Chapter Six - Rocking Chairs
The sun was too bright to sit in the field or around the fire pit, so Francie picked the corner nook of the wrap-around deck. Everyone grabbed one of the solid oak rocking chairs and put them in a circle. Greg sat straight up in his seat with his eyes wide open. Lisa wrapped herself completely in a blanket before she sat down, and Angela was bundled up, hiding inside her coat and seemingly half withdrawn from everyone. Brock appeared excited with his worn out boot propped up on his knee. Francie rocked back and forth with a big smile and said, “Well, guess what? Everyone is going to go eventually. Would anyone like to start us off?”
“Sure,” Brock said. His excitement on the outside became a churning stomach on the inside. If there was any time he needed a cigarette, it was right now. “All right, so here we go.”
“Sure,” Brock said. His excitement on the outside became a churning stomach on the inside. If there was any time he needed a cigarette, it was right now. “All right, so here we go.”
Brock - Lost in the Hayloft
It was a hot summer Saturday with the expectation of having some fun with no school. My favorite thing to do in 7th grade was to ride motorcycles with my two friends, Greg and John. We usually rode southwest of Glaser along the creek near an old railroad bridge. Our motorcycle trails we called the “railroad trestle.”
This day, however, I rode with a different friend named Mark. We had gone to church since I was five, and he was eight. Mark was crazier than me and did the riskiest things his mind could conjure up. Now, for sure, Mark at fifteen and me twelve, he was always the leader, and I was the follower.
I drove over to his house on my gold, Honda SL 125 motorcycle. Then we piggy backed to my house, so he could jump on my blue Honda CB 125. We took off and cruised east and then north out of town to State Highway 35. We went a few miles east and pulled out into the pasture where his show lambs were kept. We shut down for a few minutes while he checked the water and fed his lambs. Off in the distance, down along the creek were a few cottonwood trees and an old barn. “Hey, Brock! I want to show you something,” said Mark. He fired up his motorcycle, and I followed him. We rode through the pasture, pulled in to the old barn, and took off our helmets. There was a ladder against the wall, and Mark climbed up first. After following him up, it was dim inside, and as my eyes adjusted, I was amazed to discover on the floor stacks and stacks of porn magazines. There were several hundred magazines in all. It was like a lightning bolt to my brain as my excitement sky rocketed. I had found the goldmine!
Mark rifled through a few and sat down on the far side and began to look through them. I started looking through the stacks of magazines and grabbed a few. It didn't take long to realize these were not the normal, torn up Playboys we were used to finding along the road. My excitement was off the charts as I looked thru them and saw men and women doing wild things. I sat down on the other side of the loft and began to flip page after page. I had never seen stuff like this or even knew it existed. I settled into reading a story about a British man and woman. I was in my own little world for sure as I imagined the scenes in the magazines. I was more excited than I had ever been.
A few minutes later, Mark held up a magazine in his left hand and started talking to the picture like he was a stud or something. I wanted to go back into the story I had been reading but couldn't help but listen and watch Mark. He eventually stopped and seemed to have some sense of deep satisfaction. I went back to reading. I wanted to stay there forever and look at every one of those magazines. I started to gather up a few magazines to take with me when Mark said with an angry look on his face, “Put them back. These are not yours. Let’s go!” He climbed down first, and as I went down, I looked at the stacks with longing and wanting to see more. Then we got back on our motorcycles.
This day, however, I rode with a different friend named Mark. We had gone to church since I was five, and he was eight. Mark was crazier than me and did the riskiest things his mind could conjure up. Now, for sure, Mark at fifteen and me twelve, he was always the leader, and I was the follower.
I drove over to his house on my gold, Honda SL 125 motorcycle. Then we piggy backed to my house, so he could jump on my blue Honda CB 125. We took off and cruised east and then north out of town to State Highway 35. We went a few miles east and pulled out into the pasture where his show lambs were kept. We shut down for a few minutes while he checked the water and fed his lambs. Off in the distance, down along the creek were a few cottonwood trees and an old barn. “Hey, Brock! I want to show you something,” said Mark. He fired up his motorcycle, and I followed him. We rode through the pasture, pulled in to the old barn, and took off our helmets. There was a ladder against the wall, and Mark climbed up first. After following him up, it was dim inside, and as my eyes adjusted, I was amazed to discover on the floor stacks and stacks of porn magazines. There were several hundred magazines in all. It was like a lightning bolt to my brain as my excitement sky rocketed. I had found the goldmine!
Mark rifled through a few and sat down on the far side and began to look through them. I started looking through the stacks of magazines and grabbed a few. It didn't take long to realize these were not the normal, torn up Playboys we were used to finding along the road. My excitement was off the charts as I looked thru them and saw men and women doing wild things. I sat down on the other side of the loft and began to flip page after page. I had never seen stuff like this or even knew it existed. I settled into reading a story about a British man and woman. I was in my own little world for sure as I imagined the scenes in the magazines. I was more excited than I had ever been.
A few minutes later, Mark held up a magazine in his left hand and started talking to the picture like he was a stud or something. I wanted to go back into the story I had been reading but couldn't help but listen and watch Mark. He eventually stopped and seemed to have some sense of deep satisfaction. I went back to reading. I wanted to stay there forever and look at every one of those magazines. I started to gather up a few magazines to take with me when Mark said with an angry look on his face, “Put them back. These are not yours. Let’s go!” He climbed down first, and as I went down, I looked at the stacks with longing and wanting to see more. Then we got back on our motorcycles.
When Brock had begun to read his story, Greg could almost feel the wind in his hair, and Lisa imagined petting the lambs. But everyone knew this story was not leading to smelling daisies. Angela knew a story like this all too well and where it was headed. She had a girlfriend like Mark when she was only ten. In Brock’s story, by the time he was climbing down the ladder, Angela could not hold back tears and tried to wipe them away before anyone could see. Lisa was tense the whole time, and by the end, her mind was bouncing like a ping-pong ball, and her hands were cold and sweaty.
Greg was in shock and awe that a man would share a story like this in front of women. He thought, “Well, now it’s out there. Brock has just exposed every man in the world, including me, to these women. This will be interesting.”
Francie said, “Wow, Brock. I am so amazed by your courage to bring this story to our group.” Those few words gave Brock such relief. It was as though he had been holding his breath the whole time he read it. The look on Francie’s face reminded Brock of his favorite elementary school teacher, Ms. Jackson, who told him once, “Brock, one day, you will change the world.” No one had ever spoke anything like that to him or ever had since. After looking at Francie, Brock took a quick glance at the others and noticed Angela’s tears and a warm, soft look of compassion on Lisa’s face. He was convinced the women would scowl, condemn him, or at least be silently angry. Their response of acceptance and compassion was overwhelming. Tears began to fall as he spoke softly, “My wife left me after catching me looking at porn. The divorce was very public, and she turned all my daughters against me, too. It took a year before my youngest daughter, Jessie, would speak to me. During the court proceedings, Joanne brought up every accusation you can imagine and even tried to have me committed to a sex addict recovery program in Arizona. I’ve never been able to get her words out of my head, “You are a f****ing freak, and I am going to ruin you.” When he said those haunting words out loud, it was as if he was playing a recording. The word ‘freak’ struck a chord with everyone in the circle.
It was tempting for group members to ask about his divorce, daughters, and other troubles, but the elephant was out in the open. Angela spoke up, “I must admit, I am honored that you would trust us, and it’s an honor to sit in the hayloft with you.”
“Absolutely,” Lisa said in agreement.
Greg spoke up, “Yeah. Agreed.”
When Brock heard Angela refer to sitting in the hayloft, he began to squirm in his seat.
