2020 Smith, Lynn Rilean
Let’s talk about sex for a second.
Sex? What sex? No. I did not lose my virginity last night.
No. I’m not lying to you. No. I promise. Mom, seriously, stop. I was at her house. No. Mom I swear I did not have sex, and I’m still a virgin.
I may not have been at her house that night but that year we definitely were inseparable. How we didn’t end up freezer meat I will never know. By the grace of God, for a couple girls that never met a stranger, is my best guess; Because we definitely were not making safe or smart choices. We had way too much in common to not take risks.
Mom had every right to ask questions. She was right. I was 14. Need I say more?
No matter what life did or didn’t do. I saw and felt moments where our parent’s loved us more than they loved themself. To a fault. In fact, I’m pretty sure ghost’s haunt my mom and keep her paralyzed today. They definitely did my dad.
I only say that because I’m a lot like my mother and my father. I made many of her and his same mistakes. No offense Mom, Dad.
I’m older now.
I get it.
Again, Lynn Rilean are you lying?
I always knew it was getting messy if the middle name came out.
Do I think she believed me? No. Do I think she could have done thing’s differently in order for me to have been honest?
Not really. No.
Do I think she really genuinely cared? Yeah I do. Was I going to make it easy on her either way? No. Not at all.
Who wants to look mom in the eye and tell her they had sex. It’s so personal.
In fact, if I tell her, she is going to tell him ( The Step Down ) and he will take one look at me and tell me I’m just a worthless whore.
“No,” Mother I did NOT lose my virginity at a party last night.
Now, do I think from the beginning of childhood, thing’s could have went a little different?
Maybe losing my virginity to a drunk guy with a drunk 14 year old me would not have been so cool?
I don’t know.
He said he loved me. At the time that felt better than anything else. I don’t even remember the sex.
But yes, could life have gone a little differently, I think that’s a possibility.
Do I think Church would have made it better?
Not the church we went to. That’s for damn sure. Do I think all church is bad? No. Did I then? Absolutely, eventually grew to hate the two we bounced back and forth from.
I got to see inside TOO much.
Church has came so far today and I can’t help feel the new churches we have available now were built to bring in the crippled spirits from some of those poisonous snakes.
Aside from a Godly or not so Godly~
Do I think a consistent childhood with two loving, nurturing, attentive, thriving parents would have made a difference?
Honestly I don’t know what defines that above which makes a childhood picture perfect.
As parents, I think a lot of us just give it our best shot and hope it isn’t over or under done.
Although unfortunately ~ Skeletons are everywhere.
I had too many friends who dressed to the hilt, whose parents wanted to know every move they made, who hugged them goodbye every time they walked out the door, who prayed together daily or not and who promised the kids the moon.
Those same friends and relatives also carried the weight of many slaps to the face. Many bruises under clothing bought specifically to cover them up. Many lies. Many suicidal thoughts. Many plots of revenge at way too young of an age. Many moments filled with prayers that felt pointless once they returned home, yet again, to take more from the picture perfect life the world thought they lived in.
Talk about skeletons in a closet.
If you have none consider yourself, um, blessed and a rare breed?
Okay. The end.
That sums up 9th grade right?
Not even close.
In fact sex didn’t happen until after the worst part of being a teenager that year.
What I would give today for sex to have been the sucky part.
I look back and I see sex was indeed the solution to a problem. The ease to a pain. The piece to a missing part. The glue for a broken heart. The tissue for tears. The band-aid for the blister on your heel. The cure to the colic. The waking from a dream verses a nightmare.
Best Holiday in years.
Dad is coming.
No matter what resentment we may have had towards our parents, as adults we know they loved us. Maybe confused about it as kids but loved us nonetheless. Different memories we each have.
I think my message will always be not to take advantage of the words I love you.
Shopping. Holidays. Decorating trees.
Pretty sure the only smell that lingered was the smell of beans and cornbread. Maybe because we didn’t have much money or simply because, no offense, that’s what seemed to be the pot roast of Oklahoma.
Today, I order bean-less every thing and on purpose. Not because they can’t be made to taste good; Because, while we gagged, they giggled.
Don’t get me wrong, they made different stuff sometimes, but NOTHING was ever going to be as good as a pot roast cooking in the oven back home in Gramma Greats kitchen.
Before you hit me with the “At least you had food,” believe me when I say, I can eat commodity cheese with the best of them.
But BROWN BEANS sucked.
Don’t recall much of December 1988; Other than Dad was coming to see us.
