I was sixteen when I learned that prostitution was a thing, that people, usually women, sold sex for money. And yet, I was only thirteen years old the second time my father called me a whore.
It was Valentine's Day and I was over the moon excited. Dreamy Mike McDreamypants*, the middle son of our Pentecostal minister was coming to pick me up for the church youth group's party. I had a serious crush on Dreamy Mike. So serious, in fact, that I was COMPLETELY OVER John Schneider as Bo Duke. I had the locking diary with several pages covered with our names doodled together surrounded by curly hearts to prove it. My mission was to find SOMETHING to wear that would show Dreamy Mike that I was totally pretty enough to be noticed. Challenge accepted!
Now, being a "Good Girl(TM)" (read: totally brainwashed fundamentalist Christian growing up in the little shiny worn off spot on the buckle of the Bible Belt) I didn't want to dress like "Those Girls(TM)" that I'd heard about in Sunday sermons my whole life. You know, the ones that were brazen hussies who only existed to lure men into sin. No, I wanted to be someone he could consider in the role of "Future Wife". So, I had to go through my closet very, very carefully.
After trying on and discarding almost everything, I came up with something I was proud of. I wore a black long sleeved body suit with black slacks. Over the top of the plunging neckline of the body suit, I wore a cowl neck sweater dress in turquoise and green. I had a turquoise necklace and a ring that matched, and I braided my requisite ass-length brown hair into two long braids secured with matching turquoise and green ribbons tied into bows. Going into the bathroom, I daringly applied cherry flavored tinted chapstick, looked in the mirror, and nodded in approval. No skin showing below the neck, except for my hands, and everything matched. I was ready.
Believe it or not, thirteen-year-old fundamentalist Christian girls don't exactly have the healthiest self-esteem. So, being ready nearly two hours early left me plenty of time to fret. My mother was out with my older brother shopping for a new refrigerator, so I went to show my Daddy how I looked.
Later, in college, as the owner of a boa constrictor and the one responsible for feeding it live mice, I would reflect on how naively, and innocently I walked into my father's room hoping, no, LONGING, for his approval. I showed off my outfit and I'm sure I babbled about the party, Dreamy Mike, and L-rd only knows what else. I may have even pirouetted.
My father was an evil, psychotic man. I can say that now with the perspective of thirty some odd years of space and time between us. But at the time, he was my Daddy, the closest thing I had to G-d on earth. And I loved him. His words had the weight of authority and of truth. And they fell on me harder than the belt he used to whip me with when I was even younger.
"You are a dirty whore." he told me. He called me boy crazy. He told me that I was no good, and that I was of the devil. He tore into me with absolute rage. He said that I had ruined he and my mother's lives, and that he wished I'd never been born.
I can't recall how that felt. I can imagine, of course, but I can't remember feeling it. I know it was totally unexpected, and that it was devastating. Some shred of self-respect and sanity floated up to my awareness, and I clung to it like I was drowning. I remember thinking "But I'm adopted. You don't accidentally adopt a baby." Now I know that I dissociated hardcore.
Recently I had the opportunity to watch Gone With the Wind on the big screen. Yes, it's a romanticized version of a racist narrative that was never, ever true. And yet, Scarlett O'Hara's "Well. I can't think about that today. I'll think about that tomorrow." reminded me so much of myself. I stumbled out of my father's room. I scrubbed off my tinted chapstick. I read a book while I waited. Dreamy Mike picked me up and I went to that party. And while I never forgot my father's outburst, I put it aside. I can't think about that today. I'll think about that tomorrow. But tomorrow never really came.
Oh, sure, it took me twenty, thirty years to be able to put on red lipstick and see myself as anything other than a slut. Sure, it took the same amount of time for me to be able to wear nail polish without scrubbing it off in fear that some man would get the wrong idea. And sure I never managed to think of myself as pretty without feeling like I was in some way dirty, flawed, sinful, needy, or otherwise broken and deserving of punishment. But think about it? No, that never really happened. I ran away from those feelings until I couldn't run any more.
To be continued.
* Dreamy Mike McDreamypants is a pseudonym. OBVIOUSLY.
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