The hard times

So the times have changed from a seven year old tom boy to a 14 year old pre-pubescent teen.  It is hard for me to write about this episode of my life, not only did it change who I was physically, but also mentally and innocently.  I am afraid to tell my story, but at the same time willing to do so, just so people don't have to live the mind fuck I had to experience.   It has affected my life daily, and I don't think I am unable to ever let it go.  I just deal with it, day by day, not always in a good way, but I survive as many others have.  It is hard for me to share with so many that know me, but it  is necessary and a way of therapy.  I believe that people should express their views, opinions, troubles....so that they can start healing, or living their lives.  That being said it is a bit more difficult to act out, then believed.

I was fourteen and babysitting a well known family in my hometown of Middlebury.  I had the opportunity to continue what both my elder sisters had done, but now they were off to college and I took the job they had so carefully coveted.  The pay was good, and the kids were amazing.  At age 5 the eldest was reading Political science magazine, the youngest at 3 was hitting a golf ball more then 100 yards.  They were wealthy, and owned a well known paint company, we loved their family as much as they appreciated ours.  It all went to shit when on an occasional night, the husband would come home early, offer me a drink of gin and tonic as I cooked dinner for his kids, and he would sit watching the news.  He did not put his kids to bed, nor did he sit with them for dinner, he was alone, drinking and waiting.

I was odd at fourteen.  Not pretty, skinny, and some what geek like.  I was nieve and knew nothing about disobeying my family.  I was a Tom boy, loved to get dirty with the boys, ride bikes and hated dresses.  It was this year that my outlook on life would change.

The nights became earlier that the husband came home, which would entail more Gin and Tonics, and soon I would be making dinner for him and the children, then putting the kids to bed, waiting for the wife to come home and then being driven home by him.  It was thought out and carefully navigated, as the summer turned into fall and then winter, and I was babysitting later in the evenings, sometimes with him at home, because he did not want to deal with the children while he worked from home.   By my fifteenth birthday, I was drinking at least 2-3 gin and tonics a night.   I felt good, giddy, special...no other 15 year old was drinking in the presence of an adult with their consent, on a daily basis.  Eventually, things turned south, there was the kiss in the driveway, after he would drive me home, and the shoulder rub in the kitchen as I finished the dishes before his wife came home.  But the worst was the time spent once the kids went to bed, between 7 and 8:30 pm where  I would be cleaning up, and he suggested he would do that later and to just come and watch the news and relax on the couch with him.  What do you do, when you are young, and suppose to respect the adults of those you babysit for and who are paying you to do so.  So I did.  I sat and watched the news, drank the second gin and tonic and relaxed.

On my 15th and 1/2  birthday, I lost my virginity.  Maybe not the way the normal human being may, but for me, it was my soul, and my body and I cried for hours, silently in bed alone.   The gin and tonics turned into 3, and the news turned into porn, and as his clammy hands withered around my rigid clothed body, I felt my pants being unbuttoned and a stabbing pain enter my privates.  I couldn't move, nor could I scream.  I just took it, and cried internally to stop.  He had taken away my most memorable moment, and  I was ashamed.

From that moment on, I could not trust men, he was 30 years older then I, had a beautiful family, money, and  an amazing job, but he chose to take my life, my happiness, my trust and my naivety away from me.  I was alone.  It was not until a year later that I told my best friend in secrecy for some kind of advice or help, she then told the whole school to which i was again made out to be a whore, or someone who was an easy.

Being that my dad worked in the school, it was not long until he heard about the so called event.  I had many psychiatric meetings with my parents and self to figure out how I could go on living without feeling hateful to men.  My parents thought it was my fault, and accused me of prompting the events that took place, my peers thought I was a sex maniac and home wrecker   My sisters well, they knew I was  telling the truth.  Why, well because it had happened to them.  Unfortunately they did not choose to let me know about the events that happened with them, or they did not think that I at such a young age would be affected.  Well, let me tell you  I was.  And when my therapist told me way back in 1987 to report so called man to the authorities, I backed down.  I thought of the kids that I had raised for 5  years, I thought of the wife, who had no idea, and I thought of the business and it's prominence throughout Middlebury.  What I didn't think about, was myself.  I was scared, lost, alone and bitter.

