The People Behind My Eyes

I’d have a harder time with a little girl moving in here than I will with an 8 year old boy moving in. Dr. D and I discussed how nearly fearful I am of little girls but comfortable w/ boys to a certain degree. When I see a little girl I see nothing at all. I see an empty shell with curls and clothes. I see a doll, like a porcelain doll posed and manipulated to sit or stand as told. I have a really hard time seeing them as anything other than that. It’s hard to see them as real, living, breathing human beings. If I dropped one of the many porcelain dolls that I collect it would shatter on the floor and expose an empty inside. There would be nothing but broken pieces inside three layers of lace under a perfect little dress. I can’t see little girls as real. I can’t see me as a little girl. I see them as dolls, figures manipulated into doing whatever, whenever. She has no control, no choices, nothing about her that’s just hers. A long time ago I wrote the poem called My Own. Part of it says:

To each his own
His own talent, star quality, exemplary field of excellence
Drawn from given abilities with no explanation come
Hatters, tailors, leather workers and toy makers
But some are given over to toys
For never a moment distinct or defining outside the imagination of wistful, pony tailed little girls.
Held tightly then tossed at the blowing of the wind
Only coddled when she feels like it
When she wills it, always a toy and nothing more
Until he snatches from stolen places the breath of life
And leaps to his feet where sweet freedom abounds
Will he be his own.

I meant that the other way around. Little girls get tossed about, always nothing more than a play thing and at the mercy of others. It has got to sound horrible, I know, to say such things about little girls.

Today in therapy Dr. D spoke to a quiet, anxious, hesitant me. He asked who he was talking to. The person said, “No one.” That person’s name is No one. Of course he inquired as to how “he” got that name. The question is always, “Who do you think you are?” The proper answer so as not to be hurt even worse is, “No one.” From there is was flashback city. Standing there, arms out, holding encyclopedias, heavy a hell but we sure better not drop them. The mother’s hitting us with the dowel rod, my cousin’s head has been shaved because she thought she was somebody. She flipped her hair. So now we’re standing there with our arms out holding heavy books being reminded that we are no one at all. Just two little girls, no one at all, just two little girls, one bald, one not sure if she could hold onto the books any longer with a dowel rod against her back. No one, no one at all. I’m telling Dr. D this story. He says its terrible. I automatically say, “It doesn’t hurt” then think to myself, “Yes it does, but please be quiet.”

That stupid woman called me today. I didn’t answer twice. She left messages. Another call. I told her there was no way we were back together and I’m sorry she thought we were. She said she doesn’t want to hurt me. I said but you do all the time. She said, yes, but I don’t ever leave you. (Silence…more silence) I mentioned the passive aggression as well as the outright aggression. She said she’s sorry about telling me I could be a high paid whore. She said she meant it as a compliment but with my issues she should have known better than to say it. I told her not to blame it on my issues. Most people would be highly offended if they just finished having sex then were told they could have been a high price whore. Maybe it’s just me but I think most would find that statement rather insanely inappropriate. What the hell? Really? What the hell? A compliment? Come on. How is being called a whore a compliment?

I’m hanging up, she’s begging on the other end of the phone. Fuck you! I want to tell her to shut her fucking mouth, stop fucking begging, dry the fucking tears, get a fucking back bone and get the fuck up off her begging ass knees. Shut the fuck up. I said nothing. Fuck you!!!!!!!

Now lets bring in the issues. Who called me a little whore? My sister, my uncle, my mother. I was their “cute little whore” The one with the nice lips and the nice mouth!!!!! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!!!!!!!!!!!