touched it through Junior High to College.

Authorities telling me It belonged to a marriage.

Meanwhile, I could hear this scene from the Netflix show Sex Education, in faint background muzak, “It’s my Vagina.”

Those words gently repeated over and over. As I relaxed, focused on my breath, the smell of the sheets, the birds outside, the tears running down my face. That concert of trauma began to quiet while a chorus of women’s voices grew, 

“It’s my Vagina.”

I waited until all I could hear was those gentle words. 

Anxiety released my muscles. I was held for a while. I talked about what happened. I felt so light. Each of those memories didn’t hurt anymore. My skin didn’t feel uncomfortable. For the first time I felt at ease within myself, from my head all the way to my toes.

Each day since then, the reflection in the mirror becomes kinder. I almost see what others see, I think. I can sleep, most nights, peacefully.

When I saw the Audition Call for the show. I wondered what else I could learn about myself. What it meant to just be a woman. A Human Being opposed to a Human Doing.

 I was given three parts. I sat quietly in rehearsals and just listened. Absorbed words from women I will never meet spoken by women I just met. No judgment or bias. Free from all assumption. None of those women knew my story, nor did I have to explain it.

All I had to do was be in the room.

I felt warm and nurtured, a healing balm added to what started so many months ago. My body really belongs to me. I am more than my Vagina, yet at the same time, my Vagina is what makes me a woman.

I walked away from the three shows filled with gratitude. The history, the story, the process is a continuing life work. Not only have I been a victim. I have moved through the process of Healing, to Surviving, and into Thriving.

A Nest With A Revolving Door

I was not prepared for this.

I did what they told me to. Those older wise women in ministry as they reflected reverent behavior. They told us not to slander. Not to drink-if you do, not too much. We were admonished to love our husbands and children. To be discreet in our actions, make sure all of our flirtations and obedience was towards our husbands and NOT make friends with other men. Don’t act like Jezebel. Defer all final decisions to the husband. It’s ok to make suggestions, but in the end his word is law.

It was our job, to make sure God wasn’t blasphemed.

Over the last 20ish years of marriage and kids, I’ve watched my friends feel shame when the economy soured and they went back to work. Those who chose to send their kids to school defending it with, “My husband…” Those who did homeschool explain why their kids needed to go to school. I had friends who wouldn’t invite people over because she wasn’t a good housekeeper.

The cycle continues with the younger moms today. They carry a heavy millstone of obligation to everyone else.

And here I sit.

Two kids in college and yesterday I dropped Girly off for classes that we’ve added to the homeschool schedule. This season is coming to a close.

The season of children.
The season of being that hot wife.
The season of running the home.
The season of everyone else’s agenda.

I’ve spent the last year looking forward to this and also dreading it because it exposes a nasty, uncomfortable question:

What about me?

Friendships were directly tied to who the kids were friends with. Now that most of the boys’ friends are off to college, those moms are off on adventure of discovery. Their nest is completely empty while mine still has a fledglings and a rotating door.

I feel lost.

What about me?

Somehow I got the idea through the women’s ministry to not ask that question. It’s about Jesus. It’s about being God’s representative. It’s about the husband. It’s about the kids.

I feel confused. I’m not the kind of mom who wishes the kids were small again. I’ve loved every stage. Every moment that we passed through was savored. I like being their friend and mentor now. I like watching them make decisions and mistakes themselves. The question haunts:

What about me?

I become irritated with myself. The question sounds pathetic.

So…

In my struggle to find an answer I reflect on all of the women’s retreats, bible studies, groups, sermons and mentoring for an answer. It eludes me. I’m not an older woman who could mentor. I am not a younger woman eager to learn home management, child rearing and husband happiness techniques.

I am in a middle and feel a bit abandoned. I have no clear answer. My thoughts fall to my youth, when the focus simply was loving God and serving others. I wonder if that should have been the message all along.

Marriage On Ice

After a long day I curled up next to Counting Mutant in bed. We began our wind down process; he on his ipad and me on my android. Just as I began to feel drowsy, a blog title caught my eye on Twitter: An Olympic Lesson for Husbands and Wives.


Within two paragraphs I laughed. Mutant turned, I read it aloud. He scoffed, “Well, that’s obviously someone who has never partnered.”

I've mentioned a few times that we are a family of dancers. Ase and Zany started dance when they were nine and ten. They practiced, ballet, jazz, modern, tap and hip-hop. They did other sports as well, but in Jr. High they focused on dance. Counting Mutant decided to figure out a way to join them. His thinking was: if they were in football, soccer, baseball, etc. he would help with the team and support them. It so happened that the role of the Nutcracker needed to be filled and Mutant became the wooden hero.

Over the years, the three of them performed together in Nutcrackers, Sleeping Beauty, Romeo and Juliet, Coppelia, and Les Miserables. In order to perform these ballet pieces, our studio formed a partnering class. Partnering at this level-either dance or ice skating- is not as simple as a man leading a woman.

I read it to the boys.


Ase said: That does not sound like ANY partnering class we've been in.

Zany said, “The beauty and perfection cannot happen if one person believes they are better than the other.”

Counting Mutant explains it like this, “There has to be trust and equal effort if not more by the woman. He throws her yes, but she is jumping just as much if not more. There is no leading they equally know the steps. They are coordinating their actions. They have to be equally strong to compete at that level. To learn it and perfect it, there was action, feedback, back and forth, action again, mistakes, coordinated improvement, until the both trust in their coordinated actions. If one is dominating or leading too much, it doesn't work.”

Under the beautiful costumes and graceful movements is a well guarded secret. Women dancers have to be physically strong, capable and know their own center of gravity. Along with their strength, men have be in tune with their partner. In order for him to lift her with a look of ease, she must bend her knees and jump: plie. Her core muscles engage and hold her center of balance. Her arms and shoulders control her direction.

In twirling and catching, her whole body engages as she plies. He lifts. They read each other’s center of gravity and shift to match-equally. The illusion of unity. She jumps into his arms and he adds his strength to her motion. He directs that motion to a mutually agreed spot for her to land. The combination creates incredible lift that defies gravity. The partners work in tandem for a common goal.

The illusion of dance and ice skating is to suspend reality. We think of them as super human, possessing qualities we don’t have. What we miss seeing are the hours of rehearsal. The mistakes both make. The falls. The injuries. The blood and bruises. By the time the pair enters the ice we see the fruit of their hard work. The art. The perfection.

Marriage, like dance and pairs ice skating, is work. Sometimes the man takes the lead, other times the woman. They are partners equally engaged and responsible to create something beautiful.