Talking with my siblings, none of us remember that entire visit.
Greyhound bus station, yet again, here we come.
Dad will be stepping off the bus this time.
He loves us. He missed us. He is sober and finally, he is here.
One thing that will always be the same is that we all share a loss.
The loss of our Dad.
All 3 of us kids have different memories of that December. Respectively so. We each live today with our own truths.
Our own ideas, dreams, goals and lifestyles.
That December took something away from us.
You can’t put death in a box with a bow and call it a gift. Not even at Christmas time.
My sister and I had just walked inside from a walk we took; Shopping for a few gifts from McCory’s, which was basically todays Dollar General. Odd the things I remember. Cheap, chocolate covered cherries and cream drops. ( Gross ) but someone was getting them as a gift.
While people everywhere around us were gathering, singing, Rock Around the Christmas Tree, drinking hot cocoa and praising the Lord; We were gathered too, but in my bedroom to have a talk.
Mom was in her pink fuzzy bathrobe and it was very obvious she was crying. Why would she be crying on Christmas Eve?
Dad had already came and gone. Sort of. That will all be better explained in the book.
He had places to go and other people to see. He would be back though. That was a promise.
In the spring he planned to pick us up and take us north to visit other members of our family.
I did love his dreams.
We were all going to fly. That thought scared me, but I also couldn’t wait. I had missed him so much.
I didn’t have my sisters side of the story then; Even though she was back with my brother and I.
I can’t tell her version as my own because I wasn’t there with her for part of it. She got to see a side of Dad that my brother and I did not.
What I will tell you now is that he came to Oklahoma to see us kids, after having been to rehab. He had been advised to have a little more sober time before heading our way, but he wanted to see his kids. Who wouldn’t?
He came, we all visited, it was every emotion in the book for me, and everyone else there and for those he had left in Spokane, and later evidenced those emotions were even harder for him.
I knew he was not staying for good, but he changed his return ticket to leave even sooner. I only understand why now, having been in similar shoes. It made NO sense at the time though.
I at least got a halfway goodbye hug. Halfway, because when you are angry at someone you leave a little of the love out. I do regret that. That’s why I say never take advantage of an opportunity to say I love you.
He had every intention of leaving and not saying Goodbye.
I only know this was the plan, because I walked in to step grandma’s house and saw Dad sitting hunched over his green duffle bag with his stocking cap on, as if he was ready to go somewhere. Surprised and even sadder that I just walked in.
Needless to say, he did what he did, and ventured off alone in a new town instead of getting on the bus. Only later to get on a bus AGAIN, but on a different date and under different circumstances. ( all of those bits and pieces will be in the book )
This blog entry isn’t really about sex as much as it is about what I, personally tried to use to fill a void.
A very big, confusing, ugly void.
I was 14 for goodness sake.
How could there have been anything good about sex?
The 3 D’s.
Death. Divorce. Date Rape.
You never really see how far you have came until you look back for revision.
Those ghosts do not haunt me anymore but I am still getting use to not walking on the eggshells they left behind.
I’d like to say the ghosts quit chasing me.
Not the case though.
It was more like a mental exorcism.
I still occasionally check under the bed; Nothing but dust lives there now.
Ghosts? What ghosts?
Now I just get to write about them.
I get to genuinely smile.
I get to be grateful.
I get to feel purpose.
I get to do things because I want to not because I have to.
I get to be present, mind, body and soul with my friends and loved ones.
I care more about having peace then I do about being right. When I let you have the debate with an okay, it is not sarcasm. It is genuinely not worth my serenity. I like to be right with the rest of you. Just not near as often. It matters less then ever before.
Writing to me is what rain is to the flowers.
I put a lot of hours and research into some of it and a lot of it, I know by heart.
I hope by what I choose to share that someone else may feel hope when life feels hopeless.
So that someone suffering from extreme anxiety can trust that the dark side isn’t the most logical choice or if they’re there already, that they know they are not alone.
I do not know everything about grief, pain, loss, alcoholism, addiction, or life. I never will.
What I do know is that no amount of Sex, Drugs, Booze, Bulimia, Rap music, Rock-n-Roll or The Old Rugged Cross can ever go as deep as the hole in a soul of a daddy’s girl, whose dad is gone forever.
It’s a hole that has taken many years to dig out of.
You do not have to be 6 feet under to feel buried alive. You just have to remember you have a shovel in your hand and a few good people to remind you it’s there~ Lynn R. Smith
2020 Smith, Lynn Rilean