I found this old journal entry a few weeks ago. Wow. This is a full summation of the issues I struggled with for years. And some of those issues B____ cut through like tissue paper, and the rest God has healed completely. Amazing.
.
April 3, 2005
.
I have found it is worth nothing. All my efforts at purity, virginity, godliness, and all the rest of it. I have worked so long and so hard to build for myself a life I didn’t have to regret, a life I could look back on with my back straight and my head held high, only to find that that life is one I regret. I have more regrets than a lot of people have who didn’t work so hard to this end. All my regrets are missed opportunities, and those few regrets I have for things I actually did do aren’t so painful to think on as I had expected. The sting of them has faded so that now I don’t squint when I have to look at them, I don’t cringe. I can look at them now with calm equanimity, even humor. But the regrets for those missed opportunities, the endless list of them, has made me tired and unsatisfied, cynical and baffled. Never had it occurred to me that that would be the case, that the future I envisioned emerging from my choices should be twisted into reverse, into the negative of the pictures I so carefully shot.
.
And now, I find that those good, wise, moral choices I have made for so many years have left me nothing but alone. Life is not fair, and I’ve always known this, but I hadn’t expected it to bite me in this way, from this direction. I had always heard that the things you defend from, the unplanned disasters and incidental catastrophes that you build up your walls to keep out, never come from the well-defended northern direction you’ve been watching all these years, but ooze through the cracks in the crumbling southwestern wall that you thought you never needed to worry about. They slide through like dry rot and by the time you have become aware of it and have turned toward it, it’s wormed its way through all your walls until you’re huddling in the middle of your pathetic, besieged town. That’s what I’ve found of the careful walls I built according to all the rules of solid building I’d heeded all these years. Hearing and attending to advice and warnings was never my problem. Listening was my strength. Seeing the future was not.
.
When Lydia came back from California and mourned her choices to become sexually involved with her boyfriend, and warned me not to go her way, I listened. When I heard the never ending string of sermons aimed toward “young people” (inevitably centered on abstinence and sexual purity), I listened, never rolled my eyes because I had heard it a thousand times, even though I had. And even when I started to wonder if it was worth it to hold onto my virginity, and Monica said it wasn’t a waste, I listened. Not anymore. I now ask, “What is the point of saving so much? Who am I waiting for?” I think of doing romantic things with a man, and I always stop and think, “If he’s not the one, then that’s one more person who’ll be in my marriage bed,” and I freeze. And sometimes run. But look at Monica: she’s had more than a few boyfriends, and kissed and been in love with and done stuff with, and yet I have no doubt in my mind that she will be able to put on that white wedding dress and look her husband in the eyes and go without a qualm or wrinkle (like the Biblical analogy) to her marriage bed. And here I’ve abstained from so much, so that I could accomplish what Monica has been able to accomplish by simply doing what she wants and following her desires, which have been aligned with godly ideals by her upbringing and her faith, both of which I have, too. But whereas she was sanctified by her faith and upbringing and followed that sanctification in her actions, I was sanctified, and still worked like a dog. I must have been Catholic in another lifetime. And I can’t change what I’ve done, or rather not done, in my life. I can’t go back and tell myself to forget it and just follow my impulses and desires. I internalized all these years that that was bad, that that would lead you down a path to heartache and pain and loneliness and confusion. But look who’s got the heartache now. Look who’s lonely and confused now. Look who’s walking in the dark.
.
And you know, I feel that I’ve worked much harder, more consistently than a lot of people to please God. I don’t know that that’s such a good thing. While guys are thinking about sex an average of 280 times a day, I’m thinking about God that much. There’s something very wrong with that, and not what you’d think. I shouldn’t be working that hard and thinking that hard on the things of God, and have gone this long with such difficulty and questions and lack of satisfaction. Doing all that should have brought me some answers or at least some peace, but I can find neither. And then I see other Christians who, sure, do think about God and try to live according to his statutes and boundaries, but aren’t chained and suffocated and tangled by it; they follow their desires and, wonder of wonders, they have a few regrets but their lives aren’t always ruined by them. I was always afraid of that. But I am at the difficult place of disagreeing with that concern I always had, but unable (yet) to change. Oh, that’s fun.
