Sex

Growing up I held onto the secret regarding being molested by my step-father because I believed John would kill my Mother if I did not.  He dragged me by my hair and showed me the little vials at the top of the medicine cabinet.  “See these?  I can kill her anytime.  I can kill her and no one will know I did it.  I am a doctor.  I know how.”  I believed him, and although I toyed with telling and letting her die, in the end I could not.  So, I kept my mouth shut and the secret buried until I was seventeen.  I held on in the face of everything, and I swore that when I grew up nothing like this would ever happen again.  If someone tried to rape me, they would have to kill me first.

I did not know that some promises–even the deepest ones of all–cannot always be kept.

When I first began to talk about being molested, I would say, “He touched me.”  I never used the “R” word–rape-to describe it.  In fact, I would secretly breathe a sigh of relief that he never had vaginal sex with me.  I would whisper to myself, “At least I was not raped.”  As a Junior at Wheaton College, I went to a meeting of “Christians For Biblical Equality,” where a woman spoke about sexual assault.  She described sexual assault–the real term for rape–as being whenever someone forcibly penetrates another, whether this be by penis, hand, bottle, stick, etc.  As she spoke, a little animated movie began in my head of this dark blackness–all in deep tones of gray–with a motion of a hand in-and-out, in-and-out.  It played over and over to the point I could no longer hear a word she said.  I could make that movie today or draw it for you–it remains so vivid.  This image thrust me into counseling within the week, which then led to a three week stint in a women’s mental health unit the following February.  Once the movie began to play, the truth did as well.  I became flooded with memories of being molested daily at home for five years.  All the images I pushed away in my fierce determination to survive rose up and spilled out like hot lava.  A purge began.  I had been sexually assaulted.  However, the “R” word hung in the air like a suspended universe waiting to fall or explode.  I just could not let the word fall upon me.

I still try to only say that I had been sexually assaulted or molested.  I tell people by saying, “This is not a secret…I was molested as a child.”  I just avoid the “R” word in its many manifestations.  I avoid talking about it…personally…seeing movies where there is a rape…listening to stories about rape…the news about someone being raped.  I try to keep the “R” word out of my life all together.  At one point I did try to let it sit on my tongue.  I leaned up against the word while going to a Rape Survivor Group circa 1992.  I just never could own it as a word to describe me or what happened to me.  I left the group–the women in it were too depressing–and for the most part try to keep anyone who has been molested or raped out of my inner circle.  I never want it to be the point of connection, for rape is not life-giving or hopeful.

I tend not to think too much about the particulars of what happened any longer–the movie does not play.  I dealt with the actual events a long time ago.  In fact, when I was in the women’s mental health unit, I can remember thinking about how the easy task was to deal with the rock thrown in the water–the molestation itself.  The hard work was going to be all those ripple currents of not what John did, but instead what I do to myself as a result.  I feel like I have spent the last fifteen years of my life chasing those down one-by-one and healing them as best as I can.  I keep at it because I want to be strong and healthy.  I keep at it because I do not want being molested to be the centerpiece of my life–I want redemption to be front and center.  Ultimately, I do not want that rock to fuck up not only the past but the future as well.  I do have deep moments of fragility, and in those moments I fear the rock is all there is.  I sink low some moments, terrified that “John won” and got all the good of me and the good possibilities of my life.  Just some…not all, and definitely not most.  But some.

Part of why I avoid any stories about rape is I do not want my own emotional dial to be affected.  I possess my push-buttons, just like anyone else, so keeping rape off of my radar screen keeps me focused on the living in the present, even as I am healing from the past.  I try, but I do not always succeed at this avoidance.  Most times I weather the conversation or topic well, but every now and again my wires become tripped and alarm rings though me.  When this happens, I know something still needs to be dealt with from the deep well of pain and loss in my life.  Case in point: While hitting the elliptical at my trainer’s, I was going through the channels.  I caught a clip of women talking on Oprah about rape in marriage.  I tend not to watch Oprah any longer, but I found myself mesmerized by this one story.  The “expert” on the show talked about how “no” means no–even in a relationship.  I was caught off guard, even as I know that to be true.  I preach it to my nieces.  I will emphatically say it to anyone listening.  However there was one night a couple of years ago where I pretended to forget this truth all together because the actual truth was excruciatingly painful.

The story is simple: I was making out naked with a boy, whom at the time was a new love interest.  This was probably our third or fourth date, and most definitely the first time we had been naked.  No sex…just kissing and cuddling after a great massage.  We talked about not having sex–I was clear I was not ready to sleep with him.  He agreed.  So there we are, in the first throes of attraction, lust and friendship, and all of a sudden I feel this sharp pain.  I thought I hurt my back.*  We shifted positions a bit.  Then it happened again and he said, “Oops.  I’m sorry.”  I repeated that I was not ready to have sex.  He repeated to enter me without my permission.  (I can still see the smirk on his face.)

I did not leave.  I did not argue.  I did not protest.  I just curled up in a ball crying softly while he drifted off to sleep.  About two hours later I woke him up.  I told him, “I did not want to have sex yet, but that cannot be our first time.  Please make love to me.  Make whatever that was go away.”  He did; it did not.  I tried to bury it to the point of never telling a soul.  And then I found myself on that damned elliptical with all my buttons pushed stopping to try and catch my breath that was knocked out of me with those simple true words: “no” means no.

I look back now and see how I needed to get up and get out of there.  I see now that I stayed with him for a long time after that–five months actually–needing him to love me because if he loved me then what happened would not have happened.  I stayed even when I knew he we did not share the same value regarding integrity.  I stayed despite the fact we were so different.  I stayed because I thought he was the best guy I ever dated.  I stayed because of all the other beautiful things I saw him to be, which is not dissimilar from John who was an amazing doctor and a pedophile.  I stayed even as I saw the deep rage within him and his unwillingness to deal with his own demons.  I kept trying to reinvent that moment right up until the moment he left me and left me devastated.   Lastly, I see how I held onto my rage at him leaving me because there was this part of me that could not understand how he could leave me after I stayed even after what he did.  He owed me.  He owed me his love and devotion–yet of what value were either?

(The truth can be so disjointed and tragic when we begin to finally tell it to ourselves.)

I know what happened with him happened because of those places in me still broken from John.  Obi Wan (therapist of all therapists) has really worked with me to understand how we are innately drawn to those who will hurt us in the most familiar of ways.  So terribly sad to think I somehow chose this little power play because deep inside it was known and safe.  (Safe in the way the devil you know is better than the possible devil you don’t.)  I realize now my part in all of this–especially in why I stayed long past the point I needed to leave.  But none of my own responsibility takes away from what happened that night, and the promise I made myself that was broken.  None of it takes away from what he did, which was to violate me and my stated desires.  None of it takes away from the fact that he penetrated me knowing I did not want him to and even after I asked him to stop.

I still cannot say the “R” word though.  I just cannot, although I know it fits.

*I recently read in Dan Savage’s column that the opposite of an orgasm is actually a back spasm, which makes sense to me given these events.

Note: This post took over six weeks to complete.  Secrets can be very powerful, which is why I finally forced myself to finish writing it–to eradicate the power this one has held over me for more than two years.  Frank Warren, who does Post Secret, stamps all of the books he signs with “Free your secrets and become who you are.”  I feel this is one of the messiest posts I have written to date, but also the most freeing.  Sometimes you just have to speak the messy truth in order to become who you really are–a whole and healed person.  If you have been molested, raped or date raped, please seek help.  None of us are innately prepared to heal from these things alone.  Cosmo (of all places, I know!) has compiled a short list of places to get help here.

I find myself on a precipice. The mountain climbed…the sorrow of a broken childhood, of a broken child behind me. The battle scars emblazon my side, my hands, my feet. I carried the first most horrid of crosses. I survived the plunge of the sword, for John tried to take my very life away by stealing my spirit, my youth, my hope. I did not die. I would not die.