The ladies asked several questions about guilt and shame, and finally Greg spoke. “Brock, I am so sorry this happened to you. This sucks. Was it just this one time?”
Brock responded, “No, we went back quite a few times over that year. It all stirred me up. I felt like I was finally in on the big secret that no one was telling me.”
Lisa asked, “So had your parents explained anything to you about sex?”
“No, my parents never told me anything about sex. In fact, I never knew if my parents even had sex themselves. I’m sure they did, but they were very private. They didn’t even hold hands or hug at home or in public. My dad wasn’t touchy feely like that. Finally, when I was seventeen after the final harvest, my dad told me that he wanted to talk with me on the porch about something really important in being a man. I was so excited. We got showered; he got out two beers and gave me one. It was our first beer together. Even though I’d already had sex with a girl, I knew this was the talk I’d been waiting for.” Brock’s face lit up as he shared with the group. “Dad said a few things. He was nervous. Then he said, ‘Brock, there is something you need to know that’s really important I learned a long, long time ago. No matter where life takes you, keep your dick out of the payroll.’ Leaning back in his rocking chair, Brock began to get angry as he continued, “That was it. That’s all he had to say. Don’t have sex with women at work. What the hell was that supposed to mean? That’s what I got from my dad. A year later, a week before I left for college, my mom left a pamphlet on my bed. It said on the front, ‘Masturbation - A Natural Part of Life.’ Once again, I’d already been having sex, and this was my education. Whoopee.”
Lisa asked, “So you said in your story, ‘these weren’t like the Playboys we would find on the side of the road.’ What were they?”
Brock’s eyes got big along with a lump in his throat as his mind scrambled to come up with an answer to this question. He didn’t have time to make up a lie, so he decided to continue rolling with the honest approach. “Well, there were different kinds of men and women, women and women, and even men and men having sex in all kinds of situations and stuff like that. Other guys seemed to like the pictures, but I liked to read the stories. I’m not sure why. It was crazy but intoxicating at the same time. I came to believe that this is what it meant to be a real man. But, I was a nerd, didn’t play sports, and girls were not interested in me. I was a loner. Then I went to college, that all changed. I became the life of the party, and girls liked me, but sometimes I partied too much. Then I met Joanne and brought all that crap into our marriage. I didn’t know how to treat a woman. She deserved so much better,” he said as tears began to drip to his beard.
The group was silent for a long time while Brock sat there crying. They all knew the tears had been stored up for many years. Each one was like a diamond.
After a while, Francie asked, “Have you told anyone this story before?”
He answered, “No. This has caused me so much trouble and pain in my life. After being married for years, Mark was even in my Sunday school class. Joanne would have him and his wife over for dinner. We never talked about it. To be honest with you...this morning, I totally lost track of time when we were supposed to be writing our story. I didn’t know what story to pick, and then this came to me. I wrote it in ten minutes and didn’t think much about it. Then, when groups were announced, it occurred to me I would be in a co-ed group and began to panic.” They all chuckled along with Brock, and he went on. “I thought, how can I quickly write a different story. But then I thought, “Oh well, this must be the story I’m supposed to have.”
Time was coming to a close as Francie spoke, “I know I’m a woman, but I do know there is more to being a man than his sexuality. One of the most important characteristics of a man is being courageous and willing to head into battle in times of conflict and war. Brock, that is exactly what we have all seen you do in front of us. I am so glad you’re here because we need a warrior to lead us into battle. You are a brave man.” As her eyes sparkled with a big smile, Brock stopped breathing for a long while to take in the moment, trying to burn those words into his mind.
Brock had been waiting for forty-three years for someone to climb up the hayloft ladder and help him. Never in a million years did he think it would be a strange man and three women in the Smoky Mountains.
Greg was in shock and awe that a man would share a story like this in front of women. He thought, “Well, now it’s out there. Brock has just exposed every man in the world, including me, to these women. This will be interesting.”
Francie said, “Wow, Brock. I am so amazed by your courage to bring this story to our group.” Those few words gave Brock such relief. It was as though he had been holding his breath the whole time he read it. The look on Francie’s face reminded Brock of his favorite elementary school teacher, Ms. Jackson, who told him once, “Brock, one day, you will change the world.” No one had ever spoke anything like that to him or ever had since. After looking at Francie, Brock took a quick glance at the others and noticed Angela’s tears and a warm, soft look of compassion on Lisa’s face. He was convinced the women would scowl, condemn him, or at least be silently angry. Their response of acceptance and compassion was overwhelming. Tears began to fall as he spoke softly, “My wife left me after catching me looking at porn. The divorce was very public, and she turned all my daughters against me, too. It took a year before my youngest daughter, Jessie, would speak to me. During the court proceedings, Joanne brought up every accusation you can imagine and even tried to have me committed to a sex addict recovery program in Arizona. I’ve never been able to get her words out of my head, “You are a f****ing freak, and I am going to ruin you.” When he said those haunting words out loud, it was as if he was playing a recording. The word ‘freak’ struck a chord with everyone in the circle.
It was tempting for group members to ask about his divorce, daughters, and other troubles, but the elephant was out in the open. Angela spoke up, “I must admit, I am honored that you would trust us, and it’s an honor to sit in the hayloft with you.”
“Absolutely,” Lisa said in agreement.
Greg spoke up, “Yeah. Agreed.”
When Brock heard Angela refer to sitting in the hayloft, he began to squirm in his seat.
The ladies asked several questions about guilt and shame, and finally Greg spoke. “Brock, I am so sorry this happened to you. This sucks. Was it just this one time?”
Brock responded, “No, we went back quite a few times over that year. It all stirred me up. I felt like I was finally in on the big secret that no one was telling me.”
Lisa asked, “So had your parents explained anything to you about sex?”
“No, my parents never told me anything about sex. In fact, I never knew if my parents even had sex themselves. I’m sure they did, but they were very private. They didn’t even hold hands or hug at home or in public. My dad wasn’t touchy feely like that. Finally, when I was seventeen after the final harvest, my dad told me that he wanted to talk with me on the porch about something really important in being a man. I was so excited. We got showered; he got out two beers and gave me one. It was our first beer together. Even though I’d already had sex with a girl, I knew this was the talk I’d been waiting for.” Brock’s face lit up as he shared with the group. “Dad said a few things. He was nervous. Then he said, ‘Brock, there is something you need to know that’s really important I learned a long, long time ago. No matter where life takes you, keep your dick out of the payroll.’ Leaning back in his rocking chair, Brock began to get angry as he continued, “That was it. That’s all he had to say. Don’t have sex with women at work. What the hell was that supposed to mean? That’s what I got from my dad. A year later, a week before I left for college, my mom left a pamphlet on my bed. It said on the front, ‘Masturbation - A Natural Part of Life.’ Once again, I’d already been having sex, and this was my education. Whoopee.”
Lisa asked, “So you said in your story, ‘these weren’t like the Playboys we would find on the side of the road.’ What were they?”
Brock’s eyes got big along with a lump in his throat as his mind scrambled to come up with an answer to this question. He didn’t have time to make up a lie, so he decided to continue rolling with the honest approach. “Well, there were different kinds of men and women, women and women, and even men and men having sex in all kinds of situations and stuff like that. Other guys seemed to like the pictures, but I liked to read the stories. I’m not sure why. It was crazy but intoxicating at the same time. I came to believe that this is what it meant to be a real man. But, I was a nerd, didn’t play sports, and girls were not interested in me. I was a loner. Then I went to college, that all changed. I became the life of the party, and girls liked me, but sometimes I partied too much. Then I met Joanne and brought all that crap into our marriage. I didn’t know how to treat a woman. She deserved so much better,” he said as tears began to drip to his beard.