.
The fact is that I have “saved” myself so completely, in so many ways (far more diligently than I needed, and I hate wasted effort), so that I would be able to have one brief, drizzling moment of my husband looking at me with pride and appreciation for the vast sacrifice I made for the length of my life. Yeah. Right. What is that one moment worth, even if it ever does come? Because let’s face it. For all the preacher talk, people just don’t hold virginity at such a high premium. There are so many gray areas between being totally virgin and being totally debauched. So many gray areas that it would take a year to fully describe them. Monica, for instance, is not as “virgin” as I am, technically, but she is just as pure. Now, how is that possible? I wonder. She has kissed guys and held hands and done whatever, and still been able to maintain that boundary and had that boundary respected without it being held against her. And she is happier and healthier than I am. I don’t hold this against her in any fiber of my being. I am not a jealous person, and I love her so much that I want her to be happy. I am happy that someone has found this marvelous balance. I am just not as happy that I haven’t found it myself. And all this sacrifice I’ve made, in the name of faith and future and fear, has left me dry and shriveled, without any instincts to call my own anymore. I never knew instincts have an expiration date. No one ever told me that.
.
And now I see that in order to “get” someone, in order not to be alone for the rest of my life, I must play those games I’ve seen all my life, that I say I know how to play, that I believe I know how to play, and yet feel so unnatural playing them. The flirting and coquetry. The sidelong, meaningful glances. The subtle arts of eroticism and appeal; the million slightly different levels of seduction; the this-and-that that makes up the whole of that indefinable and unbreakable attraction between the sexes. That same attraction I’ve been watching from the outside and never taking part in. I can’t be alone anymore, but the heat that drove me the past month has fizzled into the that old familiar depression and despair of hopeless loneliness. Because I can’t hide the fact that it just does not come naturally to me. Well, let me clarify. All those little things women do, those games, I can play, and play damn good. But my strict moral boundaries prevent me from being able to play them outside the marriage relationship, with someone who is not officially my husband. But God Almighty, how am I going to get into that relationship with anyone if I don’t play my tricks beforehand? It is a conundrum to which there is no other answer than for me to go out there, as unnatural as it may feel, and flirt and trick around and coax in for all I’m worth and just tune out the wildly loud voices of morality and integrity. I have never given myself enough credit. I know this. I never trust myself to do the right thing and operate within proper, godly boundaries unless I’ve got my hands clenched right on those fences—which necessarily means I’m on the fringe of the crowd, not anywhere close to the middle of the action. I know this. I don’t give myself enough credit. But I can’t seem to change myself.
.
I have far too many inhibitions, far too many thoughts that hem me in, before and behind. The only times I feel normal, like the way I would be if I wasn’t tormented by my heated, fevered brain’s workings and hypotheses and conclusions, is when I drink. When I’ve had a vodka or a martini or a glass of wine or an amaretto sour (or more than one), I can feel myself loosen up, smile more, and somehow, from somewhere, words come out of my mouth that sound NORMAL. Laughing and flirting and not worried about anything, and I think, God! if I could just hold onto this! If I could just find the remote control and keep my brain on mute. It’s only that I don’t think of it that I’m not an alcoholic by this point, because every social occasion, without exception, is exponentially easier with a couple of drinks in me. I’ll take the faint sheen of sweat through my make-up from the artificially created heat wave inside my skin from the fierily reacting alcohol—no problem, baby. It’s all good. No worries, hey, you want my number? Sure, hey, call me sometime? You want to go now? I want to skinny-dip in the river. Let’s go find a river. God! If I could just do that. See, my problem—and it really is a problem, when you think about it—is that I can be the most intoxicating blend of woman—sweet and sassy, wild and winsome, fiery and faithful, calm and crazy—if I can just lean into a relationship. But there is no way I can get to that warm, soft middle until I go through the land mines in the wasteland that rims it. And the only way to get through them is to be that way before I’m