I waited a terribly long time to open to the nakedness love and intimacy require. I ventured first with those safe, manageable, less. I thought I met my equal; I was wrong. In choosing to look away when he lied, I pretended he would not lie to me. He did. I almost died, and almost spent the wellspring of my hope on the despair I became enveloped in when he lied and left. I did not die. I would not die.

Hope; she is my constant friend. She stands with me on this ledge between the past and the future, so uncertain but always imagined. I see us standing against the wind, which whips through our hair. We laugh. We cry. We dream the most amazing of dreams for my life. The sun blazes and the sky dances with colour as we put to bed the despair of this last season of my life. How strange I find it that the setting sun seems to fall so much faster than the heat of the noonday sun. Why?

So my dear love, here I come. Are you ready?

Let us be clear about what I need from you, for I am completely clear about what I will offer you. I need fusion. I do not pine for fireworks shattering the sky with a million stars here for only a moment. I do not desire the rapid fast burn of a nuclear love. I survived one of those, and the apocalypse devastates everyone in its path. No. Give me fusion. Give me two whole people coming together creating a fire between them impossible alone. Leave the divided spirit, the divided desires, the divided will, the divided atom behind. Join. Merge. Intertwine with me. Let us be more than we could have ever imagined on our own. Leave the ashes of simple fireworks to fall back to the earth. Let us be a galaxy all our own.

I will give you creativity. Nothing will be boring. I will always find new ways to laugh and play. I will give you integrity. I will tell you the truth. I will be kind. I will be generous. (Shall we compete to see who can be more so?) I will embrace you as you are, and dream your dreams of all you can do and create for this world. I will give to others. I will not forget you. I will write my name on your heart. I will cheer you on towards your prize. I will pray for kindness and doors to open to you. I will place a soothing balm on your wounds when the doors crash into your broken body. I may not pick you up–for you will have to do that for yourself–but I will lay beside you and kiss you sweetly until you have the strength to rise. I will question. I will fold the laundry. I will be my own person. I will have my own life and friends. I will be good to your family and friends. I will forgive. I will believe in you no matter what they say. I will trust you. I will honor the man you are. I will value your gifts and never think you a pansy. I will fight for you, and at times with you. I will apologize. I will seek your forgiveness. I will deserve it. I will love you. I will fuck you. I will lay you down. I will tenderly caress you. I will make love to you and discover your body anew even as the years pass us by. Every wrinkle, every laugh line, every sag, every cell will be counted with affection. I will embrace your changes. You will be mine, and I will be yours.

Are you ready? Here I come.

Please let me into your secret places. Let me see you. Let me love only you. I know we have it in us to do this together and to create something more than we can possibly imagine.

I stand on the precipice with Hope beside me.

Acknowledgment: The inspiration for this piece comes from Sarah McLachlan’s song “Answer.”

PHOTO CREDIT: Philip Brooker

What components make up a “real man?” I hear men talking about not being a “pussy”–i.e. not being a woman–and illuminating the characteristics of being real. These contests often rely more on brawn than the strength of character. You took the dive off the cliff into the ocean’s cool waters. Can you be man enough to leap into a woman’s warm embrace and find solace there? You made the deal of a lifetime. Will you follow-through? You are a good person. Will you live by your word even when it is hard and difficult? Your body can lift the weight of another off the ground. Can you trust another person with your underbelly and know they will not sucker punch you when you are as vulnerable as Atlas?*

I do not think it is easy to be a real man in this unreal world. The weight of the world is firmly placed on men’s shoulders. They bear the burden of protection–physical and financial–from those men and women who utilize their power and brutality to harm the rest of us. Having integrity in the face of a rat race where lying and cheating are expectations, not exceptions, cannot be easy. Working unreal hours must make some men long for the days without electricity, where they were forced to draw up to the fire like Pa Ingalls by seven most nights. How many men do I know who have trouble sleeping? So much to do and so little time. Too much pressure all around to do, to be, to accomplish, to achieve, to surpass. No wonder many of them approach women in much the same manner they would a business deal. What is in it for me?

The so-called Men’s Movement attempts to move men towards a more egalitarian understanding of their gender role in life, while also addressing the often forgotten needs of fathers, the mythology of masculinity, and a reclaiming of it, amongst others. The Promise Keepers charge their followers to adhere to a moral Christian code within the confines of a narrow theology based on misogyny and a broken patriarchy. The gift within the Promise Keepers ideology is its focus on men keeping their word to the women in their lives and calling them to submission to God’s authority over their own self interests. The problem–as is often the case–is whose version of God’s authority wins? The God who smites those he hates? The God who kills the first born children of the enemy? The God who affirms women being seen as chattel? The God who commands colicky babies be smashed against a wall? Or instead will it be the God willing to hang on a tree like so many who are persecuted for their beliefs? Will it be the God of the poor and ill? Will it be the God who calls a woman to lead and not just serve? Will it be the God of Love for all persons, or just the God of persons not unlike themselves?

I see so many men who suffer in this world of flux and responsibility as they seek to rise above the patterns of destruction and disenfranchisement. I cheer them on towards the prize of a life of meaning! I also am cheering one of them on towards finding me, for I know I have the gifts, gumption and giving nature to make a real partnership with someone work. I do not aspire to sucker punch the man of my heart like so many women seem to be doing these days–I know, I keep dating their ex’s. I am so very tired of hearing story after story from men about the inhuman ways women treat them out of spite. Women need to celebrate the beauty and the strength of the men in their lives, and stop with the gender assassination every-time “he” does not do what “she” wants. For myself, I consciously work on never saying “MEN!” in response to some bad thing a particular male person did. I also correct my friends on this point, and name all the singular men of integrity I know–all of whom have an uncommon grace, but are not as rare as some might think.

I, myself, am looking for a man of uncommon grace. After recently finishing Kate Braestrup’s book Here If You Need Me, I felt inspired to articulate ten core qualities he will need to possess. Kate is an Unitarian Universalist minister serving as a Chaplain to the Game Wardens of Maine, and her book speaks of so much of what I find to be meaningful about walking beside people in ordinary and extraordinary ways as a Chaplain. She did not set out on that path, only finding it her calling after her husband died. Towards the end of the book, she writes an amazing passage about a conversation she and her four children have casually one day where they describe what the next man in their lives will be like, having been left hurt and disillusioned by the last. Simple words written by a child’s pencil end up on their fridge, and in time a man fitting those descriptors and so much more comes into all of their lives.

Here are the ten I put on my refrigerator:

1. Funny
2. Integrity
3. Smart
4. No children (or ex-wife)
5. Wants children
6. Willing to go to church
7. Kind hearted
8. Left
9. Serves
10. Active

There are some things, however, I “wish” for but did not make my top ten. Some of them include: rides a bike, reads books, loves dogs, never wears tank tops (click here to find out why), and has a purpose. I think being heterosexual falls into the “goes without saying” category! My friends, The Boys, were quick to point out that they would make the cut on my wishes and needs lists, but alas given they are Gay, they would N.O.T! That is the funny thing about lists, they are just starting off places. I am not looking for anything in anyone I do not have to offer, and I am more than mere words on a page. He must be too.

As I look over the list, I find myself surprised that Plant Geek was really the one person I dated who fit these the very best. And The Bean? He turned out to be 60% Guy. No thank you. I want my 100% Man, with all the surprises of what else makes him unique and special meted out along the way. This is what will make him real to me in the end–the aspects I cannot define but will cherish through the joy of knowing him. And in the meantime, I continue to focus on the joy of being me in the world and on the places I need to grow and change. I have a”little life left in me yet.”

Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this woman’s work,
This woman’s world.
Ooh, it’s hard on the man,
Now his part is over.
Now starts the craft of the father.

I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.

I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking

Of all the things I should’ve said,
That I never said.
All the things we should’ve done,
Though we never did.
All the things I should’ve given,
But I didn’t.

Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.

Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.**

*”Farnese Atlas” Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, Naples, Italy

The image and idea of the tenderness of men–like Atlas–comes from Norah Vincent’s amazing book Self Made Man.

** From Kate Bush’s “This Woman’s Work.”

My friend Pixie and I recently began a series of conversations about yummy older men we know. She takes her son to a sexy sixty-something therapist who projects confidence, knowledge and humor in such a way Pixie is more than a tad mesmerized. I have The Scoundrel, amongst others. We agree these men project a kind of allure younger men just do not possess; but why? What makes these men so interesting and intriguing to two thirty-something young women who normally date men YOUNGER than they are?

Now the simple answer might be: You girls have Father issues! I agree we need to consider this possibility, but for myself I reject this explanation. For one thing, spending $100,000 on therapy dealt with the vast majority of my issues. For another, I have been blessed by having a whole series of lovely men serve as mentors to my life in one way or another: Steve Gilchrist, Kirk Whiteside, Tommy Russell, Dennis Nason, Joe Holland, Joe Moran, Raymond Hargrove, Richard Congdon and Bill Koch…to name a few. These men filled the gaps the death of my father and the arrival of John created for me. At all the points in my growing up excellent role models of what it meant to be a man of integrity met me where I was and nurtured me. For me, I reject the idea of my attraction to an older man being equated to unfulfilled Father needs; Pixie will need to speak for herself!

I must admit how surprised I am to find older men so deeply attractive at this juncture of my life, for I have coveted younger men. Feeling I arrived at the Party of Life so late, I really felt owed a younger man with whom I could build the life I thought I might want with the “right person.” I wanted my chance at bat without the already told stories of ex-wives, children, or dreams broken. I wanted my own love story no one else ever had, and I felt I deserved it because of everything I went through to even get to the Party of Life at all. I can remember when I first started dating The Bean feeling like all the shit of the past was somehow more bearable because the path finally revealed a boy who was excited about who I was in the world and who did not seem intimidated by me or my gifts. Appearances were misleading in that regards, but it did fulfill a fantasy of a sort…for a time. In retrospect, I realize his presence also revealed a deep need in me–namely my desire to be with someone who is excited about who I am and what I bring to the world. I also want to feel that way about him.

I think part of why I never thought much about men older than me relates to my mother marrying someone 19 years her senior–twice! In fact, her current husband is her youngest one ever at just 16 years older. I saw a beautiful 39 year-old woman bury her husband, and Daddy being older played a role in his death. My half sisters had him into their twenties. I could not help but think if Mother had married someone younger I would not have lost my Dad at six. I just could never understand what she found so damn attractive in him when she was 32 and he was 51. I did not understand until Maria’s funeral.

At Maria’s funeral, her husband spoke. His eulogy marked her life and his own. He made the comment: “Forty years ago I can remember being a young man and wondering what my life would be–how it would turn out. Now most of life’s questions have been answered…” In that one moment, I got it. I understood how Daddy offered Mother a man who was not lost or searching to figure out who he was in the world. He offered her a man who possessed self assurance and was settled. He had already become. Mother, at 32, also had already become. She had her own money, a career to be proud of, position, clout, and most importantly, Mother knew exactly who she was.

Pixie and I have been dating all these boys who whine and moan about not knowing what they want to be when they finally grow up. When exactly that will be, we really do not know. I read that adolescence has been extended way past where Evolution would place it because of all of our modern luxuries, and I must say I believe this to be true. How many men do I meet who are in their late twenties or thirties who still have no idea who they are, what they want to contribute to the good of the world, or what passion lights their fire? I know plenty of men who have no idea where they stand on any number of issues–other than a cursory “yes” or “no”–and I know plenty of men more than willing to highlight all of the problems in others or in the world but never willing to do one damn thing about any of it or the shit in their own lives! These same men seem to always meet women not up to their standards, calling many of the women they meet “irrational, emotional, crazy bitches.” And–here is the real kicker–they would rather be with the “crazy bitch” who tells them exactly who they are than be with the woman who wants to know them and delight in their dreams for their life coming true!

I cannot help but wonder: Is it wrong to want to be with a man who does not call his friends a “pussy” when they do not “man-up” and do something the Boy-Code demands? Is it wrong to want to be with a man who wants to spend time cozying up to your pussy, but who also does not think you are just a piece of ass? Is is wrong to want to be with a man who can handle listening to your perspective without needing to call you a cunt behind your back when you are right and he is wrong? Is it wrong to want to be with a man who admires you and in whom you can be proud?

No.

But why does it seem these men only come in older packages these days?

I do believe there is such a thing as too old. The widower of a former patient who is in his eighties likes to tell me how he is in love with me and invites me to live in his home. Silly me, but I do not think it is real love. I think he just needs someone to empty his urinal! He keeps saying to me, “Age is only a number.” Yes; if you are an older man and win the Evolutionary Lottery and have a younger woman interested in you. But when she rejects you because you are too old, it is because age is the only number that counts. As I asked my friend Stepford, “Is there such a thing as too young for an older man?” Probably not. But there is such a thing as too old for us younger girls. Pixie and I will keep up the debate about the age threshold, and keep admiring those yummy older men we know. How could we not? They are self-assured sexy personified!

My Dear Faithful Reader,

We have come to the first anniversary of my blog. First of all, thank you so very much for the affirmation of reading my blog (some of you more than my own Mama!) and sharing with me the places my writing touched you and your story. I must say I am rather surprised by all of this! What started as a way to post photos of my then six week-old puppy Emma–who was still living with her Birth Mother at the time–transformed into something I never expected. I grieved the loss of a meaningful relationship. I worked through much of what it meant for me to work as a hospice chaplain. I highlighted the hilarities of my dating life. And, most importantly, I educated you on men in tank tops!

Given Top Ten Lists are so passe I say, “Nine is Fine!” Here are my favourite nine posts from this last year:

9. I Heart Atheists! This post is dedicated to my patient “Hank,” of whom I wrote. I am glad he is no longer struggling to breathe or to find love.

8. Posting My Big Secret This post received the most private email because people were worried about me. In many ways it was the hardest to write. I reveled an important secret, and in so doing found a way to tell my closest and dearest just how much despair (my definition of anti-hope) I felt following the break-up. This post continues to have meaning for me due to my continuing love of Post Secret, and because I hope by exposing my pain–even as a minister–others fearing the only way through is out might feel comforted.

7. I’m Coming Out: Jesus Know About My Vibrator The year’s most embarrassing and second funniest post. I still cringe when people ask me for my website address thinking about them reading this particular post. Of course this is exactly why it is on this list–I am a glutton for embarrassing myself on this blog with the bitter truth. For the record–and thankfully–I have had sex since I wrote this post! (Once.)

6. The Whispering God Where is God when bad things happen to good people? In part, this post contains my answer to this question and my own thinking about God’s intervention–and lack there of–in our lives.

5. 40 Reasons I Make A Great Girlfriend (and her evil twin 40 Reason I Will Drive You Crazy & Am Not Perfect) This was so much fun, and I met my friend in Austria through putting up the “Great Girlfriend” list on craigslist.

4. A Rose Garden Relationship I continue to think about what I wrote in this post. If there is such a thing as your own writing being a gift to you, it would be this post. I feel it helped me clarify what relationship values continue to remain important to me and also what I ultimately have to offer all of my relationships, including the one I have with myself.

3. You Play, You Pay This post about my prayer for my Aunt Charlyne to come to terms with her cancer and still remains at the forefront of my thinking about her. She finished her second round of chemo, and she will find out next week the results of her latest PET scan. She told us at Christmas she feels the cancer is spreading.  All my work with patients has taught me our bodies tell us the truth–even long before the tests and doctors do–so I cannot help but wonder if hers is telling her a truth now. I do not know what will happen with her body, but I know she will be surrounded by love regardless of the outcome. This is what matters most.

