Money (and sex) Can Buy Me Love

          It's interesting the things we learn to equate with love as a child. I've often heard people refer back to holiday dinners, sports games, or even candy. Of course, these all baffled me. It's not that I didn't like candy, mind you. The one or two times in my life we had dinners, my  abusers were there, all conversation was drowned out by sports, and nobody could hear each other. I remember the whole room turning to stare at me like I'd committed a cardinal sin when I, quite frustratingly, called them out for not listening. 

          I've always hated sports, and this is likely why. Even in bars I see how it draws people's attention from each other, and I don't see how any millionaire throwing a ball is worth that loss in real conversation, but I digress.

          Once, long after I'd moved out, my parents invited me for Thanksgiving dinner. It was a scary prospect, because, well, my cousin and I used to write thrash metal songs about the horrors of my mother's cooking, like our M.O.D. inspired "Goulash". Anyway, when I arrived, my Dad's best friend's car was in the driveway. I'd told  them what he did to me; what was he doing there? I reasoned with myself and, trying not to cry, I drove away to call my parents. Maybe he was just stopping for a few minutes. After all, I'd been the only person invited to this Thanksgiving. But, no. 

          My Mom answered and when I complained she simply said that if I didn't like it I could go elsewhere, and that's how I rated. I guess I knew that. It's like when our house burned down and my parents rented an apartment with no room for me because it accepted dogs.

          So, when you're me, you come to equate twisted things as love. 

Ye Olden Days

          Before my Dad knew about any abuse I had the belief that he would do something if he did know. I kept that vision of him as my hero with me far too long. When I was young, he'd take me out and play kickball, or badminton with me. He'd set up the pool so I could swim or take me fishing. Later on, he switched to a night shift and I never saw him. My whole life sucked and a new, life-long pattern began: my Dad made things as right as he could by buying me things. Soon, I came to expect what I wanted. If he didn't get it, he gave me nothing else - he didn't love me.  I found, over time, I became angry without them. I equated gifts with love, because everything else I had was misery - from my mother's narcissism, to my brother's sadism. With no affection and no relief, gifts made me live.

The doll.

          As a young teen, once my brother had gone, sex had become not just a means of over-compensating for my orientation, or displaying my independence over my family, but it was also a means of control over a situation. As a model-to-be, I always had, and have, men stopping me wherever I go. To me this meant one thing - I could acquiesce or have a very uncomfortable evening. So my life was a porno, and I was greatly despised in my community for it, which I found immensely hypocritical. Each experience was as disappointing as the last, but it didn't matter; I chose the field. It didn't take me long to realize  that men weren't accustomed to being ditched immediately after the fact, and swooning men became protective and libel to give gifts. A confirmed seductress by 16, I realized that my place in life was to be someone's doll. This was what I was to them, and what I always have been. If I couldn't have pleasure from sex, I could be the beautiful toy that they pull from their shelf to use and care for. Beauty and sex was at last all I'd distilled myself to. In retrospect, I recall my brother's favorite nickname for me as a child, "stupid whore".


          Now: It took an immense amount of work. The doll act worked for my fans who enjoyed the sexy, absent look, but not for my husband. He explained that he knew I had more, yet whenever he discussed anything important or tried to share, I interrupted with advances. Eventually he cut me off - completely. It hurt. It felt like a personal affront. I was angry for a long time. I felt unloved, because if he loved me, he would want to use me at every opportunity, but... the sex sucked anyway, right? What did I gain from it, ever in my life? I was in some death throes of the past when I woke up to remember that I actually *was* a genius. Somehow, I'd forgotten those I.Q. tests. I was more that the sum of my curves and selling myself short simply being a doll. I rekindled my old love of History, Mythology, and Quantum Physics and had a bit of a Renascence then. Once I realized my mind was the most important thing, I finally understood - nearly 8 years into our marriage, that he actually loved me for Me. How novel.

Pink and Pretty 1981

          I still can't get past presents, though; it comes down to shopping. While I NEED my solitude to survive, it's hard to feel like a couple when sleeping in separate beds. It's not that we're fighting, more that snoring disagrees with my sleep. So, I don't feel the connection I have in previous relationships, with all the cuddling and so on. I feel lonely. LOVED, but lonely. And so... I need gifts to compensate. A lot of gifts, apparently. 

          It is a bad habit, but it's been that was from the day my Dad brought home that Pink & Pretty Barbie. That said, "I can't be here for you, but I love you." What replaces that feeling? Hopefully someday I'll find it.

-DC