The group was silent for a long time while Brock sat there crying. They all knew the tears had been stored up for many years. Each one was like a diamond.
After a while, Francie asked, “Have you told anyone this story before?”
He answered, “No. This has caused me so much trouble and pain in my life. After being married for years, Mark was even in my Sunday school class. Joanne would have him and his wife over for dinner. We never talked about it. To be honest with you...this morning, I totally lost track of time when we were supposed to be writing our story. I didn’t know what story to pick, and then this came to me. I wrote it in ten minutes and didn’t think much about it. Then, when groups were announced, it occurred to me I would be in a co-ed group and began to panic.” They all chuckled along with Brock, and he went on. “I thought, how can I quickly write a different story. But then I thought, “Oh well, this must be the story I’m supposed to have.”
Time was coming to a close as Francie spoke, “I know I’m a woman, but I do know there is more to being a man than his sexuality. One of the most important characteristics of a man is being courageous and willing to head into battle in times of conflict and war. Brock, that is exactly what we have all seen you do in front of us. I am so glad you’re here because we need a warrior to lead us into battle. You are a brave man.” As her eyes sparkled with a big smile, Brock stopped breathing for a long while to take in the moment, trying to burn those words into his mind.
Brock had been waiting for forty-three years for someone to climb up the hayloft ladder and help him. Never in a million years did he think it would be a strange man and three women in the Smoky Mountains.
Lisa - "Moving"
The group sat there silently waiting to see what Francie would do next. Lisa could feel it. All eyes seemed to drift to her. Then she said with a smile, “I’m going to have to go eventually, so let’s do it. This is probably just a silly story, but when Francie said that it could be a story that has bothered you for a long time, this is what I decided. So here goes. ‘Moving.’”
Having lived in Warsaw, Indiana for two years, I was comfortable with my family, our church and school, my friends, and where I was growing up. Most of my time was spent at church, which was also my school, since my dad was lead pastor and principal, and my mom was Children’s Director and teacher. The faint smell of wood from the pews and old carpet from the most used aisle down the middle would embrace me as I entered the sanctuary. I was comfortable roaming in and out of the church building, to the Sunday school classes, and over to the gym which had school classes all around. It was the beginning of summer when I was nine-years-old, and my parents had just told the congregation we were moving to Fort Myers, Florida. They said it would be a new and exciting adventure for us again.
After service, the whole congregation went over to the gym to fellowship and have a pot luck, which we did at least once a month. Like kids would do, me and my friends rushed eating whatever our moms put on our plate so we could go play. We would run and chase each other, playing a game of tag because kickball wasn’t allowed with so many people in the gym. We were playing and getting winded when my best friend Catherine pulled me aside into the alcove where the outside door would lead to the path to the church.
It was dark and gloomy in the hallway. I faced towards the gym, and she was facing the door. Bathrooms and water fountain were to my right and hooks for jackets and purses were to my left. All of a sudden, she began to cry. She told me, “I am so sad you are leaving and moving away from me.” I was so surprised that she was upset. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t expecting this reaction. Once she stopped talking, she put her head in her hands, and her shoulders began to shake from the force of her tears. I stood there frozen.
I noticed from behind her someone started to walk our way. I looked up, and my brother, Jimmy, walked over to us, put his arm around my shoulder, and asked if we were ok. I nodded my head, and that’s when I felt them on my cheeks. I began crying just as much as Catherine. I didn’t understand why I was crying. I don’t remember starting to cry or feeling the lump of emotion in my throat that I usually would when I cried. I was unsure of these new feelings. Moving would be an adventure; moving was not unusual in my family. We were just going to another place; it wasn’t like I would never talk to her again. But as all three of us stood there, my brother’s arm around my shoulder, me silently crying, and my friend with her face in her hands, I knew this was altogether different than before.
After service, the whole congregation went over to the gym to fellowship and have a pot luck, which we did at least once a month. Like kids would do, me and my friends rushed eating whatever our moms put on our plate so we could go play. We would run and chase each other, playing a game of tag because kickball wasn’t allowed with so many people in the gym. We were playing and getting winded when my best friend Catherine pulled me aside into the alcove where the outside door would lead to the path to the church.
It was dark and gloomy in the hallway. I faced towards the gym, and she was facing the door. Bathrooms and water fountain were to my right and hooks for jackets and purses were to my left. All of a sudden, she began to cry. She told me, “I am so sad you are leaving and moving away from me.” I was so surprised that she was upset. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t expecting this reaction. Once she stopped talking, she put her head in her hands, and her shoulders began to shake from the force of her tears. I stood there frozen.
I noticed from behind her someone started to walk our way. I looked up, and my brother, Jimmy, walked over to us, put his arm around my shoulder, and asked if we were ok. I nodded my head, and that’s when I felt them on my cheeks. I began crying just as much as Catherine. I didn’t understand why I was crying. I don’t remember starting to cry or feeling the lump of emotion in my throat that I usually would when I cried. I was unsure of these new feelings. Moving would be an adventure; moving was not unusual in my family. We were just going to another place; it wasn’t like I would never talk to her again. But as all three of us stood there, my brother’s arm around my shoulder, me silently crying, and my friend with her face in her hands, I knew this was altogether different than before.
Everyone knew this was a significant story and had compassion for Lisa as she sat there confused even now with tears. Angela felt the pain of love lost. Greg knew the trauma of moving but without a whole family. Brock, with his boots planted on the deck floor and leaning in closely to listen, could remember several times sitting in his sisters’ rooms while they cried when friends moved away. Francie had gone to four different high schools because of her parents’ divorce. At the age of forty-four, she still felt the heartache of losing friends and that moving was not an exciting adventure for a child.
Lisa spoke, “You see, Francie, even now I have tears running down my face, and I don’t even know why. This seems like a silly story compared to other ones. I have other stories like my dog dying in my arms, getting lost at the zoo, and a story about an older cousin, but this one bugs me even worse.”
Lisa was really upset that this was so troubling. Angela was caught off guard about her older cousin comment, and Greg got worked up after imagining what it would be like if his daughter got lost at the zoo. Brock had a soft smile, knowing there was more to Lisa than even what Lisa knew.
Francie began, “Alright Lisa, this is a really good story to bring, and it is clearly important. Frankly, I think it’s apparent to all of us how significant this story is.” Everyone shook their heads in agreement.
Francie invited Lisa to go further, “You seem really surprised about Catherine being upset you were moving away, so can you tell us more about her?”
“Sure. We were definitely pretty close. We went to school and church together. We even went on vacation together at the beginning of that summer. I think we went to Charleston, South Carolina. Yes, that’s right. I’d never been on vacation with someone else before.”
Brock spoke, “Going on vacation is a pretty big deal for a nine-year-old. Did your family go?”
“No, I went with Catherine’s family. We all were close since we lived in the basement of Catherine’s house. We couldn’t afford a regular home, so her mom and dad fixed up their basement for us.”
Angela remarked, “So she was like a sister to you?”
Lisa responded with a curious glance toward the cow pasture. “Well, my own sister was five years older than me. She was busy doing older things. Catherine was like my sister, and my same age.”
Angela continued, “So there wasn’t anything you two didn’t do together.”
“No, we pretty much did everything together. Her bedroom was right above mine. We had sleepovers all the time.”
Brock spoke up, “It sounds like to me that you were the sister Catherine always dreamed of. I’ll be honest with you, Lisa. Since I got here, you’ve been so kind to me and other people, too. You listen to people, and frankly last night after dinner, you asked me what it was like to be a farmer. I’ve never had anyone ask me that. Having to answer that question, I went from being somewhat embarrassed and feeling like an outsider to feeling proud to be a farmer. I’ve only been around you for a few hours, and it’s clear to me why Catherine was so sad. You made her feel loved; like she was important.” Lisa’s eyes were open wide as she listened.