2. Tank Top Wearing Man Candy? The single funniest thing I have ever written! I cannot see a man in a tank top without thinking: “Baby, if you only knew how I felt about THAT!” If you love it too, please go out to Urban Dictionary and suggest “The Tribble Factor” for a word/definition.

1. The Mango Tree My homage to my father and the continuing bonds of love death cannot separate us from and how these bonds continue to inform our present and propel us into our future.

Here is to a wonderful Year Two!

The first time I can ever remember feeling that I loved someone just because they existed and because of who they were to me was when I was three and thought the preacher’s son was just soooo cute. He came to my fourth birthday party, and I knew it was love. The kind of love I practiced with my Barbie and Ken or between Snoopy and every other toy I possessed. He played the Toilet Paper Mummy Game with me, lurking quietly most of the time. In retrospect, the boy had to have hated being forced to go to some younger girl’s party. I was oblivious to this, and only thought he was soooo perfect to marry one day. I cried the day his father announced they were leaving the church. I only saw him one more time–on a visit back to Miami when I was in the eighth grade. I felt relieved that the love one feels at four can be gotten out of at 14! My first love–who never really knew I or my love existed–morphed into a jerk in a military school uniform! What was I thinking?

me at four

Falling in-love and wondering “What was I thinking?” seem to go hand-in-hand sometimes. We humans spend vast quantities of time, money and attention trying to sort out just why it is we fall in-love. Whole forests have given their lives for this exercise…with us waxing poetic, writing and re-writing love letters, and making music for some love who just has to know how we feel about them or feel about their departure from our lives. Whole blogs too! (But I am not naming any names here…gotta have some self-respect!) Yet we still seem at such a loss. Why is it after all these years we still don’t have a clue? Maybe it is because Evolution is such a slow and painstaking process? Or maybe we really do not want to know–it would ruin it for everyone!?

My friend Paulina Ballerina differs from me greatly when it comes to love. She believes that you fall in-love first, and then over time you may find the person worthy of your deep true love. She has been with her current beau for almost two years, and she readily admits she is “in-love” with him. She also says she could love him, but she does not–yet. After two years? I find her position amazing and a bit ludicrous as well. No wonder I am her opposite. I tend to love first, and then if I really love someone and trust them I may begin to allow myself the luxury of falling in-love as well. In my relationships of any sort, I love easily. I look to the good in those around me and value who they are right from the start. “Love” seems the only word fitting for what I see in them and cherish. Opening up my heart to fall in-love, well…that is a whole other matter. For me, falling in-love is a byproduct of trust and quite honestly I never have been in-love.

I find no small measure of shame mentioning this given my age–36–and general sense that I am in fact not the kind of girl boys like, let alone fall for. Dave The Porn Guy (don’t even get me started on how the minister knows the porn producer) put it to me this way: “Just cause a girl is a ten in the categories of personality, intelligence, generosity and success, does not mean she will find a man. She has to be at least a seven in the looks category to get a man of equal or greater value. So, if you are a one or a two in the looks category, and you are a ten in the other areas, you have three choices–1) Give up on finding a man who is your equal emotionally and intellectually. Those guys can get any girl they want because women do not put the same emphasis on looks and so even if they are butt ugly they can land an all-around 10; 2) Become a lesbian; or 3) Go for the loser who works at McDonald’s and who feels grateful to land any girl, even one smarter, who makes more money, and who has a better background than he does. He is a one and won’t balk at dating a one.”

So falling in-love has to do with being a one versus a ten, instead of being “the one?”

I do not agree with all of Dave The Porn Guy’s assessment of the situation–consider the source after all. The guy left his PhD program to make porn, find easy “hott” ass, and avoid depth at all costs. He also refuses to be with the woman he calls the “love of [his] life” out of what seems to amount to just old fashioned fear. However, Dave The Porn Guy did hit a nerve with me reminiscent of how I felt about myself when I was three and four. Even at that young age I felt embarrassed by my feelings. I also felt out-of-control. The little boy did not like me, and I had all these feelings for him. How could I feel something for someone and they not feel it back? These feelings left me vulnerable to ridicule and to others having power over me. How easily my little girl friends could shame me with a few teasing comments! Somehow I equated this vulnerability to my not being worthy of him–or anyone else for that matter–falling in-love with me. Listening to Dave The Porn Guy punch me in every soft underbelly spot of fear I have posses woke me up a bit. Maybe no one ever falls in-love with me because I walk around certain they never could?

No wonder I look for all the good in someone and have to trust them deeply before I can ever even ponder falling in-love with them…it is just too risky otherwise.

I often think of the themes in my life as acting like boomerangs. Something may happen to me–a great pain or loss–that sends out the very best of me scatted against the wind, but eventually they all return to their rightful home within me. This last year has been full of this kind of scattering, and if you have ever read my blog, you know what I am talking about. A year of more challenges and stress than my body, mind or spirit could handle, and a heart so broken I thought it was beyond repair for most of this year.

Now there is just something about a list that I dearly love. Lists organize my life! I have running lists for the things I need, the things I want to accomplish (like having more sex in the coming year–twice in 12 months is just not enough!!!), lists of places I want to experience, lists of problems I am facing, and, well, the list goes on and on and on… This blog has been full of some great lists:

• A list of my experiences right up to my blindsided break-up: Post-Mortem: My November
• A list of the reasons why I am a good girlfriend: 40 Reasons I Make a Good Girlfriend
• A list of all diseases, losses and freak-outs of the last year: The Stress Mess
• A list of why I don’t trust men in tank tops (and my personal favourite post): Tank Top Wearing Man Candy?
• Not to mention the list of all the men I loved before (go on and hum it, you know you want to): The Dating Game

So in honor of my little list making fetish, I offer up on my one-year anniversary since this unbelievable year began with my emergency root canal the following list of all my gratitude for what this last year gave me–in no particular order:

1. My Ordination. This day was full of more love than I could have ever imagined, and I have drawn deeply from those waters this year.
2. Surviving This Year! If you read “Posting My Big Secret” and “Shift Change” you know that this is an ACCOMPLISHMENT all by itself! Not only do I feel I survived, but I feel stronger, happier and more at peace with who I am than at any other point in my life.
3. EMMA! Gotta love Miss Puppy Girl. She is my joy. We have really fallen in love these last few months, especially after her mean cousin Morgan left! Morgan, my niece, is part of the Puppy Gestapo. Her departure turned on the “My Mommie is not a meanine.” light over Emma’s head. Plus, she is FINALLY growing up…a little bit. She still has to wear a leash in the house–all the better to catch her and take my stolen bra out of her mouth with!!

   

