Anne of Carversville

My Dear Friends,

The first year of my writing journey has ended in a good place. Even last weekend’s surprise derailment of a personal meeting, taught me an unexpected lesson about authenticity and the dangers of defining ourselves through the eyes (and foibles) of others.

I want to keep today’s Journal entry short and sweet. And we both know that I will not. (In fact, it’s written in two parts).

In The Beginning 

I remember writing my first Journal entry, and my webmaster said “Anne, people don’t want to read long Journal entries anymore.”

You do. And to my webmaster’s credit, he has acknowledged that fact.

When one is an adventurous person, — as I am — you are frequently analyzed and dissected. I can’t imagine what real celebrities go through, how they feel inside … always being under the microscopes of not-so-kind people. 

You are kind, at least to me, returning regularly in very high numbers to read my thoughts. Thank you.

We live in a superficial, materialistic culture in which appearances are important. I perpetuate that culture, when it comes to my concern about my own appearance, my own brand. It’s challenging for me not to worry what you think of me.

Formidable But Flawed

I wish that I could be Mother Teresa, selflessly devoted to the needs of others, but I lack her character and her faith.

Thinking about Tim Russert and Mother Teresa, reflecting then on the terrible tragedies of the Kennedy family, and now Ted’s brain cancer, I’m inspired over their commitment to Catholicism, and their conviction that their Catholic faith has never deserted them.

This has not been my relationship with the Church. My story is nothing compared to the horror stories of young altar boys, and yet, it affected me deeply. I have never escaped it until now … this moment, as I make it real.

Another Anne, Another Scarlet Letter

In my case, God judged me harshly, placing a Scarlet letter on my self, when I was a young woman.  I went to God seeking solace, and instead he cut me loose from everything that mattered to me, forcing me into adulthood a month before my 16th birthday.

The irony of the moment is that my molester, my parents’ best friend, received his body of God.  Together, we made two pacts the prior Saturday afternoon. Swearing on the Bible that we were telling the truth, Father Ben informed us that one of us was committing a mortal sin and going to Hell. Professing ours to be the true version of that dreadful night — when I truly believed I would die before morning — one of us made a pact with God; the other with the Devil.  

I remember being so uncomfortable with the Priest, as I sensed I was not convincing him that my story was true. I had not asked for religious intervention in this matter. It was forced upon me. My attacker and Father Ben were drinking buddies.

I’ve never understood the concept of double trouble in the Catholic religion. If I’m going to Hell anyway, why worry about messing up again? Father Ben explained that to receive the sacraments in this fallen state, would result in another mortal sin.

It made no sense to me, but Father Ben took being God seriously, and especially his resolve not to see me in further trouble. After administering communion to my attacker, kneeling next to me in a cruel moment of fate, the Priest paused before the much younger me … head back, tongue stretched out, waiting uneasily … and then moved on.

For non-Catholic readers, I believe that there is now a sense that the Priest is an agent of God, but in those days HE WAS GOD. 

Branded A Hussy …

The reality of life and human frailty crashed down on my head, because I believed Father Ben was indeed God. In those years, I was one of the most devout Catholic girls around, relying on my faith to help me deal with a formidable home life.

This over-sexed, spiritless, decadent man, who woke me with one hand in my vagina and the other on his penis (sorry dear readers) brought my entire belief system crashing down on my head.  The nightmare only ended because his wife, my adored, nine-month pregnant surrogate mother, arrived home at midnight.

Running away the following morning, before he returned to get me for a day trip to Sioux Falls, I never saw her again, yet another terrible loss to me. There was no way to keep her and our relationship out of the mess.  

Hearing hushed marital whispers down the hall,  I waited all night, for my early execution. I knew that something terrible was going to happen. Our families were best friends.

 … and a Diva With Raging Hormones

The Priest broached the fact that I was exploring my sexuality as a young women and, in truth, do have a gift for storytelling. 

Expressing serious doubts that the event had actually happened, my parents suggested that I was a diva with an overactive imagination. Their final commentary was that if in fact it had happened, I was the cause. As we all know, I seek the limelight.

I must say now that my uncle Vernon, my beloved aunt Mavis and my grandmother Marie … all the adult Enkes except for my father and mother … stood rock-solid behind me. Without them, I have no idea what I would have become as a woman.

via Flickr’s efforest

 … With Delusions of Grandeur

However, I couldn’t convince the people closest to me. I was either lying … or I caused the event to happen, according to my parents.