With a gentle smile, Angela commented, “I didn’t even know you were going to be in my group, and out of the blue at breakfast, you sat down right next to me in front of the fire like we’d been friends forever. It was actually really nice. Oddly enough, if you left right now, I’m sure I would miss you.”
Then Lisa responded to a question from Greg about growing up a pastor's kid and her favorite place to live, but after a while she sat there quietly. “Now, thinking about it, after moving from Indiana, that’s when I stopped getting close to anyone. And that’s still my problem. Even dating gives me anxiety. Who knows if the guy will even be around in six months,” she said.
Greg exhaled and thought what all the others were thinking, “Wow, so this is how someone awesome can end up still single at the age of twenty-six.”
They explored some about her favorite place to live and other friendships over the years, then Francie said, “Lisa, we’re going to have to begin to transition now, but you have made some real progress. Before we end, there is one critical piece that I want you to hear that may be of help. Are you ready?”
“Yep.” she said as she sat up straight.
Francie continued, “Much research has shown that for a child, especially between 8 and 12, moving is the most common traumatic childhood event after death and divorce. If you think about it, all at once, most everything you have ever known changes: your relationships, activities, school, bedroom, kitchen, streets and sidewalks, down to the sounds, to even where you put your toothbrush. That has a major impact on a child. That’s just one. In your story, you even said, ‘Moving was not unusual,’ so that means, the trauma of moving was normal. For an adult, moving is hard, but by the time you are older, you are more equipped to handle changes in life.”
For Lisa and the others, it was as though a cloud of lifelong confusion lifted about this. As it sank in, Lisa thought to herself, “Wow, maybe I’m not a freak for this bothering me so much.”
“Hopefully, that’s helpful, so you can quit beating yourself up about this bothering you. This is huge in your life.”
“Yeah, I see that, for sure now,” Lisa responded.
Francie finished with a challenge. “Now, here is my challenge for you to consider. Are you willing to take the risk of the joy of connection while knowing that it won’t last? Are you willing to take in however long you do have?” Looking right in Lisa’s eyes, Francie said, “You’ve done well. Good job, Lisa.”
Lisa smiled along with everyone else.
Lisa spoke, “You see, Francie, even now I have tears running down my face, and I don’t even know why. This seems like a silly story compared to other ones. I have other stories like my dog dying in my arms, getting lost at the zoo, and a story about an older cousin, but this one bugs me even worse.”
Lisa was really upset that this was so troubling. Angela was caught off guard about her older cousin comment, and Greg got worked up after imagining what it would be like if his daughter got lost at the zoo. Brock had a soft smile, knowing there was more to Lisa than even what Lisa knew.
Francie began, “Alright Lisa, this is a really good story to bring, and it is clearly important. Frankly, I think it’s apparent to all of us how significant this story is.” Everyone shook their heads in agreement.
Francie invited Lisa to go further, “You seem really surprised about Catherine being upset you were moving away, so can you tell us more about her?”
“Sure. We were definitely pretty close. We went to school and church together. We even went on vacation together at the beginning of that summer. I think we went to Charleston, South Carolina. Yes, that’s right. I’d never been on vacation with someone else before.”
Brock spoke, “Going on vacation is a pretty big deal for a nine-year-old. Did your family go?”
“No, I went with Catherine’s family. We all were close since we lived in the basement of Catherine’s house. We couldn’t afford a regular home, so her mom and dad fixed up their basement for us.”
Angela remarked, “So she was like a sister to you?”
Lisa responded with a curious glance toward the cow pasture. “Well, my own sister was five years older than me. She was busy doing older things. Catherine was like my sister, and my same age.”
Angela continued, “So there wasn’t anything you two didn’t do together.”
“No, we pretty much did everything together. Her bedroom was right above mine. We had sleepovers all the time.”
Brock spoke up, “It sounds like to me that you were the sister Catherine always dreamed of. I’ll be honest with you, Lisa. Since I got here, you’ve been so kind to me and other people, too. You listen to people, and frankly last night after dinner, you asked me what it was like to be a farmer. I’ve never had anyone ask me that. Having to answer that question, I went from being somewhat embarrassed and feeling like an outsider to feeling proud to be a farmer. I’ve only been around you for a few hours, and it’s clear to me why Catherine was so sad. You made her feel loved; like she was important.” Lisa’s eyes were open wide as she listened.
With a gentle smile, Angela commented, “I didn’t even know you were going to be in my group, and out of the blue at breakfast, you sat down right next to me in front of the fire like we’d been friends forever. It was actually really nice. Oddly enough, if you left right now, I’m sure I would miss you.”
Then Lisa responded to a question from Greg about growing up a pastor's kid and her favorite place to live, but after a while she sat there quietly. “Now, thinking about it, after moving from Indiana, that’s when I stopped getting close to anyone. And that’s still my problem. Even dating gives me anxiety. Who knows if the guy will even be around in six months,” she said.
Greg exhaled and thought what all the others were thinking, “Wow, so this is how someone awesome can end up still single at the age of twenty-six.”
They explored some about her favorite place to live and other friendships over the years, then Francie said, “Lisa, we’re going to have to begin to transition now, but you have made some real progress. Before we end, there is one critical piece that I want you to hear that may be of help. Are you ready?”
“Yep.” she said as she sat up straight.
Francie continued, “Much research has shown that for a child, especially between 8 and 12, moving is the most common traumatic childhood event after death and divorce. If you think about it, all at once, most everything you have ever known changes: your relationships, activities, school, bedroom, kitchen, streets and sidewalks, down to the sounds, to even where you put your toothbrush. That has a major impact on a child. That’s just one. In your story, you even said, ‘Moving was not unusual,’ so that means, the trauma of moving was normal. For an adult, moving is hard, but by the time you are older, you are more equipped to handle changes in life.”
For Lisa and the others, it was as though a cloud of lifelong confusion lifted about this. As it sank in, Lisa thought to herself, “Wow, maybe I’m not a freak for this bothering me so much.”
“Hopefully, that’s helpful, so you can quit beating yourself up about this bothering you. This is huge in your life.”
“Yeah, I see that, for sure now,” Lisa responded.
Francie finished with a challenge. “Now, here is my challenge for you to consider. Are you willing to take the risk of the joy of connection while knowing that it won’t last? Are you willing to take in however long you do have?” Looking right in Lisa’s eyes, Francie said, “You’ve done well. Good job, Lisa.”
Lisa smiled along with everyone else.
Greg - "Bicycle 911"
It was now between Greg and Angela. Greg didn’t care if he went next, but Angela had hoped to go last from the beginning, so she sat quiet with her written story under her rocking chair. That made it obvious to Greg it was his turn. “Well, I would say here goes nothin’, but I suppose Francie wouldn’t like that.” Everyone chuckled. “It’s called, ‘Bicycle 911.’ Greg sat up, stretched, and got in just the right posture as to read the group a masterpiece. Hearing the title alone, it was clear that it was about a bike. Lisa loved bikes, Angela hated them, and Brock felt a bit aloof as growing up on a ten-thousand-acre farm, bikes were of no use. He skipped right to motorcycles and tractors by age four. Brock, in his head, could hear his dad saying, “There’s no time to play games.” Then Greg began reading.
It’s a hot summer’s Saturday after starting eighth grade; My M.O. is staying inside bound to my room, listening to my “prize” stereo system. The school season had just begun, and I was not at all excited about returning to this abusive prison for another year. Saturdays were mostly boring for me as I had no close friends or places to go. I did have a couple friendly kids in my neighborhood who would talk to me (outside of school), but there seemed to be a silent unspoken agreement to never let anyone at school know.