4. Paparazzo. I have said it before, and I will say it again: I do not know how I would have made it through without him. I tease him that he is always “pulling my pigtails,” i.e. driving me nuts just because he can. Yesterday morning while doing crunches on the living room floor, Emma bit my ponytail and pulled hard. The more I would go to stop her the more she would pull. I ended up in a pool of tears and laughter! No wonder the two of them love each other so much–they are cut from the same cloth!
5. Casa Derby. I lived for 2.5 years without my own belongings, so coming home in February filled my heart in ways I cannot even describe. I missed my Red Turkey Rug! I missed my books, music, bed, sofa and enough dishes to host a party for an army. How sweet it is to be home again. Moving home also brought new friends and neighbours. They met me mid Apocalypse and adopted me straight away. I needed the affirmation of new friends, and so I am grateful the latest incarnation of Casa Derby came with some.
6. My Mama and My Sista. These two continue to show me love, love, love, even when I am only full of fear and despair.
7. My Work and Team. I get unbelievable joy knowing I am doing the kind of work that crosses the religious divide and finds people right where they are and ministers to their hurting hearts in that place. My patients and their families are my teachers, and I value their lessons. Ministering to my atheist patient this year, and the work in general, has given me my inspiration as I apply to Vanderbilt’s PhD program. I also have a wonderful team to work with, but especially my manager, my social worker, my secretary, and my nurses Wendy and Lisa. They all make each day a worthy sacrifice. (Trust me! At what I make, the word “sacrifice” is perfect.)
8. My Bereavement Group. If I ever have a friend go through a crushing break-up, I will immediately buy them Alan Wolfelt’s book Understanding Your Grief: Ten Essential Touchstones for Finding Hope and Healing Your Heart . Working through this book with my group, and the group’s grieving processes in general, helped me to identify that what happened to me was just the normal grief one experiences when someone you love dies. I suddenly no longer felt so isolated in my grieving, and listening to them give voice to their mourning, gave me an opportunity to accept my own. Once I got that the person I knew and loved did in fact die–metaphorically and literally, in as much as that person was no longer real or real in my life–I could finally find the courage to accept the past as it was, accept the me that I truly am, and move on towards my own best future.
9. My Bike. My Bike. My Bike. I love my shitty bike, and I am accepting cash donations (through PayPal of course) towards my next ride. It may just be one of the crappiest bikes on the planet for someone to ride 50-70 miles a week on, but she keeps on going strong. I love waving to the guys mowing my golf course at 6:30 in the morning with their headlights shining out in the dark. I love riding with Emma! I just love riding her period. Giant, Specialized and Cannondale may get quite a bit of my internet window shopping, but she gets my attention day-in-and-day-out. I would have gained a TON of weight without the bike given my knee, so I am so appreciative to have this bike even if it is not all that good of one or all that cool. She does what she is supposed to do–for the most part–and I am grateful.
10. My Blogs. Writing has given voice to my despair and to my hope, both of whom are constant partners in my dance of life. The affirmation of my faithful readers and the new friends I have made as a result, gave wings to the fact that I did in fact have a meaningful future without the one I had loved. He and I began a conversation–an important one for me personally and one of importance for the world in which we live–and when it ended abruptly I feared the conversation died too. In working on this blog and Don’t Be A Christian (which will be more fully operational January 2008), I found new partners in that conversation, found I could do it on my own (dammit!!!!), and the impetus to be bold enough to go after a PhD. I was once sent an email from someone wondering if this blog was the beginning of something else because she could sense something brewing in me from my writing. The truth is the blog began as a way to show photos of my new puppy! What it has become astounds me, but I also know it has been central to my healing and to my reaffirmation that indeed my middle name is hope.

There are certain songs that have supported me too, but especially the words to two Bjork songs: The whole of “All is Full of Love.” I keep reminding myself that I am full of love to both give and receive, and although it may not come from the places I expected, it is always right there within me and for me. The other song is “It’s Not Up To You.” The lyrics are amazing. She sings, “I wake up and the day feels broken. I tilt my head. I’m trying to get an angle…if you wake up and the day feels broken, just lean into the crack…notice how it sparkles.” This has been a year of leaning into the crack, and much to my surprise it has sparkled in ways unimaginable last year. Me too. I still sparkle.

With gratitude for the 525,600 minutes of this last unbelievable year,

Rev. Jacqueline Hope Derby

Photo Credit: PAPARAZZO

Studying for the GRE–the Graduate Record Exam–has created a crushing pain in my spirit. This pain envelops me and leaves me paralyzed at times. Why? Now I do like to call the GRE “The Graduate Retching Exam” because of all of the math, which I worked hard (okay, not that hard) to forget as promptly as it was no longer needed, but that is not why. The reasons why have much more to do with feeling I am putting my feet on a path that will take me away from a dream for my life…the dream to be married and have a baby. I feel I am choosing to give birth to ideas instead of a family, and I am afraid of the loneliness this path might bring.

I did not date for all of my teens and twenties. I never kissed anyone. I never felt anyone was even interested in me as a girl, let alone as a girlfriend. I got the message very early on that I was not in-fact, “girlfriend material.” Oh sure, I had guy friends. They love me! But I was never enough…not pretty enough, not thin enough, not cool enough, etc. Or I was too much. Too smart. Too opinionated. Too radical. Too fat. Too fucked up by my past. I kept getting the message that if I could just be, well, not me, then and only then would I deserve the love and respect of the men I liked or was involved with (after my thirtieth birthday).

Much of why I did not date for so long had to do with me and only me. I was just terrified of anyone coming near me. Terrified they would get close and see how fractured I was from being molested. I did not want anyone to see me naked. Shit! I hardly let anyone see any skin when I was fully clothed, always in long shirts buttoned way up even in the Miami summer. I felt so unsure of who I was as a woman. What did that even mean? I was asexual in many ways. I never looked at a guy and thought about sleeping with him, actually that still takes a lot of work on my part. Those feelings never come easily because even my fantasy life is cautionary. The one place where I could have a real mental free-for-all, and I judiciously practice safe sex with only emotionally well-known partners, who I actually do not know because I refuse to fantasize about people I know but am not dating! In other words, in order to get it up for an imaginary boyfriend I have to create a whole back story, emotions, etc. It is a whole hell of a lot of work!

Somehow I made it though that wilderness and found a way to be naked physically with The First, but I kept much of my true self to myself. I can see now that I only slept him because it was safe and controllable. Well, those and the fact that he would sleep with me. I was thirty-one after all and a virgin. I just wanted to have sex because I was afraid that if I did not at that point I never would. What a terrifying thought, but also a real one. I see that other than The Bean, everyone I ever got naked with had some element of safety to them. My biggest safety net being that if they were fucked up in some manner, then I felt it would be okay if I was a little too.

You get what you pay for; right?

After Plant Geek broke up with me because he “could not be attracted to someone like me” and just went out with me because “I was so healing,” I called Tammy Wayne to pour out my heart. I felt like I worked so hard through therapy, getting up at six in the morning to work out and drop some fucking weight, trying to accept my body, my heart, my mind, etc., and to actually trust and be naked with someone. I worked so hard, but no one was going to love me. I still was not good enough. I still was too much or not enough. I got all “dressed up” for the love party, and regardless got stuck against the wall with the other “flowers” nobody wanted. I came away from that conversation feeling like I poured it all out and maybe could just accept that it was not going to be my destiny to be loved in time to have a baby. Yes; it might happen, but it was unlikely.

Then I met The Bean and really trusted and loved someone for the first time in my whole life. I was thirty-five, and it finally happened to me. But only to me.

Here I am. I am thirty-six now, and I walked, crawled, dug, scratched, ran, swam and Tae Bo’d my way out of the hell of my first twenty-five years. I made it, but I still have never been loved by a man. I have never laid against someone in the dark and heard them whisper “I love you.” in my ear. Maybe the me that exists is not “girlfriend material?” I may be the “exception to the rule” girl, and as much as guys might want that in some ways, the truth is it scares the shit out of them. Scares me too sometimes, like right this very moment. I see what a fucking challenge I am! I take life seriously. I take my life very seriously. I am passionate to a fault. I insist on being me. I do not let myself get away with much, but I especially do not let my emotions go without investigation. Need proof? Here I am, up from bed, writing down all of my feelings on this topic well past my bedtime, with a stack of wadded up tissues on the desk from crying so hard as I write this.

I started this particular thread months ago and called it “Baby Blues.” I wanted to articulate a deep understanding about who I am fundamentally and my own acknowledgment of the price I might pay for being me. I am me. Just me. I only want to be me, but the message I get from most men I know or have known is: “Could you be a little less?” Often men tell me how “silly” I am. This “silliness” is usually over “thinking too much” or giving a rat’s ass about something they feel is a ridiculous waste of time. I often hear Madonna’s “What It Feels Like For A Girl” playing in my head during those moments of confrontation over my “silliness.”

