It wasn't long ago (inside of 8 years, that's not long ago, right?) that we were at the Wal-Mart Supercenter here in Corinth, Mississippi, to buy quick cheap sheets for our new mattress. We weren't quite married yet (uh oh), and I have a phobia of sorts of uncovered mattresses. We couldn't exactly borrow a sheet from his mom, and I was so paranoid that my mom would notice one of her ancient sheet sets missing. Jer parked in the fire lane, and I ran in to buy our soon-to-be consecrated 250 thread count sheets. Sidebar: this fitted sheet less than a year later came out of the washing machine with a burned hole in it. As I walked from the automatic doors back to the car with the best, most confident posture, a cliche work crew was boarding their own vehicle. One of them shouted, "Sweet Jesus!" Apparently, he was impressed, and I was, unfortunately, flattered. My fiance heard their appreciation and seconded it when I got myself in the car a little too quickly. There I was outfitted in Old Navy and Addidas, a total of $100 probably dressed me head to toe (and that is by my estimation $80 too much) sure I was going to be raped before I could enjoy some consensual premarital sexual relations.
I couldn't quite figure out why I felt like these men were going to try to rape me. I had been places before by myself, and I had been admired less tactfully I'm sure. I had learned about testosterone and its effects in biology class, so surely I should have passed it off. Over the months following "Sweet Jesus-gate," I started having kind of flashbacks of some things that happened to me when I was a little girl. While those nauseating events were not as brutal as they could have been, I felt disoriented and betrayed. Then it hit me. I feel scared about little nothing things, because of what happened to me when I was ten. The uncovered mattress thing, consequently, has everything to do with the psychology involved in my molestation. Now, I'm a statistic, pissed, and a little weepy.
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First of all, sinner, let me say that cheap sheets are just perfect for premarital sex. I'm just sayin...
ReplyDeleteSeriously, though, the statistics for this kind of stuff are really off the charts. The abuse in my family, though not me directly, has affected me to the point where my mother's shame manifested as my inevitable guilt. I hear you.
It's fucked that you had to start having flashbacks... I hope that you have resolved things to a point in which you are now more comfortable. Shit like that is like exorcising a demon. (((Hugs)))
ReplyDeleteThanks, girls. I pretty much never think about the fondling. I just heard someone say "sweet Jesus" on television, and it kind of made me think of how/when I remembered.
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