I’ve written about many things.
But, not about this.
I recently wrote about how my girl came out as lesbian at just fourteen. And my struggles to be a part of her support team.
I have written about how proud I was of the comfort level she had in telling the world who she was because it meant I’d accomplished something heretofore unknown in my world. It meant she understood that she was accepted. She got from me a very basic concept: Acceptance for who and what you are, no matter what anyone else may say or think about you. Something I’ve never known, but, had apparently given to her, because she’s told me so. And that’s what I’d strived for…
I have written about how proud I am of that, because I love and accept her just the way she is. Unconditionally. No boundaries. Now, understand? I want her to learn and grow, of course. I am her mother. That’s my job. I want that process to be along the path that SHE chooses. Not me. I want to be the tap on her shoulder to guide her. Not the steamroller that mows over her thoughts, desires, ambitions and dreams.
I’ve written about Acceptance before… Many times. In fact? It was my very first piece on Medium. About a relationship with a man who demanded I change my fundamental self in order to fit his requirements. He demanded I become less of who I was, and more of what he needed, in order for him to accept me.
In other words? He didn’t really want me at all.
I’ve written about how important it is to me to be accepted for who and what I am. The same way I treat others. How I demand to be treated the way I treat those important to me. And how if those new to my life expect me to change to meet their needs and expectations? Then I’m done. If they do that, then I know they don’t really want me, they want some weird kind of representation of a person that I may resemble, but, doesn’t really exist.
And I don’t tolerate that. Not from anyone.
What I haven’t written about is the fact that coming out at such a young age cost my daughter years of her confident, out there, in your face, self-identity.
I haven’t written about how this one boy she’d known since kindergarten, upon hearing her declaration, decided that she was now a challenge. How he couldn’t tolerate a lesbian in his life. How he somehow knew better. How because she was a girl? She should like and give in to boys. Because homophobic, misogynistic males somehow knew better than she did what she wanted. They were fourteen years old when he started his bullshit. And he tortured her for a year before we knew what was happening...
But I haven’t really written about that.
I haven’t written about how she says she stayed safe, but, this same boy got her best friend high, and raped and sodomized him after he’d told him he was a transgender male. Or how we had to find him a pregnancy test to be sure he was ok. And call his parents for further intervention. At fifteen.
I haven’t written about how I’m supposed to believe that she stayed safe. Or about how proud I am that she trusted me to keep her best friend safe. Or about how she told me first because she knew I’d do the right thing by her friend. And we didn’t even know then about his need to transition. He’d only talked about being bi- before that.
I haven’t written about how I understood from the very first that she wasn’t telling me everything and about the fact that I have to wait until she’s ready. And that she may never be. And how it kills me. About how I can’t violate her trust and tell her she’s lying about there not being more to tell when I know that when she sees this bastard’s face and she completely breaks apart and can’t function as a human being because of what he did to her and she’s afraid to tell me. Because she doesn’t think I’ll understand.
Because I haven’t written about it enough.
I haven’t written about how I know how it feels to not tell the truth about your rapist because you’re afraid you’ll make things worse. That someone won’t understand. That someone is going to judge you and if they do you’re going to break in half.
I haven’t written about how I’ve felt like I’ve failed her. How I wasn’t enough for her, because she was still bullied, still traumatised, still made to feel like she was less important, less desirable, less than anyone else. No matter what I said. No matter what I did.
I haven’t written about how I didn’t see it. I didn’t expect it. Didn’t understand it. Not in real life. Not the rejection of the entirety of the LGBT community that surrounds me just because I was trying to figure things out. Not the outright lies and prejudice against my girl because she had a cis-hetero “liar” for a mother. Not the complete abandonment of my baby by everyone, adult or child, family or friend, black, white, gay or straight. It made no difference. They all walked away. As soon as I asked for help. They walked away.
I haven’t written about how I felt kinda like someone who could never commit a violent act against another living creature was imagining committing murder. Against a child. Lost in an abyss.
I haven’t written about how dealing with my own traumas made me selfish and unavailable, even while I thought I was being there… such a selfish beast while dealing with my own fucking bullshit asshole trauma. Get over it. She needed me! Being raped wasn’t something I could talk about with her. Not the first time. Not the last time. Not ever.
But, why? She knew what I was feeling. And… she needed to understand why I was so weird. So? What was I hiding?
I haven’t written about it because I thought it was irrelevant. I knew I’d failed her. I simply failed her. And myself.
I haven’t written about how I believed the man who claimed to want me, with all my baggage and flaws, lied to me. Because all he really wanted was an American born child, absent my needs and requirements. All his royalty status back in his home country wouldn’t help him with any of that… Only a gullible American woman could.
See? He was a prince. Times two. Just like Granny promised. She said she’d send Prince Charming. I just don’t think she meant like this…
He pursued me. And he was used to getting whatever he wanted. As long as Mama agreed.