Hurt that’s not supposed to show
And tears that fall when no one knows
When you’re trying hard to be your best
Could you be a little less

Do you know what it feels like for a girl
Do you know what it feels like in this world
What it feels like for a girl

Strong inside but you don’t know it
Good little girls they never show it
When you open up your mouth to speak
Could you be a little weak

I made it this far in my life because of my own inner strength. I made it because I believe in a Love greater than my own comprehension that weaves us all together. I made it because of all of the love from those in my life who never want me to be weak, or less, or other. In large part, I loved The Bean because he never called me silly or gave me the impression that I was not enough or too much. (Granted, he did feel this way and told me so after we split.)

My mother really valued what The Bean brought to my life because she understands how lonely and isolating being smart in my way has been for me. Sometimes I wonder if during my life she has felt ill equipped to help me with these feelings? I think her own pain at his leaving had a lot to do with feeling like finally there was someone in my life who not only got me, but also genuinely was excited to discover all my inner nooks and crannies. She sees me, but does not always get me. And it is the “getting me” part that is difficult to do and difficult to accept without wanting me to “be a little less.”

So when I think of my own “baby blues,” I realize I could get married and have a baby. If it was THE most important thing to me, I would allocate all of my resources to it. I would be willing to give up certain things that I consider paramount, like my career or calling. It would also require a willingness to dumb myself down in order to find someone who might consider me both girlfriend and wife material. I am not saying all men would require this, instead I offer that if marriage and a baby are the most important thing to me I would do anything to get them, even that.

Marriage and a family are not that important to me. I will not give up on who I am or what matters to me in order to have them. At thirty-six I must acknowledge the time reality of finding the right person to add to who and what my life is already about is not in my favor. And then there is Grad School. My mother is right when she tells me how she hears how lonely and isolated I am right now intellectually. She kicks me in the butt over the GRE because she knows I need what a graduate program can bring me, and what I have sorely longed for since The Bean left.

I will be the first to admit that I freaked out when Mr. Joy  told me that he did not see himself leaving South Florida or having a child. I freaked out because I feel like that desire of mine is just a small thread in my hands. I can feel the weight of the world and my own sense of calling pulling against that fragile thread. One day it might very well be fully un-spooled and gone forever. We parted ways given the heartbreak destiny we could see awaiting us, and I am still a little bit sad. The worst part was the wanting to stay in South Florida, not the baby part, in my final analysis. I do not want to give up the dreams I am in fact willing to do anything difficult or painstaking to achieve…not for anyone. I am only “Jacqueline Material” after all, and if Jacqueline finds herself a girlfriend, or wife, or mother, then great; but I must remain Jacqueline regardless of the roles and responsibilities of my life.

I would not want to be anyone less.

After writing my last post about my sexless love life and dating disasters, I felt inspired. I put up my list (basically–I did make some small edits) on Craigslist to try and dip back into the dating pool. I received many interesting responses, including quite a few lists from men of their own Top 40 Reasons to date them! Some of which were really beautiful. Although I did get a bit offended that this one guy thought I was too much of cow to date, but did use my list to create his own list and then posted it on CL to attract the skinnier girls. WTF? I am too ugly, but my list is too good to pass up copying? PLAHHHEEESE!

I also got quite a few men saying that not only was a the “perfect” girlfriend, I would also make the “perfect” wife, partner, etc. I found myself always writing back to them to let them know how un-perfect I really am. Too much pressure to live up to, in my estimation. I was also totally flattered. So, in the spirit of full disclosure and imperfection, I offer to you the following list…with many thanks to Janeane Garofalo for the perfect quotation to start off my own thinking about what it means to be imperfect me:

“Many people feel that mass acceptance and smooth socialization are desirable life paths for a young adult… Many people are often wrong… Don’t bother being nice. Being popular and well liked is not in your best interest. Let me be more clear; if you behave in a manner pleasing to most, then you are probably doing something wrong. The masses have never been arbiters of the sublime, and they often fail to recognize the truly great individual. Taking into account the public’s regrettable lack of taste, it is incumbent upon you not to fit in.”

- Janeane Garofalo

1. I do not want to think or be just like everyone else.
2. I hate the suburbs. Architecture should be interesting and diverse; it should surprise you. Most suburbs are based on the idea that everybody wants basically the same thing.
3. I prefer old to new. I would rather recover an old chair fifty times than buy a new one. And if I buy a new one, I want to make sure it is well made so my grandkids can recover it fifty times.
4. I do not want my children–if I ever have any–to fit in completely at school. I want them to have it tough. I want them to have to build emotional muscles and empathy, which only comes from the school of ridicule.
5. I will judge you based on what kind of car you drive. If you have a gas guzzling SUV in the city, I will look down on you. If you are a man in your forties with three hundred dollar shoes and an expensive haircut and drive a Cadillac convertible, I will think you are the scuzzy Sugar Daddy type. If you drive a Mini Cooper, I will think you have a clown fetish.
6. I hate the words “nice” and “fine.” They mean absolutely nothing. My acronym for “nice” is: Not Into Connecting Emotionally. And from the movie The Italian Job, fine stands for: Freaked-Out, Insecure, Needy and Emotional. Let’s use them in an exemplar sentence: Only really nice people ask you how you are doing and when you say “fine” are satisfied.
7. I will freak out about the emotional strain of working with patients who are gravely ill, dying or dead sometimes. I will be bouncing off the walls and need copious amounts of holding to settle down. Sex and sleep help too.
8. I cry when I am exhausted, feel like I cannot express my emotions, or feel overwhelmed by not meeting my own internal high marks for myself. You are not responsible for this, but I appreciate it when you do not make me feel like shit for crying. I cannot handle the pressure of whatever is making me cry and then the added pressure of trying not to cry because you do not want me to, with the bad feelings that you cannot allow me to cry and just be there for me, which lead to the subsequent feelings that you must not even care about me.
9. I hate moving the laundry from the washer to the dryer. I hate it if anyone else folds for me. I am a total weirdo about folding. I love. I need it. I gotta do it for myself.
10. I will talk and talk and talk when I feel lost, happy, excited, overwhelmed and/or needy. If I can just be quiet with you, know that I finally trust you enough to do so and love you deeply.
11. I am skittish about opening up my heart to you and begin to question how I can make it if you leave me and break my heart. Stick with me, and I will sort it out and stop holding on too tightly. This gets really bad between the fourth and fifth month, and finally gets better after the sixth. Can you last that long?
12. I will try and run away between the second and third month. See above.
13. I love giving head and might make you pass out from my ministrations. You will go nuts!
14. When I feel insecure I will pay for everything, even though I will never make more money than you do.
15. I will remember everything you say. This can be a really good thing, because if you say you love Cookies and Cream Ice Cream, I will not only remember but get your favourite kind for you as a surprise. If you say you will do something for me, I will remember when you do not. You will not be able to get away with anything.
16. I have integrity about everything I do. I even obey the rules at the dog park! You will not be able to get away with shit.
17. I will put my dog before you if she needs food, walking, etc.
18. I go to bed early and get up early. I hate waking up though, so I will hit the snooze just enough times to make you want to throw the clock right at me.
19. I will make you an amazing dinner and expect you to clean up the dishes. If you do not offer, I will resent you for thinking I should do everything for you. If you do offer and I say “no,” I mean it.
20. I am both super analytical and super emotive. I think logically about everything, including my feelings.
21. I ask tons of questions.
22. I will talk to anyone.
23. I will challenge you and all of your assumptions.
24. I will not allow you to criticize faith traditions from a strictly anti-fundamentalist standpoint. You will have to dig deeper than that.
25. I narrate my life through the lenses of loss, hope, despair, faith, logic, creativity and curiosity.
26. I will laugh until I cry, and cry until I laugh. You may feel like you are on a roller coaster!
27. I will be fatalistic sometimes and sit down (metaphorically) and not want to get back up.
28. I will get back up, and I will not allow you to not get back up too. If you try to hide the shit of your life and say it does not mean anything, I will force the issue as it pertains to us or your wellbeing. I will leave you if you refuse to help yourself grow the fuck up and deal.
29. I never get my car washed enough!
30. I will try and find an explanation for everything.
31. I will not allow you to make racist comments or jokes in my presence. I won’t let your family or friends do it either. If I think you do behind my back, I will leave you.
32. I will not like it when you refer to not doing something as being a “pussy.” The worst insult to most men is to call them a woman. I hate that.
33. If you tell me your definition of what it means to be a “real man in the world” but then you totally disregard that and act like a self indulgent boy, I will see your crap and call you on it.
34. I know how to use power tools.
35. I will want to do it on my own, even when I really need your help. I will hint at needing the help and hope you offer. Then I will say “No, I can do it on my own.” at least once before accepting your help.
36. I am on time, almost always. When I am running late, I am so late I will want to cancel.
37. My body will never be what it would have been if I had not gained 40 pounds in fourth grade, and learned to protect myself with food and fat. I keep working on this one.
38. I freak out about feeling the overwhelming weight of scarcity–of which there has been a lot in my life–but will still try to find ways to be generous in the middle of that. If you looked at my check book at any given moment, you may find that I spent my last $20 on you or doing something with you so you would not know just how bad it really is to be a poor chaplain. I walk around terrified about this much of the time.
39. I will explain when I do not have to because I will be afraid you will not love me for being human, needing things, or needing human kindness too.
40. I will analyze everything. E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G. I am working on letting go more and just being. This is hard for me, but I want to change so my life can have less anxiety over trying to figure everything out. I do not do well with emotional messiness, but I have plenty in my own spirit. I am sure that once I figure this out I will no longer need to analyze everything quite so much. (Irony intended!)

