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I’m the Mistress of Alliteration, and I Remember….

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The other day I was talking to a friend about being a thug,and maybe something about ho’s and pimps, and eventually we got to the subjectof my blog. She said something to the effect of “I’ve been waiting for you starttalking about you know, your story on your blog, are you going to?” I repliedwith laughter, and a quick answer, “well I think I want to keep it light. I’vegot so much blah blah blah blah going on right now, and I really like thehumor. I guess I could go there when things settle down, but I don’t know howserious I can get.” But you see, I was lying, not on purpose, not to be mean,but really I was lying to myself.  Ifthere’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s making up excuses, which is not tobe confused with procrastination. I am after all the Queen Grand High Poohbahof Procrastination; but what I’m getting at here is actually finding a stupidreason for not wanting to do something. (I know, you’re saying, but Becca isn’tthat really the same thing… well no, not really actually. Procrastinating is alot more fun than actually making up flimsy excuses as to why you don’t want todo something that actually doesn’t have to be done…) 
I guess I felt that I justdidn’t want to get into it, my sordid past (actually not very), and all theheavy luggage that goes with it (I don’t recommend trying to lift any ofit).  In an ironic way I didn’t want tomake myself vulnerable to you, the readers, because everyone loves a fun timegal, and NOT a Debbie Downer, right? Right. Or at least this is what I managedto convince myself.  But perhaps it’sworth a shot. If it doesn’t work I can go right back to slapstick and piratecurses, and we can just forget this whole thing ever happened. Deal?
It’s a motherfucking deal then.
So Snarksters, in an effort for you to get to know me, shallwe start Familial Fridays? (Oh man, do I have a way with alliteration—no notilliterate, alliteration, dude: look it up) Hmmm…. Now where to start… We couldalways go the traditional route ie “it was a dark and stormy night…” or thenon-traditional route, ie “sometimes you’re the statue and sometimes you’re thepigeon”… but all of that seems so convivial and trite at the moment and I’m inan erudite sort of mood (ok apologies my snark bugs, but I do sometimes usewords that are difficult to pronounce because they’re rattling around in myhead, but not because I want you to be more confused than you already are). Maybe we can try something more like this…
I remember.
I remember the first time he hit me. I thought it was amistake. In fact I was sure it was a mistake because there was no way that thisshining example of what it means to be a total shit bag of a human being wouldin fact actually raise his hand, pull it back and hit me. It was more shockingthan hurtful.
I remember.
I remember being frozen between halfway sitting and halfwaystanding, my fork precariously balanced between my fingers threateningclattering on the floor, bleeding out spaghetti. The tingle like insect legs onyour palm is what woke me up, as tears began to surge forward.
I remember.
I remember thinking, “why am I crying?” Why was I crying?The hot pools of shame wrestled their way down my face, leaving angry streakycomments in their wake. He had already sat down and had continued eatingdinner. “Sit down, and close your mouth.” It was almost whispered, and thrownat my way as to suggest I was the one who had caused the interruption in ourdinner routine. One more daggered glance sent me scrambling, limbs in everyimpossible and wrong angle to regain my composure and my seat, which onlydelayed the actual process of sitting down. “What’s wrong with you that you can’teven sit down.”  I wasn’t sure what waswrong with me, but it must be something.
I remember.
I remember we just kept eating. I did not utter one single syllable.I did not get up and leave. I did nothing. “It must be my fault” I told myself,repeatedly. I must have done something wrong. But what? I rewound the eventsbefore the conjecture of his hand against my skin, to ascertain what could havesparked such a discourse. We had been laughing over something stupid andinconsequential. He had asked me if I could go to a gallery opening, but Icouldn’t. I had a final to study for, and eventually had to go back to my ownplace. I had told him I couldn’t. We argued. It was settled with his physicalpunctuation that I would indeed attend the gallery opening.
I remember.
I remember I felt like I had eaten fistfuls of garden dirtfollowed by a cement chaser.  Later therewas whispered kindness, comforting embraces, and an insecure relief began tosettle at my feet, like a dog thumping its tail, warming the edges of my being.I stayed on. I stayed silent.
 ************************************************************************
PHEW. That was HEAVY. And I’ve decidedly don’t do heavyanymore.  Such a burden. Really. But inall seriousness I dated a total douche bag of a human for about 4 ½ years.It/He was a large part of my adolescent life, shaping me, molding me in all thewrong ways. Things I’ve had to re-teach myself, re-learn what is or isn’t “normal.”In all of this I have managed to keep intact my sense of humor, somehow, andhere I am on the other side. Definitely, defiantly defying (ohh there’s that alliteration again) the statistics aboutbeing the product of an abusive relationship, what that means for futurerelationships, what that means to the future you.
Here’s a little bit of advice that has taken me YEARS tolearn, and I’m still struggling with it:
You, YES YOU, are a person of immeasurable worth.
You deserve to be treated with respect.
You deserve to be loved in an appropriate manner.
You are capable of loving in an appropriate manner.
Snarksters, NO ONE has the right to lay their hands on youin a manner that is physically abusive. Don’t stay silent, and don’t think thatthis is “NORMAL.” I assure you, it’s not. Please seek help if you are in anabusive relationship and can’t leave.  http://www.bandbacktogether.com/abuse  Help and resources can be found here.
Now that we’re done with those un-pleasantries you will allbe very happy to know that this weekend I’m attending the belated birthdayparty of Ms. VamipreS; so next week’s Conversational Mondays should be superAWESOME. I’ve promised to try to behave myself, but shit, who are we kidding?It’s me, after all.
“Pictures of last night ended uponline, I’m screwed, Oh well…” (KatyPerry, Last Friday Night) I’m guessing that’s summing up my weekend… how about yours?
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About sars!

...new people with great stories to tell, anyone who will challenge my brain and not leave me feeling like I just sat through a two hour lecture on how to tie your shoe...

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