I wanted to go for a ride on my bike but needed a destination, otherwise, what would be the point. I knew of a boy nearby, TJ Greene, who was harassed and neglected at school. One of the lowly types, an easy target you might say. It would be a quick, easy five block bike ride to his house to see if he’d like to play. I confirmed with my parents, retrieved my bike from our super cluttered garage, but I forgot that the front tire was still bent from a bike accident. Dad was always sure to tell us exactly how much money we didn’t have at every meal at the dinner table, so we weren’t able to fix my bike yet. Then, I looked over and saw my dad’s bike, a mountain bike, 18 gears, chromed with red accent. From riding his bike before, I knew the brakes were not that good, so I decided to fix them. I grabbed tools from my dad’s tool bench at the front of the garage, removed both tires and chain, greased it up, reassembled the bike, and fixed the brakes.
I’m OFF! Off on a great adventure with a boy I didn’t really care to be around, but it was better than staying at home with my family all alone… I zoomed in and out of winding road corners and down roads as fast as I could. One corner in particular, had a dip at the intersection that was fun to whip in and out of.
My visit with TJ was short; we played for only fifteen minutes before he was called inside. Back home would be my new destination. Roughly a block from TJ’s house I found a pot hole that was just right to pop a wheelie over! I lifted the front end of the bike as if I was “Evel Knievel.” Then, I saw it happen. That moment when you know this isn’t going to end well. That very moment when I realized that the front wheel did not lift with the rest of the bike. It was in fact, rolling down the road ahead of me. The bike came down hard on the front forks, sending me soaring over the handlebars and sliding down the road. The world seemed to stop for a second. I was lying on my back trying to put together the pieces in my mind of what just happened. As I tried to lift myself, I was in pain and realized the sting of road rash on my arm was actually, quite a bit worse. I couldn’t move my arm, and it was not straight at all. I looked down at my hands and saw them covered in my own blood. I tried again to get up, knowing I was in big trouble for wrecking my dad’s bike. I couldn’t get up. I tried to flag down two cars. Finally, a white SUV stopped. An older woman and her husband stepped out of the vehicle to check on me. After getting my address, the man sped off to find my house to get my dad. The woman stayed with me. I felt bad for being such an inconvenience. When my dad and stepmom arrived in our station wagon, they propped me up on the tailgate. I apologized for bleeding all over the car. We started hearing a siren in the distance; the man who had gone to get my dad also called 911. The ambulance arrived on the scene, and the paramedics jumped into action. They pulled the bed stretcher out of the back of the ambulance and strapped me down. They strapped down my head, arms and legs. I couldn’t move… they were extra careful with my left arm and wrapped it loosely. I was then loaded into the back of the ambulance; the paramedic got into the back with me, the driver got in the driver's seat, and my dad chose to sit in the passenger’s seat in the front of the ambulance. I could overhear Dad ranting to the driver, “We can’t afford any of this mess. Do you have any idea how much just this ambulance ride costs?” and it went on. Strapped in with tears flowing, I softly said, “Dad, I’m so sorry for wrecking your bike and the cost of all this.”
After arriving at the hospital, we waited for hours to be seen. The nurses took me back for x-rays, pulling my arm straight. That pain was worse than the wreck itself. It was a four-hour surgery receiving two metal plates, twelve screws, and two long bolts that would hold my arm together the rest of my life. It was a compound fracture that split my upper arm bone. I was in the hospital for a week. My father didn’t speak about it after the surgery or ever again.
I wanted to go for a ride on my bike but needed a destination, otherwise, what would be the point. I knew of a boy nearby, TJ Greene, who was harassed and neglected at school. One of the lowly types, an easy target you might say. It would be a quick, easy five block bike ride to his house to see if he’d like to play. I confirmed with my parents, retrieved my bike from our super cluttered garage, but I forgot that the front tire was still bent from a bike accident. Dad was always sure to tell us exactly how much money we didn’t have at every meal at the dinner table, so we weren’t able to fix my bike yet. Then, I looked over and saw my dad’s bike, a mountain bike, 18 gears, chromed with red accent. From riding his bike before, I knew the brakes were not that good, so I decided to fix them. I grabbed tools from my dad’s tool bench at the front of the garage, removed both tires and chain, greased it up, reassembled the bike, and fixed the brakes.
I’m OFF! Off on a great adventure with a boy I didn’t really care to be around, but it was better than staying at home with my family all alone… I zoomed in and out of winding road corners and down roads as fast as I could. One corner in particular, had a dip at the intersection that was fun to whip in and out of.
My visit with TJ was short; we played for only fifteen minutes before he was called inside. Back home would be my new destination. Roughly a block from TJ’s house I found a pot hole that was just right to pop a wheelie over! I lifted the front end of the bike as if I was “Evel Knievel.” Then, I saw it happen. That moment when you know this isn’t going to end well. That very moment when I realized that the front wheel did not lift with the rest of the bike. It was in fact, rolling down the road ahead of me. The bike came down hard on the front forks, sending me soaring over the handlebars and sliding down the road. The world seemed to stop for a second. I was lying on my back trying to put together the pieces in my mind of what just happened. As I tried to lift myself, I was in pain and realized the sting of road rash on my arm was actually, quite a bit worse. I couldn’t move my arm, and it was not straight at all. I looked down at my hands and saw them covered in my own blood. I tried again to get up, knowing I was in big trouble for wrecking my dad’s bike. I couldn’t get up. I tried to flag down two cars. Finally, a white SUV stopped. An older woman and her husband stepped out of the vehicle to check on me. After getting my address, the man sped off to find my house to get my dad. The woman stayed with me. I felt bad for being such an inconvenience. When my dad and stepmom arrived in our station wagon, they propped me up on the tailgate. I apologized for bleeding all over the car. We started hearing a siren in the distance; the man who had gone to get my dad also called 911. The ambulance arrived on the scene, and the paramedics jumped into action. They pulled the bed stretcher out of the back of the ambulance and strapped me down. They strapped down my head, arms and legs. I couldn’t move… they were extra careful with my left arm and wrapped it loosely. I was then loaded into the back of the ambulance; the paramedic got into the back with me, the driver got in the driver's seat, and my dad chose to sit in the passenger’s seat in the front of the ambulance. I could overhear Dad ranting to the driver, “We can’t afford any of this mess. Do you have any idea how much just this ambulance ride costs?” and it went on. Strapped in with tears flowing, I softly said, “Dad, I’m so sorry for wrecking your bike and the cost of all this.”
After arriving at the hospital, we waited for hours to be seen. The nurses took me back for x-rays, pulling my arm straight. That pain was worse than the wreck itself. It was a four-hour surgery receiving two metal plates, twelve screws, and two long bolts that would hold my arm together the rest of my life. It was a compound fracture that split my upper arm bone. I was in the hospital for a week. My father didn’t speak about it after the surgery or ever again.
Everyone sat there speechless. As Greg was reading, Lisa couldn’t help but stare at his arm and think about him having to go through an x-ray machine like she saw at the airport. For Angela, this affirmed her hatred for bikes, and Brock got so mad at Greg’s dad that his neck was burning red as he tapped the arms of his chair.
When Greg was done, he sat there in a fog. He was excited about reading the story to everyone because it was a real adventure story, but at the same time he was embarrassed how it all went. He sat there waiting, not knowing what to do next.
Lisa finally spoke, “Greg, I have to say, I am sorry this happened to you.”
The words she spoke made Greg start to feel a bit dizzy. For twenty-six years, he had never heard those words he so longed to hear. After a moment he said, “Thanks.”