comfortable being that way. People will always give you the After-School Special line of “Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.” Well, hell, if I listened to that with the same careful attention I have for 26 years, I’ll never do anything. I’ll never go anywhere. I’ll never be with anyone. I’ll never get to that point where I’m comfortable. So then I think (always thinking, dammit!) I should just always drink before hand so I can rack up enough encounters to make me comfortable, because when I drink, especially hard liquor, God, I love what it does to me, I AM with the general public the way I am with my close friends and family. And that’s what I’ve always been trying to show, but my damned inhibitions never cease to interfere with that neat, ambitious plan. But then I think, Is that how I want to make friends and lovers? Do I want to be that person who is only comfortable when she drinks? That’s dysfunctional, in desperate need of some serious therapy, pathetic, and a big, fat red flag for anyone who is entertaining any rosy thoughts of getting involved with me, which is the whole freaking POINT of all of this run-around! You see? This is what I’m talking about. It’s this godforsaken thinking that is ruining everything. I wouldn’t even need to drink if I could turn my brain off, or at least down. So I’m thinking this could be (a) another thinking jag that seems like it could be a revelation to liberate me and change my life but in actuality is just another smokescreen for a life that will never change but is desperate for it, or (b) the real thing; the real revelation that could liberate me and change a life that’s desperate for it. Three guesses as to which one I always hope it is. Three guesses as to which one it always is. God! I’m pathetic, holding on to something so ephemeral for that ridiculously brief, pale moment of my husband’s pride. And the thing is, the damnedest thing is, that a lot of people out there gave it away a long time ago and have all these regrets, and they don’t get that moment, but they work through it with their new spouse, and they resolve it, and get to the point where it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore, it’s not important anymore. You don’t HAVE to marry a megalomaniacal jerk who can’t deal with the idea that he’s not the first. In fact, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who would bat an eye at your lack of virginity. They’d be pretty gosh-darned impressed that you hadn’t had sex with them until the wedding night. That’s more than enough virginity for most men, let’s face it. What just cracks my skull is that I’ve been sacrificing this much and working this hard and holding myself to such a high and holy standard for so long, as I’m supposed to have done—ha!—for such little reward. It just blows your mind! People talk about how wounding premarital sex can be in a marriage, but good Lord, it can’t be categorically insurmountable, or no one would do it because they’d know they’d never get through it! I agree, it can be serious, but I think all these years, I’ve built it up to be a Goliath when it wasn’t even a David. And the thought of that just makes me so bitterly disgusted. Disgusted that I didn’t just try hard enough, but I tried far too hard, and sacrificed far more than I needed to. I’ve always gotten very angry at waste, and this is flagrant waste. Arrogant, heedless waste to think I could have forever to make up for the losses. At this point, even if I started gouging life for all its pleasures and parties, I’ll never make up for it. I’ll never have my youth back. I’ll never have those painfully teenage moments of puppy love, then young love, then wrong love, then real love. I’ll never have my fresh, young instincts that are what gets you through the rig-a-marole of “does he like me, I don’t know, maybe I’ll tell him, maybe I won’t, ohmygodhe’scomingover!” I’ll never be young again. And I wasn’t even young the first time around. How bitter that can make you. I won’t listen anymore to those people who try to warn me with their regrets. They can’t possibly know the regrets I have, the regrets that come from missing opportunity after opportunity with a careless abandon that is almost obscene. And in fact, with irony that is just as obscene, the only regrets that have come about from my doing anything came from my uncontrolled fantasy life, which sprang from my frustrated desires and impulses that were caged by my inability to do anything. So not only do I have mounds of regrets from not doing things in my life and taking opportunities, but I have bitter regrets from what I did when I couldn’t do anything—because I couldn’t do anything in reality, I retreated into fantasy and sowed some of my bitterest regrets with that same unthinking flagrance. How messed-up is that?