I haven’t written about how it was too bad for him that he’d picked a 44 year old independent, stubborn red-headed female who was done with the whole “having babies” thing, and thought her opinion meant something. Not to mention…
“I have one girl. I’ve had enough. I’ve told you already I don’t want more. And by the way? I’m too old anyway! I’m not having babies now without some serious intervention. What makes you think any of that’s gonna change just for you..?”
“I’m 33 years old. A man. You expect me to change?”
“I’m 44 years old. A full grown woman. Do the math. I’m 11 years older than you. You think *I* can change..? For you? What makes you think that can happen just because YOU say so..? What makes you think I’d even want to??
Sorry honey. I don’t think so.”
I haven’t written about when I was late, due to (probably) peri-menopause, and he accused me of having an un-discussed abortion, because, sure… That’s how I am, right? I don’t talk about anything so important with those I claim to love, right? I just ignore their wishes and rights and feelings and… Right. That’s me.
The me he claimed to know, and… oh, yeah.
Love.
Mmhmm.
I haven’t written about how he stated that any child I bore would be ripped from my arms, regardless any objections I offered, because who cares what I want, and sent back to learn the proper way to be, without me, at barely two years of age. And I had zero say.
I haven’t written about how I walked away, broken hearted, betrayed. Discovering his wife and daughter, his goals and requirements, his needs and desires… none of which had anything to do with me. Everything he’d told me. All of it, a lie.
I haven’t written about how his best friend decided, after I’d finally started to heal a little bit from the deception, the usery, the lies, the absolute dissociation from reality, the infidelity, and the complete lack of consideration for my feelings?
Oh… NOW was the time to move in. To capture the prize. To act like he understood, and would never do what his “brother” had done.
I haven’t written about how he wasn’t married.
Twice.
I haven’t written about how he didn’t need children. To satisfy his parents. Or his tribe. Or how he’d lied to me once, about the American wife, who only existed so he could get his papers. The one he’d left behind in Nigeria didn’t count. She was just… “Family business”.
I haven’t written about how he told me that he’d lied to me about the only reason he wanted me at all was because his friend had me first. And everyone knew that “American women were all whores willing to fuck any male that moved”.
Including dogs. Or Horses. You know, the ones that pulled the carriages on the street? Those horses. Anytime. All you had to do was ask. She’d be there. Any American woman. Especially the older ones. Cuz we’re desperate for cock ya see. Literally starving for cock. Any cock. Unless? We’re beyond child bearing years. Then we don’t have any sex drive at all. Why would we?
I haven’t written about how once we’re done “bleeding for a child” that we are, in fact, useless. Empty and devoid of purpose. Unworthy of love or care or any feelings at all.
I haven’t written about how after hearing all of this from his lying mouth, after I’d already walked away, after I’d distanced myself from him and his friends and all of their bullshit…
I heard he’d had a psychotic break. How he’d stripped himself naked, embraced a snowbank in 20F weather, been dragged off to the psych ward, and I’d gone to save his sorry ass anyway. Because?
I haven’t written about how I know what happens to people in those places. Especially those without insurance. Like my mother. Like him. So…
I haven’t written about how I saved him.
I won’t write about that.
I haven’t written about how how I testified that this piece of shit best friend of my ex was simply overwhelmed. Because I wouldn’t give him what they wanted.
I haven’t written about how I wasn’t disposable. To be used as they wanted.
I haven’t written about how I’ll never speak to either one of them again.
No matter how many times they message me on Facebook.
“Hey… Do you remember me?”
“ Hey there… It’s me..! I’d love to talk to you. Why don’t you answer?”
“Hi Teri! I love you! Please? Can we talk?”
“Hi! It’s me, Abdoulaye.”
“Hi! Can we talk?”
“Hi! Don’t you want to see me again?”
“Hi! It’s me… Mamady. Why don’t you answer? I want to take you to Paris with me. Don’t you want to go? I can show you things you’ve never seen..!”
I haven’t written about why it is that I would never in a million years visit a foreign country, whose main language I don’t have a clue about, and trust that I’d be ok in these duplicitous hands. Or why I believe I’d be dead in a week. Or on the run from whatever they wanted from me.
I haven’t written about how neither one of them has not one fucking chance. Like a snowflake in hell has better odds to get a response from me. Vaporized in the heat of my wrath before ever seeing a thought from me.
I haven’t written about how much I am done. And how it still hurts. Because none of them cared that I was a human being. All they wanted was a hole they could share. And my feelings be damned. What did that matter anyway? Their god told them I was disposable. An absolute throw away.
I haven’t written about how broken all of the things I haven’t written about have left me. I haven’t written about why this continues. As if I deserve it. As if I’ve earned it. As if? It’s in my DNA.
I haven’t written about it.
Maybe I should.