Brock asked about his stereo. Angela asked about his friend TJ. Lisa then brought up the blood on the car and Greg admitted, “I had already created such problems and wrecked Dad’s mountain bike, and then to get blood on the car made it even worse.”
Lisa’s brow began to tighten up, “Let me get this straight. You broke your arms into pieces, bleeding everywhere, people calling an ambulance, and you felt bad about the bike and blood stains?”
Becoming louder as he spoke, Greg lashed out, “Yeah! Because I was stupid! I never should have taken Dad’s bike. I was supposed to earn money to fix my own bike. It was all my fault. When I wrecked my own bike, it was from being stupid, too!”
The whole group sank down in their seats. It was like someone else was yelling, “stupid!” Greg said it with such conviction and hostility, it gave everyone chills.
Francie stopped, “Now, wait a minute. That is not being kind. This is a really good story you have brought to the group, but while we explore it, Greg, be kind to yourself. Now Greg, when I grew up, Evel Knievel was a really big deal. It’s all everyone talked about at school during the weeks he was going to do a stunt. We had friends who didn’t have color TV that came over to watch the night he jumped all those buses. When you were reading your story, I was right there with you. Were you a good rider?”
“Well, I really was. My broken bike was actually my newest BMX. I had won the thirteen to seventeen-year-old BMX race at the county fair, and three days later I ran straight into a curb and crunched my rim. Can you believe that? Stupid. That one hurt pretty bad, but when mom asked me if I got hurt, I told her no. There were bruises all across my waist.”
Francie wasn’t going to let another “stupid” go by. With a puzzled look, she spoke softly, “Alright, so here we are, again with calling yourself stupid. I realize you made a mistake, but I’d like to get something straight and really think about a couple questions. First, would you say that a thirteen-year-old who beats twenty other racers that are three to four years older is typically someone who is stupid?”
The other group members laser focused on Greg. He thought a long moment and with strong hesitation responded, “I suppose not.”
Francie went on, “Just one more question. People who have their electrical contractor’s license, are people like that stupid, Greg?”
Greg sat silent.
“How about the rest of you? What do you think? Can stupid people get an electrical contractors license?” A couple of them raised their eyebrows while they all said, “No.”
They sat quietly and waited for Greg to respond. He thought about what all it took to get his license and the fact that he’s worked on big projects in thirty-nine states. He slowly let it out, “Yeah, I suppose not.”
Francie pushed further, “As hard as this is, I must admit, with my experience in life, someone like that has to be pretty smart, and I think it’s obvious to the rest of us that you are pretty smart, Greg.”
He glanced around and finally right at Francie. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am smart.” Then he looked down. Everyone sat there in silence. Just breathing, they all knew something beyond space and time just happened.
Still looking at Greg, who was in a daze, Francie said, “Yes, you are Greg. You are smart. Now, let’s move on.”
Angela had been patiently waiting, “So, let me get this straight. You won the county fair at thirteen against seventeen-year-olds?”
“Yep. That’s probably why the boys at school didn’t like me much,” he said with a half grin.
Brock blurted out, “They didn’t like you because you were a champion! That’s why!”
Greg sat back in his chair and began to breathe deeply, “Yeah, I know.”
Lisa asked another question, and then the last question came from Angela. “So what was it like to be the grand champion at the fair?”
As if he were there again, Greg recounted, “It was a dream come true. Ten thirty at night. The final race. Twenty-one bikers, and I was in front. When I jumped the last dirt double in the air, I knew I was the only one out in front. I nailed it and dug the dirt in the final turn and blew across the finish line. The crowd was going nuts. I came back to the line to get the checkered flag and took one more lap. Even most of the other bikers were standing and clapping, but when I came back around to get my trophy, there was only one thing missing to my dream. My dad. He stayed home to work in the garage. I still have the trophy in a box in the attic.”
Pausing for just a moment, Francie then spoke, “Greg, you had us all cheering for you in the stands, and we still are. I’ve got to tell you; your dad just plain missed out. He just missed out a lot. But we’re not missing out. We’re here right now, and you’ve definitely been a champion today.”
With a tear, Greg replied, “Yes, I am right here. Right now. I sure am.”
Francie said, “Thanks, Greg.”
Everyone felt a real sense of accomplishment but also that there was more. Everyone knew that Greg hating himself had to be addressed.
When Greg was done, he sat there in a fog. He was excited about reading the story to everyone because it was a real adventure story, but at the same time he was embarrassed how it all went. He sat there waiting, not knowing what to do next.
Lisa finally spoke, “Greg, I have to say, I am sorry this happened to you.”
The words she spoke made Greg start to feel a bit dizzy. For twenty-six years, he had never heard those words he so longed to hear. After a moment he said, “Thanks.”
Brock asked about his stereo. Angela asked about his friend TJ. Lisa then brought up the blood on the car and Greg admitted, “I had already created such problems and wrecked Dad’s mountain bike, and then to get blood on the car made it even worse.”
Lisa’s brow began to tighten up, “Let me get this straight. You broke your arms into pieces, bleeding everywhere, people calling an ambulance, and you felt bad about the bike and blood stains?”
Becoming louder as he spoke, Greg lashed out, “Yeah! Because I was stupid! I never should have taken Dad’s bike. I was supposed to earn money to fix my own bike. It was all my fault. When I wrecked my own bike, it was from being stupid, too!”
The whole group sank down in their seats. It was like someone else was yelling, “stupid!” Greg said it with such conviction and hostility, it gave everyone chills.
Francie stopped, “Now, wait a minute. That is not being kind. This is a really good story you have brought to the group, but while we explore it, Greg, be kind to yourself. Now Greg, when I grew up, Evel Knievel was a really big deal. It’s all everyone talked about at school during the weeks he was going to do a stunt. We had friends who didn’t have color TV that came over to watch the night he jumped all those buses. When you were reading your story, I was right there with you. Were you a good rider?”
“Well, I really was. My broken bike was actually my newest BMX. I had won the thirteen to seventeen-year-old BMX race at the county fair, and three days later I ran straight into a curb and crunched my rim. Can you believe that? Stupid. That one hurt pretty bad, but when mom asked me if I got hurt, I told her no. There were bruises all across my waist.”
Francie wasn’t going to let another “stupid” go by. With a puzzled look, she spoke softly, “Alright, so here we are, again with calling yourself stupid. I realize you made a mistake, but I’d like to get something straight and really think about a couple questions. First, would you say that a thirteen-year-old who beats twenty other racers that are three to four years older is typically someone who is stupid?”
The other group members laser focused on Greg. He thought a long moment and with strong hesitation responded, “I suppose not.”
Francie went on, “Just one more question. People who have their electrical contractor’s license, are people like that stupid, Greg?”
Greg sat silent.
“How about the rest of you? What do you think? Can stupid people get an electrical contractors license?” A couple of them raised their eyebrows while they all said, “No.”
They sat quietly and waited for Greg to respond. He thought about what all it took to get his license and the fact that he’s worked on big projects in thirty-nine states. He slowly let it out, “Yeah, I suppose not.”
Francie pushed further, “As hard as this is, I must admit, with my experience in life, someone like that has to be pretty smart, and I think it’s obvious to the rest of us that you are pretty smart, Greg.”
He glanced around and finally right at Francie. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am smart.” Then he looked down. Everyone sat there in silence. Just breathing, they all knew something beyond space and time just happened.
Still looking at Greg, who was in a daze, Francie said, “Yes, you are Greg. You are smart. Now, let’s move on.”
Angela had been patiently waiting, “So, let me get this straight. You won the county fair at thirteen against seventeen-year-olds?”
“Yep. That’s probably why the boys at school didn’t like me much,” he said with a half grin.