I've had many dreams about what I would do if I ever met him again.  Perhaps I would cut off his penis, or ruin his lively hood,. I am changed from him.  I carry it daily, throughout all my relationships, and struggle  today with my husband.  I pick unattractive babysitters, am jealous of his "girl"friends, do not trust him fully, and find myself bitter for being that way. It is a struggle I live daily, and will never forget, but as I write, I feel a bit of encouragement to those out there that may be in a similar situation, and this is my advice.

I AM HERE FOR YOU, AS A LISTENER, AND A SUPPORTER, you do not have to live your life this way,   And that person that did this to you, is not even thinking about it, they think they have won, but they WILL NOT  take your life from you. Be strong, stand up and fight, fight with all your strength to live your life to the fullest.  I may have been young, but I still had a voice, I just did not know how to use it.

Peace

Tom Boy

   I was never a girly girl growing up, I'd rather have my shirt off, and a pair of shorts on in the summer, then a dress or skirt.  I think this was due to the fact that my dad grew up with 3 older sisters, and then he in turn had 3 daughters.  In a way I felt sorry for him.  I remember at the age of 7, sitting on his lap, asking him if he wanted a boy.  He truthfully explained that he would have enjoyed a boy, but was more then happy with the beautiful daughters he had.  Of course when you are a 7 year old, all you hear is  "I would have liked a boy",  I think secretly I made it my mission to be his "boy", and thus dawned the "tom boy" characteristics quite early in my childhood.  My mom was a very conventional women....if it could be sewn together, it would be, thus getting another year or two out of clothing that otherwise would be put in a rag drawer.  I remember the outfits we used to be subjected to.  Plaid on plaid, stripes and plaid, Dickies with sewn on knee pads, we were quite the lookers.  This played out for my tom boy persona.  I liked the rips, the tears, the non pinks and flowery patterns.  Dresses were scratchy and frilly and made me wiggle too much.  To this day, I feel uncomfortable in dresses.  My friends will tell me I look great all cleaned up, but I don't often feel great inside, I still feel wiggly, scratchy and uncomfortable.

   I loved the fact that in our younger years we were able to do what we wanted when it came to free play.  We lived in an area surrounded by woods, a river, and miles of undeveloped trails.  We had safe neighbors, at least we thought we did, we did not live in the day of Alerts, and "my neighbor is a child molester"  warnings. My mother and father believed in outside play, we were limited to maybe two television shows a week and Sat. morning cartoons.  This was great for our imagination, we would hike hills and climb trees, play under ostrich ferns, create islands, pirate ships, lands of mystery...but one of my favorites was cowboys and Indians.
  Our parents had leased 2 horses from a summer camp up the road.  Missy and Prince.  They were two of the best behaved horses/ponies I have ever experienced.  They worked in the summer for a camp that helped Mentally challenged kids, experience a summer of fun, so not only were they bullet proof, but they were dog and catlike, actually walking into the house when called.   We would spend hours in the woods riding bareback, listening to creeks and snaps in the forest, making believe there were Indians or in my case cowboys after us I had a soft spot for the underdog. It was magical.  I learned to listen and hear the sounds of the forest.  The birds warning calls, the silence before a rain, the wind brushing among the leaves.  I learned to feel the horse, I knew when it was anxious, tired, ready to jump.  I will always be grateful to my folks for letting us go free.