Can you handle Little Miss Imperfection?

So, I had to cut the latest date loose. Dear Lord! What is up with a guy being in his thirties and having “fish mouth” when it comes to kissing? (Think guppy or bottom feeder in the tank.) Ewwww. First, there was Woody Woodpecker with all the in and out, in and out of that jack hammer of a tongue, and now Fish Mouth! What is the dating world coming to?

I told Paparazzo–after properly grossing him out with a full on description of Fish Mouth–that I sometimes feel like I ended up on the Clearance Rack at a bookstore. All the best sellers have been scooped up. Some returned, mind you, but the best of the best were bought a long ass time ago. I somehow ended up next to: From Guy to Guru: Divorcees Do New Delhi and Accept Your Fetish: A Guide On How To Braid Your Nose Hair. Am I the rare first edition tucked under all the trashy novels and travel guides to Siberia? Or am I just sad story of yet another 30-something “great girl” who cannot find a good man gathering dust?

My thirties have been rough in the dating department. Let’s see: I spent the first 497 days a virgin. Not that good of a start, but also just the way my life unfolded. Thank God for day 498!! I loved three people these last five years, but only totally loved one of them. I have had sex with three people in my whole life, and made out naked with another 2.5. I realize I cannot put “2.5″ without some explanation…oh wait! Yes I can! This is my blog and I can do whatever I want! Let’s just say that only one of us was nakkid, which is why it does not really count all the way. I also have spent 61 of the last 76 months without sex at all! What is a girl to do? From a strictly statistical standpoint, these numbers do not bode well for my sexual future.

(Please do not post the statistical results of my sex-less future based on these numbers in the “Comments” section of this post. Give a girl a break. I will not be able to face myself in the mirror, let alone my destiny if I knew THE TRUTH. Ignorance is bliss after all.)

Now, let me just tell you: I make for a great girlfriend. In fact, I have been known to be the “exception to the rule” kind of girlfriend. I zig–in a very peaceful and understanding manner–when a guy thinks I will zag just because of my chromosomes. Need space to play video games naked? I understand. I need space to pluck my eyebrows, fold my sheets (I get too much pleasure from being able to fold a fitted sheet.), and blow fart kisses on Emma the Puppy’s belly. Not to mention, how can I talk about you behind your back if you are always around!?

I have a lot of compassion, creativity, humor, understanding, fun and intelligence to offer. And I cook too! I am never above helping–although I will resent you just a tiny bit if I Magic Erase your whole fucking house a couple of days before you break up with me–or too snitty to laugh at my own ridiculous behavior. I will even try and–brace yourself–change! Yes, that is right folks. I, Jacqueline Hope Derby, will change and grow the hell up if need be. I also practice forgiveness and unconditional love towards others and self.

And did I mention that I have only had sex 15 of the last 76 months? I am always down for making up for lost time.

How about those 40 reasons? Feel free to pass them along to any completely single, completely heterosexual man who reads books, eat vegetables, likes to go bike riding, enjoys witty whip smart women, and is willing to consider a woman who owes the price of a Ferrari to Duke Divinity School (oh and younger than 36–my age–is always encouraged). Here they are:

1. I think really fast.
2. I give Diana, Gladys and Roberta a run for their money in my car!
3. I own my share of sexy heels, but I am almost always in flats or sandals.
4. I will do the right thing even if it hurts to do it.
5. I can cook most anything I try, but I really should not bake.
6. I’ll laugh with you but not at you…okay, maybe at you sometimes.
7. I have a dog who can make a room warmer just by panting.
8. I can do puzzles, but I cannot park worth shit.
9. I color coordinate my bra and panties to what I am wearing.
10. I am honest and kind.
11. I would rather go for a walk or a bike ride than watch TV all the time.
12. I love to give massages.
13. I kiss like I mean it.
14. I am pretty much happy wherever I am.
15. I am weird and entertaining…at least that is what my friends say.
16. I once fed a boa constrictor a live chicken.
17. I over tip.
18. I like ice cream, but not too much ice cream. I will share.
19. I went back to finish my degree after flunking out the first go around, taking a 3.5 year break and changing majors–again! I also got my master’s from “The Harvard of the South.”
20. I know how to pop pop-corn on the stove.
21. I never sleep with homeless guys or idiots…call it my anti-fetish.
22. I dream of being a published writer.
23. I take imaginary vacations on the internet.
24. I love cooking for my friends and having dinner parties, but not a party girl at all.
25. I pump my own gas.
26. I like it rough and gentle…and gentle and rough…and then rough and gentle. I like it. I like it a lot.
27. I set goals and write them down. I make lists. I always put “have more sex” on both.
28. My mother says I am her favorite daughter. I am an only child.
29. I don’t chew with my mouth open…but I will laugh.
30. I am really good at listening, even though I love telling a good story.
31. I can order dinner without freaking out about needing to make a decision.
32. I am spiritual, not religious and super liberal. I am a minister.
33. I work stuff out over throwing temper tantrums.
34. I love good books, baths, and boys.
35. I rarely have too much to drink.
36. Everyone calls me “sweetheart.” I guess it is my vibe.
37. I like (this week) Damian Rice, Stevie Wonder, Sia and Bjork.
38. I never mind doing it myself, but I also will ask for help. I believe in Relationship Chi.
39. I love boy films over chick flicks.
40. I am game for anything.

A recent post of mine contained the story of the first time I had sex at thirty-one, and some of my complicated past that contributed to the long period of abstinence in my life. I worked on this particular story for over a year given it will appear at the bottom of a photograph of me fifteen feet high in Paris later this year. I worked hard, but I never could seem to capture all of what I wanted. The story is complex for me with many different currents running through.

I was raised in a fairly spiritually conservative environment, although with my stepfather being a physician and Mother being a nurse, science was never downplayed in my home as irrelevant. In fact, quite the opposite was true. I like to joke that although I was not allowed to read anything I considered important during dinner–say, Nancy Drew–my parents would allow the Bible, the Journal of American Medicine, and Science magazine to be read…their only exceptions. They wove together science and Christianity to help teach me about my sexuality. Anatomical drawings on the back of Burger King placemats detailed every falopian tube and prostate gland. “Wait to have sex until you are married in order to be safe,” their spiritual message.