Brock blurted out, “They didn’t like you because you were a champion! That’s why!”
Greg sat back in his chair and began to breathe deeply, “Yeah, I know.”
Lisa asked another question, and then the last question came from Angela. “So what was it like to be the grand champion at the fair?”
As if he were there again, Greg recounted, “It was a dream come true. Ten thirty at night. The final race. Twenty-one bikers, and I was in front. When I jumped the last dirt double in the air, I knew I was the only one out in front. I nailed it and dug the dirt in the final turn and blew across the finish line. The crowd was going nuts. I came back to the line to get the checkered flag and took one more lap. Even most of the other bikers were standing and clapping, but when I came back around to get my trophy, there was only one thing missing to my dream. My dad. He stayed home to work in the garage. I still have the trophy in a box in the attic.”
Pausing for just a moment, Francie then spoke, “Greg, you had us all cheering for you in the stands, and we still are. I’ve got to tell you; your dad just plain missed out. He just missed out a lot. But we’re not missing out. We’re here right now, and you’ve definitely been a champion today.”
With a tear, Greg replied, “Yes, I am right here. Right now. I sure am.”
Francie said, “Thanks, Greg.”
Everyone felt a real sense of accomplishment but also that there was more. Everyone knew that Greg hating himself had to be addressed.
Angela - "The Guy Next Door"
Three of the four group members had survived and only one more to go. But, there had been a heaviness in the thick air, and it had not gotten any lighter. In fact, as Angela bent down to get her paper from under her chair, it seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
“Well, here goes. I suppose I will call this story, ‘The Guy Next Door,’” she said.
Brock’s stomach sank, and Lisa checked out for a moment. “This can’t be good,” Greg thought.
“Well, here goes. I suppose I will call this story, ‘The Guy Next Door,’” she said.
Brock’s stomach sank, and Lisa checked out for a moment. “This can’t be good,” Greg thought.
I crept down the hallway avoiding the creaky spots in the floor, pausing with every few steps to listen and re-assess for sounds of my sleeping parents. I had practiced sneaking out so that I would be ready for this night. Brian, a senior that I met recently, was coming. He was picking up my best friend, Amy, and his best friend, and we were going to cruise together in his car or hang out in the empty house next door. My dad had the key to it hanging in the kitchen, and I slipped it in my pocket.
I was a sophomore, the end of March, and the night air was crisp. The grass was wet with dew and cold on my feet. I ran across the lawns to the Seven-Eleven parking lot two doors down where they waited. He drove a long, black old car with two doors. The big doors that swung really wide. You had to put the front seat up for passengers to climb into the big bench seat in the back. His car sat idling, no doubt to keep the heat on. I was a little scared about what I was doing but didn’t want to disappoint my friend Amy, so I ran up behind the car with gravel crunching under my feet. I reached the passenger side door and swung it open in excitement and nervousness only to be surprised that the only person there was Brian. He motioned for me to get in. I jumped in to get out of the cold and out of sight in the night. I was thinking, “Maybe the others were delayed and we were going to get them?” He said, “The others cancelled, so it’s just me and you tonight.” I was disappointed and nervous. I didn’t know Brian that well but then thought that Brian and I could have fun anyway.
He drove around to the back of the neighboring empty house, and we walked in. There was no electricity, so I looked for the room that had the most moonlight. It was a bedroom on the front of the house. Brian had brought a Ghetto blaster, and we spent the first few minutes getting settled. We talked somewhat awkwardly for a little while. He knew I was an athletic trainer for the football team and asked if I would give him a massage. He took his shirt off and laid on the floor. I wasn’t really excited about this, but it gave me something to do with my nervous energy, so I agreed. Next thing I knew he asked for me to do his legs, so he took his pants off and laid back down. I hesitantly continued. He was super skinny, not like the football players I usually worked on. He looked strange laying there in his underwear and smelling like cigarette smoke with a thick layer of cologne. I continued.
After a few minutes, he said, “It’s your turn now,” and convinced me to let him massage me. First, just my back, then, all of a sudden, he undid my bra strap saying, “Oh, it was in the way.” Then he convinced me to let him massage my legs. I was still nervous but naively didn’t think much about it. Massaging others was a normal part of my life. Why shouldn’t I let someone massage me? There was no harm in a massage, but then he started kissing my back. “Whoa! What is happening?” I thought. This is not a massage, but maybe he didn’t know any better. He asked me to roll over. I laid there in my underwear with a thousand questions in my head too afraid to voice any of them. I didn’t like this. I didn’t like Brian like this. What was happening? Next, he took off my underwear and climbed on top of me. He asked if I wanted him. I said, “No.” He asked if I wanted to have sex. I said, “No.” I didn’t want to be there. Why didn’t he stop when I said no? I laid there silently paralyzed in the moment studying the feeling of my first sexual intercourse with a man. I was surprised at how much it really didn’t feel good. I had thought about intercourse and always imagined that it would be pleasurable.
He would ask me, “Do you like it?” I said, “No.” “Do you want me to stop?” I said, “Yes.” I don’t know how long we laid there, the floor hard against my back, the carpet course, the smell of cigarette smoke covered by cologne and the ‘Dirty Dancing’ soundtrack playing in the background. I just laid there with him getting sweaty against my skin, and his cigarette smoke smell all over me. “Do you like it?” he said. I said, “No.” He said, “Do you want me to stop?” I said, “Yes.” Then finally, he did. He rolled over on the carpet near me, exhausted in his efforts. After a few minutes, he laid next to me, wrapping himself around me, telling me how much he liked me.
I dressed feeling betrayed by the evening and angry at Amy for leaving me alone. We got dressed. Brian kissed me goodbye. I walked through neighbors’ yards in the dark and snuck back into my bedroom anxiously awaiting a hot shower in the morning to get this dirty smell off of me. The questions loomed in my mind; What just happened? Why didn’t I fight? Did I love him? I just gave him my virginity. I must love him….but deep inside I also hated myself….because I just laid there…..because I let it happen….because I snuck out in the first place….because I didn’t fight.
I was a sophomore, the end of March, and the night air was crisp. The grass was wet with dew and cold on my feet. I ran across the lawns to the Seven-Eleven parking lot two doors down where they waited. He drove a long, black old car with two doors. The big doors that swung really wide. You had to put the front seat up for passengers to climb into the big bench seat in the back. His car sat idling, no doubt to keep the heat on. I was a little scared about what I was doing but didn’t want to disappoint my friend Amy, so I ran up behind the car with gravel crunching under my feet. I reached the passenger side door and swung it open in excitement and nervousness only to be surprised that the only person there was Brian. He motioned for me to get in. I jumped in to get out of the cold and out of sight in the night. I was thinking, “Maybe the others were delayed and we were going to get them?” He said, “The others cancelled, so it’s just me and you tonight.” I was disappointed and nervous. I didn’t know Brian that well but then thought that Brian and I could have fun anyway.
He drove around to the back of the neighboring empty house, and we walked in. There was no electricity, so I looked for the room that had the most moonlight. It was a bedroom on the front of the house. Brian had brought a Ghetto blaster, and we spent the first few minutes getting settled. We talked somewhat awkwardly for a little while. He knew I was an athletic trainer for the football team and asked if I would give him a massage. He took his shirt off and laid on the floor. I wasn’t really excited about this, but it gave me something to do with my nervous energy, so I agreed. Next thing I knew he asked for me to do his legs, so he took his pants off and laid back down. I hesitantly continued. He was super skinny, not like the football players I usually worked on. He looked strange laying there in his underwear and smelling like cigarette smoke with a thick layer of cologne. I continued.