I have to reflect on one experience where it was not all that great, and the imagination of my childhood enveloped me, making me realize that there was consequence for actions that I took...I don't think I had realized that until then. I was off playing in the woods with my friend Tina, down our road.  She too had a horse, and we would ride together often.  I decided to go riding one afternoon farther then we had been in a while.  It must have been 4 or 5 hours of riding, and dusk was settling in when I unbridled Prince and put him in the barn...I had had a wonderful day, and skipped into the house as any other 10 year old would do.  I was met by my fathers hand, squarely on my butt.  I was small for my age, skinny and awkward, and my dad was 6'3" and quite muscular.  Needless to say I was not expecting this greeting at all.  I will always remember that feeling of pain and hurt, and worry in my parents and my eyes..  Back then I was hurt and couldn't see why there had been a problem, but after explaining that no one knew where I was and the calls that were made to find me were not productive, I realized that the freedom we take for granted, needs to be respected.
  I eventually experienced a similar feeling of despair with my own children.  Leaving them for a brief moment to do barn chores down the road, I explained that I would be home in 30 minutes and my phone was with me if they needed anything.  My children ages 7 and 4 at the time knew where I was and who to call if they had a problem.  I think I remember my days of  childhood and how it was not a problem to be alone for 30 minutes or so.  When I came home my children were missing, no note, no phone call. gone.  I panicked.  Searched in every space possible, the nausea that one feels is overwhelming, and you start thinking of all the bad things that could happen to them.  I was terrified and wanted to replay that morning back.  There  was a message on the phone at home from one of my friends down the road, she had my kids and was wondering where I was...I was re-leaved but also pissed.  I did not greet my kids with a slap to the butt, but mentally the fear was just as painful.  I regret filling their innocent minds with all the things that could have gone wrong, it was a moment where their childhood was interrupted with reality.

In the long run, I gave my kids too much freedom, and used my childhood for the basis for my kids.  I should have known better as I do now, and have to be thankful that nothing bad happened that day that I would not be able to live with. Innocence is a hard thing to let go of.

Living the life of Lupe'

     I have gone through many events and life changing circumstances throughout my short life, and when I discuss these moments or accomplishments with my peers they seem to always come to the same conclusion.    "You should write a book"....well I am not such a good book writer, it is a huge step to focus on chapters and chronological dates and times, and when I look back at it somewhat overwhelming.  So I've decided to break it down,  in a much smaller scale and go through memories one by one a much more focused way about doing things then what my brain can handle.

I chose to do this through blogging, little by little working through my life's experiences and perceptions to not only give myself a sense of order, but to share with those who may find a piece of my life similar to theirs.  It may be helpful, it may be brutal, it may be stupid and useless, but it is me and all those adjectives have described my life in some shape or form.  I hope you enjoy, or just find it interesting to read, and for those of you who choose not to read, well , your not reading it, so I have nothing to say.

I have to start with one of my earliest memories, it goes back to early childhood when I was about 3 or 4, somehow, I got the biggest bedroom in the house.  Sharing the upstairs with two older sisters, Jennifer and Anna...Jennifer was the oldest  6 years my eldest, then Anna, 4 years older.  I had a queen size bed and Jenn and Anna shared twin beds down the hall.   I think I was always envious of them in a way.  The nights seemed long to me, I was afraid of the dark, still am. I could hear them chatting when it was lights out, giggling secret giggles which I strained to hear but could just make out muffles.  We had no upstairs bathroom, and my parents  fearing that we may fall down the stairs in the middle of the night, would place a childs potty at the top of the stairs silhouetted by the night light that gave us comfort.  One night, as I lay alone in bed, watching the stars out my bedroom window, I realized I had to go.  I tiptoed quietly to the top of the stairs to use the potty, and was startled by my older sister demanding.."Laura, what are you doing?!"
I was obviously irritated that she had noticed my stealthiness, and responded with a most melodical, " I HAVE TO GOOOOO TOOOOO THE BATHROOM", which thus set off an outburst of laughter from my sisters prompting my not so enthused father at the time to open the door to the upstairs and require what we were up to.. Hunkering down on the potty, I shyly told him my goings on and he tenderly chuckled and told us we needed to settle down and go to sleep.

I don't know why that memory sticks out in my mind so well, as it does in my whole family, they love telling the story at gatherings or events where new ears are listening...I guess the tone, the way it was sung, and the giggles that persisted have made it memorable...odd but amusing to this day.

I see a lot of myself in my youngest daughter Berkeley, she sings those responses to questions and often contorts her face in the same mannerisms, I have a feeling I am in for a ride with this little one.