The irony, of course, was the same caring physician sitting across from me and quizzing me about ovulation cycles also went home and molested me day-after-day. A wonderful doctor and a terrible father rolled into one human being. I received all sorts of education from him, some of which I still work to process and heal from. I can remember being in the hospital at twenty-one and seeing my name on the psych unit’s Team Workroom dry erase board. Beside my name were the words “violent abuse.” You’re telling me.

The year of my going into this hospital for three weeks became the major turning point in my whole life. The staff taught me coping skills I still use and practice. I know I would be dead by my own hand without all I learned there. A seminal moment for me came when the therapist working with me took my hands, placed them in my crotch and said, “One day you will want a man to touch you there, and that will be okay.” I did not believe I would ever want to be touched, but I did know I wanted to want to be touched. She lit a match.

The fire of my own sexuality burns within me fifteen years after her words. Christians, ministers, faithful persons, etc. do not talk about these fires unless forced to speak of our own limited understanding of sexuality or when we are trying to put them out in another. How much disconnect and fear have the so-called faithful roused up against homosexuality? I often think the real problem is not with anyone else’s sexuality, but instead the problem lies in our not being able to deal with our own. Christians historically look to scripture to teach them about sexuality, even with its limited understanding of human relationships, genetics, reproduction and the equality of all persons, male, female, trans-gendered, gay, straight, bi-sexual.

I must say I possess a bit of trepidation speaking about my own sexual identity and exploration because of both the shame of being molested and the imposed upon shame of my historic religious tradition. Christians are really bad about making the body and its desires something “ungodly” and despairing anyone who dares to embrace what God gave them. We have whole churches where membership requires a myriad of lies in order to participate. I grew up Southern Baptist, and the inside “joke” is not if there are any gays in the church, but if there are any choir directors who are not. I do not find this funny; I find it tragic and fundamentally against everything I believe following Jesus ought to be about. For me, following Jesus requires that we speak the truth of who we are and practice radical difficult love and inclusion of those in our midst. I cannot help but wonder what amazing things would happen in our congregations if we embraced the GLBT community in such a way as to help their gifts flourish in our midst, instead of insisting they hide their God-given lights under the proveribial bushel/closet?

So, I am coming out. I, Jacqueline Hope Derby–wait!–REVEREND Jacqueline Hope Derby own a vibrator, and I love it. Jesus loves me and my truth. I know the Jesus of “do not fear” would never want shame in any form to fill me because of the truth of who I am. Here is my truth: I am a woman. I am a minister. I am a sexual person. I know my own body. I would not survive sexual dry spells without my vibrator. I am not married, nor have I ever been. I love men and love having sex with them. I chose to do this one at a time and in a relationship. This is me.

Writing this story for my artist friend has pushed me to uncover some old shame left in my heart. In the end, I tossed out the prior version and re-wrote my piece for him. This time I left behind the fear of being “found out” and said just want I really wanted to say. I hope when you read these words you will feel provoked, comforted, inspired, angry, and mostly curious about your own God-given sexual self. Here is the final story that will appear with my picture:

When was the first time I had sex? Was it at seven? Twenty-one? Thirty-one? Thirty-five?

Was it the first time my stepfather molested me? He would tickle me on the outside of my clothed private parts until I would pee all over his hand. As my tiny breasts began to poke out, he would tweak them under my shirt or point to them. He played with me never pushing me to act too much like an adult; it was all a dress-up game in high heels and shorts. His hands ran up my thighs while we watched cartoons.

Did I lose my virginity the first time I had an orgasm? Finding a book on female masturbation the summer I was twenty-one taught me about my body. The book inspired me to explore my own body and sexuality, but I still felt shame. My self-exploration a secret; my sexuality known only to me.

Was it when I first had sex at thirty-one? I still covered my real body with layer upon layer of fat, but I allowed certain parts of me to be seen, touched and explored by a good friend. I kept most of my heart locked away from him though. Sometimes it felt like I was watching us have sex and not really present in the moment. I slept with him because I could and because I knew nothing real and lasting would ever happen between us. He was safe.

Or did I lose my virginity last year when I fell in-love for the first time? Many of the layers of fat gone, I let him touch, taste and see every single inch of my body and my heart. Sometimes sleeping with him would cause me to laugh hysterically, the waves of bliss overwhelming me. At other times, I would cry without understanding the deep wellspring of complicated emotions pouring out. I imagined door-after-door in my locked soul opening up as the pure light of love poured into the rooms and illuminated them. Shame melted away. I found my heart and body capable of things I thought the abuse stole away from me forever.

After six months he left me saying he only dated me because he was lonely. I almost died. Am I a virgin again?

I sat yesterday for a photograph that will be fifteen feet high when the show opens in Paris later this year. Under the photograph of me will be the story of the first time I had sex. Here is what I wrote:

June 2002

I had no idea how people went from dressed to naked and fucking. Thirty-one and a virgin. I did not even know what I looked like naked! I stopped paying attention.

I spent my thirtieth year looking hard in the mirror at my naked form. Imagine my dismay to learn that my breasts fallen down after years of ignorance and lack of care! When did my belly become so squishy? I hate my arms. This is me? My skin glows! I have beautiful shoulders. I love the turn of my chin and full lips. The small of my back has a tuft of wispy blond hair that calls out to be caressed.

I will admit I had phone sex prior to having real sex. The phone sex did nothing to keep us from being shy and anxious; it did not last long. Soon we found ourselves naked, kissing, holding and fondling. He touched me where I wanted him to touch me. We did not have sex right away, but when we did—damn. I could not tell up from down or left from right. I was taken completely unaware by what it felt like to be touched by a man. We made love; we had sex; we fucked. My first time with him was sweet, passionate, lovely but not tentative. I remember that, but it was not the best sex we ever had. The best sex came one night when he and I made love at four in the morning, and I could see this orange glow in my room even though it was pitch black.

June 1977

I was six when my father died. It was just my mother and me.

March 1978

After my father’s death, more than anything I wanted to be normal again and have a Daddy. The first time John put his hands on my crotch and fondled me, he asked me if it would be okay if he married my Mother. I happily said, “Yes.”

He would tickle me on the outside of my clothed private parts until I would pee all over his hand. As my tiny breasts began to poke out, he would tweak them under my shirt or point to them. He played with me never pushing me to act too much like an adult; it was all a dress-up game in high heels and shorts. His hands running up my thighs while we watched Little House on the Prairie.

January 1982

I threatened to tell on him and what kind of person he was. He pulled me by my hair into his bathroom. I remember how tiny the little glass bottles with metal lids lined the top shelf. He pointed to them and told me that he could kill Mother any time he wanted. He was a doctor; he could do it in ways no one would suspect. Then it would just be the two of us. I needed to “shut my God damn mouth.”

He kicked me on the floor when he turned to leave.

July 2007

I fell totally in-love last year. The woman I saw reflected in his eyes was the same one I see in my own. He left me, and I almost died.

But I did not die. I am stronger than that. No more games of Hide and Seek for me. I still get scared that I will not survive Love’s brutality, but I also know the walls must never be stronger than the woman I truly am. My beauty comes through. I see me, even when men don’t.

After a really funny conversation with Paparazzo last night, I thought I would share with you, my dear readers, my thoughts on the importance of a new boyfriend to help get over the last one. See, I am now in that place where I realize that although it is always possible that The Bean might gets scads of therapy, deal with emotional integrity towards himself and others, and actually apologize for all the cruelty towards me at the end of our relationship when he bailed and most likely had sex with his ex-girlfriend while I was at home praying he would finally be able to put her rejection behind him, I also realize it is highly unlikely. * I also think it is possible I might one day be a size 2, but only after being put away in the Internment Camps and starved for my beliefs…if I make it that long! I am built for a camp-fire roast, literally!

Being a realist–such as I am–I do not sit around and think The Bean will come back to me in any way shape or form. I also still miss him. I wish I never met him, and I miss him. As I said before, being smart and thinking about the things I do has been lonely in m