I’m going to warn you right here at the beginning. This is going to be a long, rambling story that may or may not have a point at the end. Because sometimes women ramble on without ever getting to the point, and that’s just how it is. So, if such a thing drives you crazy, move on with my blessing.
I’m going to tell you about a purse I bought and the storm it stirred; a small beige teddy bear that knows secrets that nobody else knows; a conversation I had about cuffs and chains and vulnerability; how hard I fought against something I wanted; a song that I used to have no reason to love.
* * *
I’ve known a fair number of men in my life.
While not exactly a quorum or a reasonable sampling by scientific standards, this is all I have to go on. And these are the few things I have learned, right or not, based on my exposure to these men.
When a woman seems too emotional (could someone please show me the Geiger counter for this one? I never know what the cutoff point is between “emotional enough” and “too emotional”) they recoil.
They do not like women to appear (too) needy, (too) bereft, (too) affected by their previous relationships or (too) vulnerable.
I learned my lessons early. I toasted myself into a big bowl of deep fried ice cream – hard and crusty on the outside, a little spicy, a little sweet, all soft and melting on the inside, but you have to break through the crust to get through to it. And be prepared for that sudden yielding when the spoon hits the ice cream.
I found that most of the men I met in my post-deep fried ice cream years have respected my emotional control. (I never met one who didn’t.) They seemed relieved that I didn’t go through endless hours of bawling my eyes out like a soap opera queen. That I could only let things get so far before I shook my head, pulled up my socks, and cracked a joke.
Showing the soft creamy center too soon is the perfect way to leave yourself open to someone getting freaked and looking the other way. Or worse, running the other way.
* * *
I bought a new purse a few weeks ago. It was the first time in years I’d bought a new purse. I’ve been making-do with my wardrobe for so many years I’ve stopped thinking about it, or had until recently. A few of my clothes I’ve worn since high school. I managed to buy simple enough clothes that they would look decent no matter when I wore them; nothing too trendy that would look dated in a year, or less.
So, buying a new purse was a Big Event. Part of my lets-try-to-get-Vikki-into-the-new-millenium crusade.
I bought one of those really cute tailored black purses that all the girls wear, the ones that hook over your arm and rest just beside your breast. Cute. And big enough to carry everything I need with me.
Since the girls at work have been in full favour of my into-the-new-Millenium-trendy-Vikki crusade, I thought I’d get top marks from them.
Nearly half of them commented on how feminine a purse it was.
The inference being, of course, that I’m just not a feminine gal. Definitely not feminine enough to carry a purse like that.
I was really upset by this. Sure, yes, I’m more likely to wear pants than skirts, but I do my hair up nice every single day, wear makeup, how much does it take to be a girly-girl?
No less than two long conversations at work about this. During which I stayed practically silent. Feeling tears lump up in my throat. I shook it off and went and got myself a drink from the convenience store instead.
Silly. To get so upset over such a thing. But they were more straws just piling up on my back. Not that I’m a camel. But you get the idea.
* * *
I met my ex-husband for Saturday lunch a while ago. And told him a little bit of what was going on in my life.
We’ve always been able to talk about pretty much anything, and he’d just moved in with his new girlfriend, so I didn’t feel too strange talking to him about my social life.
I told him I’d been trying BDSM, a little. I didn’t give the lurid sexual details; talked more about how it was affecting me mentally and emotionally, and the thinking and realizations I’d been coming to.
A partner of mine had put big leather cuffs and chains on me. Hands and ankles. And I couldn’t believe how it made me feel.
It made me feel cared for.
I felt like I could relax and be a little vulnerable because the chains gave me permission. The man wouldn’t tear screaming out of the room; vulnerability was the net effect and the desired response.
My ex-husband was floored.
Which floored me.
He said he couldn’t believe that I actually wanted to be cared for.
I just stared at him.
This man lived with me for five years. I was closer to him than I’ve ever been to another man in my entire life. He saw me sick, he saw me drunk, he saw me bawling my eyes out. How could he not have realized that I am vulnerable and sometimes just need to feel cared for?
(Beginning to understand why the marriage failed?)
He told me I never let on. That I never came across as needing anyone or anything. I thought he liked that. Turns out this was information he would have liked to know.
* * *
Do you know, I’ve rarely been held when I cried, since I was a little girl and my Mom held me?
I just realized this a few days ago.
Part of this is that I just can’t cry very well in company, not for any great length of time. A few minutes, maybe, and then I have to back away and clean myself up. Even with my best friend, I can’t carry on too long. It’s too hard.
My ex-husband, of course, is the exception. He’s seen me actually go on for a serious length of time. But we were usually fighting when that happened. I can’t remember him ever holding me when I cried.
Part of this is I also don’t cry that often. I shove it down, take it like a man. Push it away. Nothing worse than a blubbering soap-opera queen. Who says so? Well, “they” do, of course. Just trust me.