My family consisted of 5 members, Louis, Beverly, Jennifer, Ann (now changed to Anna) and myself.  We lived in a beautiful town outside of Middlebury, Vermont.  It was a pleasant place to live, due to the closeness of Middlebury College and the picturesque green mountains up our road, I found it to be one of the most amazing places to grow up.  My father, taught at the local High School, English and then became the librarian, he was one of the longest working facility members and highly respected amongst his peers.

My mother, worked at Middlebury College as a school nurse, she was nurturing, loving and devoted to raising her children.  After finding out that her first meal to cook ever, came from a can of Campbells Chicken Noodle soup, where she forgot to add the water and served it straight out of the can to my father when they were dating, goes to show you how love conquers all.  A meal at my mothers house now is one of those memories people discuss for decades.  She as well as my father know how to throw down a meal.  It is one of those traits that has carried on in all of their children...we know how to cook!

We lived a strict life.  Cleaning our rooms, house chores before play, no swearing, no jeans ( to school),  we were told to do our homework after school until it was done, then we could do other things if time permitted.  We had chickens, ducks, horses, and the occasional animal off the street to mend and feed and foster.It was a good childhood.
    Our house was known as the "Animal Hospital"...cats that were caught in fan belts, woodchuck babies whose mothers had died were raised and released, probably only to be killed by our German Shepherds.   Song birds were fed until they fledged, and baby raccoon's were bottle fed until they could live on their own on the Otter Creek wildlife preserve.  I'd have to say, if you know me, this is where it all began with my addiction of trying to fix things that are broken.  My parents were very open minded and nurturing when we walked in the door with a new critter.  I am very thankful to them for this, it has dictated my life and the life of my children.
     I think the greatest childhood animal I raised was that of Patches and Nipper.  Our friend Rose who was the animal control officer, stopped by to ask my parents if we could help her raise these two raccoon's, whose mom was hit by a car and they were too young to survive on their own, laying by their dead mother on the side of the road, waiting to get hit themselves.  My parents accepted, Rose had already had 4 other baby raccoon's to bottle feed every 30 minutes and these two would be the end of her sanity.
My father made a makeshift pen in our chicken coop, placing the predator with the prey now seems weird to me, but it was where we had space.  Raccoon's amaze me.  They are clingy and frisky.  They are clean and wash all their food before eating it.  Their hands grasp yours like a baby would, and they love white teeth and playing with your hair.  We came to find out about these characteristics as the coons grew in size, eventually we had to ween them from their human keepers, and adapt them to their outside pen...this proved harder then we thought.  They learned to climb out of the pen, scurry to the tree near our bedroom, climb out to the branch that touches our window, and scratch until one of us would open it.  There were several occasions when the morning hours would bring sunshine into a bed with two snuggling raccoon babies and a child.

It was heartbreaking when on one particular Saturday afternoon, as we sat for lunch at the dining room table we noticed a truck stop out front, then speed away.  There are times when you just know what you are going to find when you go outside, and this was one of them.  Our house was close to the road, my father built a beautiful stonewall to protect us from the people who were suppose to be going 30mph past, but often went much faster.  When we got to the walk way that led to the street, we saw a blood stain that was fresh and clear that it had just recently happened.  Across the street huddled in the weeping willow clung a frightened Nipper.  Patches was no where to be found.  We assumed the person stopped and picked up the pelt, but who knows, what mattered was it was my first tragic experience with death, something I had raised, loved and given life to, had just been taken away from me and my family.  It was not the last time I would see death, nor would it be the last time I would experience the sorrowful look on another animal species dealing with death and confusion, but I think it was what shaped my mentality.  I would dedicate my life to caring, protecting and helping those see the wonders and beauty of wildlife and nature, even when it meant losing a bit of myself so others could experience something wonderful.

Nipper was released in the Otter Creek Wildlife Preserve the following day.  We would often call the caretaker and check up on him.  On one such call he had informed us that Nipper climbed the electrical pole and had gotten electrocuted, he fell to his death.