.
So here I am, growing older, with a missing youth that no amount of milk carton pictures can bring back again, alone, always alone, and disgusted with myself and my pure choices. I value reputation and what people think well of me, but I have only been able to see in extremes, and I haven’t been able to do anything Miss Mary Sunshine wouldn’t do for fear of ruining my testimony. Well, take a good, long look at Monica Taylor, who is actually a more engaging Christian than me because of her variety. So why should I worry? Why not just give myself over to my own impulses? I’ve certainly spent enough time and effort and tears trying to align myself with God that I shouldn’t have much to worry about, right? I should be able to go on and trust that I will never even go up to the fences, let alone climb right over them. I don’t know why I should accuse myself with such indistinct insistence of being a hedonist, a bohemian hippie who has no sense of boundaries. A lifetime of my upbringing and my unflagging efforts to be what God calls me to be should be enough to convince me that it would actually be harder to go over those boundaries than it ever would have been to just rush into the action. And look how hard it is for me to rush in. That should be a comfort, but somehow, it’s just depressing. And to add salt to the wound, insult to injury, I feel that God has abandoned me, isn’t taking care for me in this. He is arranging everyone else’s life, the lives of all those people who give him moderate effort, but as for me, who is killing myself to follow every commandment not to be proud of myself but to please him, I see no hint of a fingerprint of his on these enormous issues in my life. I can’t remember the last time he did something in my heart, the last time I felt something, and I’m dying from the lack of feeling something. One reason why my need for a lover is stepped up to an almost unbearable degree—I need to feel something. I’ve lived too long of my life stroking down that desire so I can function. I can’t do that anymore, and I can’t feel anything for God, and I certainly don’t feel anything from him. We aren’t even roommates. He arranged some things when I first came back to him, and he arranged this life I have around me now—job, apartment, car, cat, life—but now he has gone off to dote on some other devotee, leaving me here in my hot, dry liturgy, with only deadened Scripture as a comfort. I thought maybe he was using that withdrawal of his to fire my motivation to get out there and find a man, but that fire burned itself out in my burn-out with my job. Now the burn-out with my job has eased, but the fire for a man has slumped into this all-too-familiar pattern of philosophical talk and dark, silent brooding, with no action in between.
.
My conclusion: what conclusion would actually come to fruition, in reality? What conclusion should I bother with when I don’t really believe any would become reality? But my spirit calls out with the desperate thirst of a man in the desert for some conclusion, some end in sight to this misery and turmoil, even if it only burns me as it sizzles into insubstantial steam in the sun. So I have only to say that I need to start devouring life, start living as if I really was drunk, and not worry about how I sound or how my testimony is affected. I need to flirt and play games and pull tricks with men to cull them from where they cluster together. I need to harden even as I show them my softness. I need not to be afraid, as I always have been, of my power as a woman, of my ability to bewitch a man. I’ve done it. I can easily do it. It’s not the lack of that that has fostered my hopelessness that I’ll ever get a man. It’s my inability to do that before I’m in a relationship. But that’s so messed up, there isn’t even a term strong enough to express it. I need to open my eyes and watch and keep watching as I send out signals like a bitch in heat and see a man respond and start toward me and stand my ground until he reaches me and not run and give him a piece of myself, even something as tiny as a phone number, and not run and go on a date with him and talk with him on the phone and flirt by saying totally unoriginal things that a million other women have said throughout history but will be seen as enchanting because this man is under my spell and not run and brush his arm and peek through my long eyelashes and let a smile curve on my glossed, pouty lips as I am fully aware of the power and tired unoriginality of each gesture and not run and let him kiss me and kiss him back and not run and not want to run and see his little idiosyncrasies and breathe in and out and accept them and not run as I’ve always run when I’ve seen those and know that I am just like every other women, and that’s okay, despite my heated desire to stand out, because I’d rather be like every other women and not be alone, than be a true original with no one around to appreciate it.
.
Right . . .
.
I’ll put that on my list right after finding a cure for cancer.