Don’t ask me how a teenage girl with rollers in her hair, sleeping next to this horrible man’s six-year-old daughter, is offering herself up as sexual bait … but some people on Planet Earth are genuinely perverted in their own train of logic.

My point in sharing this information with you, is not to rehash the long ago details of my past. My purpose is to explain that writing this Journal is an attempt to achieve authenticity, being true to myself, reclaiming my respectability, and testing your own relationship with me … all at the same time.

Some people make peace with life issues privately; I’ve chosen to do it in public.

My writing each week is an attempt to find my own limits with you. What can I say that will cause you to leave me, becoming bored with me or accusing me of being a fake … when I know that I’m not.

You Hang Tough With Me

Instead, my readership rises, leaving me with the feeling that in some crazy fashion, we’re in this life boat together.  I’m the ENFP
journalist,the creative articulator of thoughts that you have in your own hearts.

Of course, we have our own individual stories to tell. Many people have life stories far more complicated than mine, but something in me allows you to touch your own selves … your own secrets.

Otherwise, you would not return each week. Your own lives are too busy.

Unlike You, He Didn’t “Get” Me

I would not have told this story today, had I not received a blistering email last Sunday.

Now, after heart-to-heart talks with Robert, my tough-girl trainer Mara — who wondered what the heck was happening when I marched into the gym, waving an assortment of photos, and a wonderful stranger who got sucked into my eggbeater yesterday, something in me has just “had it”, so to speak.

I’m tired of having my character analyzed to death by people who can’t separate fact from fiction.

You know, dear readers,  that I play the Internet dating game. I find it just as good — sometimes better — than the Philadelphia mother/son matchmakers who took my $5000, waited 72 hours and then phoned me, telling me that as a platinum blond, there’s wasn’t much they could do to help me.

Mom Matchmaker insisted that I become a brunette. “Your hair, Anne, sends a very negative message about your loyalty and ability to support your man. Platinum blondes have a reputation. I’m sure you know that.”

The matchmaker owes me two matches, and I haven’t heard from them in a year. So much for customer service.

Anyway, I typically do better in life, on my own.

My online dating experiences have been generally positive, and I’m a stickler about being the woman in my photos.  Most men say that I’m more beautiful than my photos, which is only natural because our personalities, charisma, and physical stature become part of the package that is “me” or “you”.

I’m not trying to win a beauty contest at my age, but I appreciate their compliments.

There’s a dissenter in every crowd, and I met mine last weekend. He won’t be my last critic, but we enjoyed superb phone conversations in the weeks before meeting. I was unprepared for his harsh reaction to me, after spending a lot of “just-buddies time” with me last weekend:

“My obvious pulling back from you was not because you weren’t as beautiful as I expected, because you were and still are a beautiful
and sensual women. You, I and most of the free world knows that, Anne. It was because you portrayed yourself one way and when I laid eyes on you where another.”

“The photos you sent me where not recent ones of you; they where clearly from another time in your life.”

“When I said I didn’t feel safe in your arms, I meant that I felt if you where not completely upfront with me. I felt vulnerable and quite frankly, manipulated and not trusted. Yes I felt you didn’t trust me enough to be candid enough to show me your outside beauty like you did your insides. I opened up my heart and soul to you, like no other women in my past; I showed and told you all that was good and imperfect about me. And yet for some reason, for which I still do not understand, you chose not to do the same.”

“The moment I saw I you, everything beautiful that is and was Anne to me became clouded and confused by the fact that you did not look like any of the photos you sent me. I couldn’t believe you chose to hide anything, especially something as obvious as what you look like. I believe we even talked about the fact that on two occasions women had showed me photos prior to meeting — that where not reflective of their current status —  and how it made me feel that they felt they should approach (our meeting) that way.”

“So yes I pulled back from you, partly because I did not know how to digest your actions and, more so, because in no way did I want to make you feel uncomfortable about yourself. I made the decision shortly after meeting you to give you the benefit of doubt and take a crash course in who is Anne really? What are her motives and is she really who she says she is?”

He wrote still more harsh criticisms, but you get the idea. 

Reading this man’s words, I was thunderstruck, because his assertion was false and unjust. You can dislike my photos; you can feel no chemistry with me; but you can’t say that my photos are from another time in my life, because they are not. Reading his condemnation of me, I felt that this man tapped into my Scarlet Letter secret, that he somehow gained knowledge of my own ambivalence about myself and used it against me.

Knowledge is power, especially in the hands of the wrong people. Therefore, once and for all, I must set my own record straight. I began with my friend Paul a couple weeks ago, and I’m still rolling.

Continued in next Journal entry.