* * *
I have a real mental dilemma over protection or caring, even for something as simple as opening doors for me or paying for my meal. As for anything deeper or more meaningful than that: fuggedaboutit.
It’s because I’m independent, you see. And I like that independence. I always thought it was only because I wanted to be able to stand on my own two feet, no help from anyone. I’m a career woman, and never wanted that independence to be usurped. I’m strong. I can take care of myself.
Only recently I’ve realized that it’s also because as long as I stand on those two feet facing the sunset alone, I can never be truly devastated. I will always be able to go on. It’s a way to protect myself so that when he leaves (emotionally, physically, you name it) I won’t be… without. If you need someone, really need them, they can become a crutch, and God help you if you have to at some point learn to stand again on your own two feet.
Yes, I know that’s a WAY bigger issue than opening doors or even paying for meals. But once it starts, where do you draw the line? When does it stop?
* * *
Only once have I met a man who actually wanted to protect me. To care for me. Never mind that the circumstances were complicated, and he couldn’t. He wanted to. He told me. But he didn’t have to. I could see it in his eyes.
I fought it. Oh, how I fought it. Any time I sensed he might be doing something not because he wanted to but because he was protecting me, I freaked. I was In Control. I was a Big Girl and I could Take Care Of Myself. I didn’t Need Him.
Of course, I was in over my head but refused to admit it.
The sad, secret truth is… I wanted it.
I wanted him to open doors for me. To treat me to dinner once in a while. To look out for me. To worry about something hurting me. To care for me.
I wanted to be able to relax and let my guard down and trust him.
To admit I was vulnerable. Even though he already knew.
I was just too afraid to give up the one thing I’ve always had… I thought it would make me less resilient, weaker. An object of pity.
The one thing, of course, was control.
* * *
There is a small beige teddy bear that sits between the pillows of my bed. He’s sat there every day for the past year.
When my husband and I separated, I redecorated the place, starting with the bedroom. Everything in soft shades of cream and taupe. Big fluffy down duvet with satin twisted rope at the edges. Egyptian cotton sheets. What looks like dozens of pillows. Very soft and feminine (without being frilly) and cozy. The kind of bed you want to jump into and never leave. And the small beige teddy bear matches perfectly, adds a whimsical look to the room.
That’s what the outside world sees.
What nobody knows (till now, I guess) is that I’ve slept with that teddy bear clutched to my chest nearly every night since I left my husband.
The bear knows more of my secrets than anyone. He knows when I’ve cried myself to sleep; he has soaked up my tears. He knows when I lie restlessly staring at the ceiling thinking about things. And he knows about the times when even he’s not been enough and I’ve gone to my closet and brought the body pillow to bed just so I can feel more like someone is holding me.
My best friend, who occasionally sleeps over, has no idea how hard it is to sleep without that bear when she’s there. It’s hard. And a funny irony that with someone in the bed with me I am more alone.
* * *
When I was a kid, a song came out on the radio and became a hit. It was called Never Been To Me.
The lady singing the song tells of her life. Fast times, sexual experimentation, Living the Exciting Life of a Single Woman. But she’s singing to a woman who is married, who has a baby, and how for all her life and living she’s never experienced things like softness and sharing and love.
I remember loving it when I was a kid. I couldn’t relate, but it sure was pretty.
I look back on the past year of dating and sexual experimentation and have no regrets: not a single one. It has been a wonderful and exciting time, and I’ve learned a great deal about myself.
But I listen to that song now and suddenly feel like I can relate.
My girlfriends have loved hearing about my experiences this past year. A few of them have bemoaned, half-jokingly, their happily- in-a-relationship status and have wished they could join me on the ride that has been my life of late.
But they have something I don’t.
Someone to order Chinese food with at 2am, just because.
Something a little more substantial than a body pillow.
Some laughing and history and future to go with the sex.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m here by choice. Didn’t want anything tying me down.
But part of me misses that part of relationships the most.
* * *
I used to think that admitting to all these things – this vulnerability that seems so HUGE to me – would make me less of an independent cuss. Take something away, perhaps, from my strength or my sexuality or other people’s respect for me.
I’m slowly starting to realize I can be all things.
I am very good at my career.
I have an analytical and creative mind.
I have a sarcastic sense of humour that is sometimes tactless but sometimes wicked.
I enjoy my sexuality with everything in me.
I have varied interests and a passion for a great many things.
I am strong and can take care of myself, even when it’s hard.
I am feminine even if it doesn’t fit into someone else’s idea of such.
And sometimes, I’d just like to be held.
* * *
I’ve never been so vulnerable as I am, right now, with these words you’ve read. And I’m sure some of you (if you got this far) are wondering just why the hell I decided I needed to share this with the world.
I’ll tell you.
Somewhere out there, another woman may read this and see a bit of herself in it and just stop and think for a minute.
Somewhere out there, a man may read this and recognize a bit of his girlfriend or wife in this and come away with a better understanding.
And because it was in me.