After a few minutes, he said, “It’s your turn now,” and convinced me to let him massage me. First, just my back, then, all of a sudden, he undid my bra strap saying, “Oh, it was in the way.” Then he convinced me to let him massage my legs. I was still nervous but naively didn’t think much about it. Massaging others was a normal part of my life. Why shouldn’t I let someone massage me? There was no harm in a massage, but then he started kissing my back. “Whoa! What is happening?” I thought. This is not a massage, but maybe he didn’t know any better. He asked me to roll over. I laid there in my underwear with a thousand questions in my head too afraid to voice any of them. I didn’t like this. I didn’t like Brian like this. What was happening? Next, he took off my underwear and climbed on top of me. He asked if I wanted him. I said, “No.” He asked if I wanted to have sex. I said, “No.” I didn’t want to be there. Why didn’t he stop when I said no? I laid there silently paralyzed in the moment studying the feeling of my first sexual intercourse with a man. I was surprised at how much it really didn’t feel good. I had thought about intercourse and always imagined that it would be pleasurable.
He would ask me, “Do you like it?” I said, “No.” “Do you want me to stop?” I said, “Yes.” I don’t know how long we laid there, the floor hard against my back, the carpet course, the smell of cigarette smoke covered by cologne and the ‘Dirty Dancing’ soundtrack playing in the background. I just laid there with him getting sweaty against my skin, and his cigarette smoke smell all over me. “Do you like it?” he said. I said, “No.” He said, “Do you want me to stop?” I said, “Yes.” Then finally, he did. He rolled over on the carpet near me, exhausted in his efforts. After a few minutes, he laid next to me, wrapping himself around me, telling me how much he liked me.
I dressed feeling betrayed by the evening and angry at Amy for leaving me alone. We got dressed. Brian kissed me goodbye. I walked through neighbors’ yards in the dark and snuck back into my bedroom anxiously awaiting a hot shower in the morning to get this dirty smell off of me. The questions loomed in my mind; What just happened? Why didn’t I fight? Did I love him? I just gave him my virginity. I must love him….but deep inside I also hated myself….because I just laid there…..because I let it happen….because I snuck out in the first place….because I didn’t fight.
Rocking forward, she dropped the paper on the deck and said, “Well, there it is. It’s out there. I got it over with.” Then she began to really rock back and forth while looking off into the blue sky. Everyone sat there in a moment of silence and waited to let her steam dissipate.
Greg was afraid this was how the story would go. For Lisa, a cloud of shame came over her with the night her cousin, also named Brian, was like this. Brock wanted to throw up and felt like his chest was caving in. This was almost identical to one of his drunken, college escapades after a frat party with a “girl next door.” He has carried haunting guilt and shame for thirty-five years over it and has been tormented with thoughts of what happened to the girl. As tears ran down his face, he spoke first. “Angela, I am so sorry this happened to you. This was so wrong what he did to you. You didn’t deserve that.”
Angela said, “Thanks, but I should’ve known better. What kind of clueless girl wouldn’t have seen what was going on? The next day at school I saw Brian coming down the hall, and he darted into the bathroom. I know he saw me. I didn’t see him the rest of the day, and the next day when I ran into him, he just said, ‘Hey, how you doing?’ and kept walking. Sure, he liked me alright. I was such a fool.”
Francie spoke, “Angela, this is clearly a serious event, but why did you choose this story?”
With a sarcastic grin and gleam in her eye she said, “After this, I felt so dirty, I just decided who gives a damn. I’m already a tramp, so I just decided to keep going. One guy to the next until I was twenty. Then Paul got me pregnant, and I dropped out of college.”
Greg and Lisa asked a few questions about her parents, Amy, and the cologne, but no one was really sure where this was going. It seemed to be going nowhere as every question led to an answer of Angela condemning herself. Finally, no one wanted to ask questions for fear of it making things worse.
After a long time of silence, to ease the tension in his mind, Greg imagined himself yelling as loud as he could.
Francie finally asked, “So, Angela, was this your first sexual experience?”
Angela’s eyes bugged out, and she stared at Francie and thinking, “Who the hell are you to ask me that question?” It was the one question she didn’t want anyone to ask. “No,” she said. Then she exhaled really big, leaned back, and seemed to in a moment, change from a bitter woman to a soft, young girl. Then she spoke. “When I was ten, my cousins lived in the same neighborhood. Stacy was my age, and I really looked up to her. She may have been eleven, but no matter what, she knew a lot more about life and things than I did. One day, she wanted to play a new kissing game with me in the attic room of her house. My mom and dad would kiss me, and she was my cousin, so I didn’t think much of it.” She paused as she began to get nervous.
Francie said, “How brave to share this with us.”
Angela decided to go on. “Stacy told me she would teach me about boys and girls and the birds and the bees. She said we had to take our clothes off. She went first, so I did next. She told me what to do and had me kiss her all over. All over.” Tears began to fall as she put her head down and continued, “This is the story I wanted to write, but I just couldn’t do it.”
“Angela, we are about out of time, but I need you to look at me. This is a really great place for you and very important. We are going to come back to this tomorrow, but this story with Stacy is directly related to the one you wrote about Brian. Stacy made you feel special and then took advantage of you. This was sexual abuse even though you were girls and only children. You brought the story of Brian to us and have spent most of the time blaming yourself. There is no way anyone here could blame this ten-year-old little girl.”
Everyone at the same time said, “No.” Then, they waited for a good while for a red Cardinal to finish singing on the fence line. Everyone watched and took it in like a dance coming to an end. Angela sat far back in her rocker with tears dripping from her cheeks onto her coat.
“Well done, Angela. I am so proud of you. This is good, really good. Now breathe.”
She did and looked at Francie with a smile. When the group saw Angela’s smile, everyone knew that victory was just beyond sight and not just for Angela but for everyone. Francie rocked back and spoke, “All right, you all are amazing; now take a deep breath.” Everyone did. “I know our work is not finished, but I am proud of each one of you. I look forward to being back together tomorrow. Now, it’s about 4:30, and you have free time until dinner at 6:30. You can take a nap, go for a hike, play a game, or whatever you like. However, there is one critical thing; as hard is it may be for some of you, there can be no discussing your particular story with anyone outside of group time. What happens in group, stays in group.”
After a moment of thinking about what Francie just said, everyone felt a sense of relief that free time would not include anyone trying to fix anyone. They all stood up, and Greg headed to the bathroom. Brock began lighting a cigarette while walking to the fire pit once more. Lisa walked the other direction toward the pasture, and Angela sat back down in her rocking chair and wrapped herself with Lisa’s blanket and began to rock.
Greg was afraid this was how the story would go. For Lisa, a cloud of shame came over her with the night her cousin, also named Brian, was like this. Brock wanted to throw up and felt like his chest was caving in. This was almost identical to one of his drunken, college escapades after a frat party with a “girl next door.” He has carried haunting guilt and shame for thirty-five years over it and has been tormented with thoughts of what happened to the girl. As tears ran down his face, he spoke first. “Angela, I am so sorry this happened to you. This was so wrong what he did to you. You didn’t deserve that.”
Angela said, “Thanks, but I should’ve known better. What kind of clueless girl wouldn’t have seen what was going on? The next day at school I saw Brian coming down the hall, and he darted into the bathroom. I know he saw me. I didn’t see him the rest of the day, and the next day when I ran into him, he just said, ‘Hey, how you doing?’ and kept walking. Sure, he liked me alright. I was such a fool.”
Francie spoke, “Angela, this is clearly a serious event, but why did you choose this story?”
With a sarcastic grin and gleam in her eye she said, “After this, I felt so dirty, I just decided who gives a damn. I’m already a tramp, so I just decided to keep going. One guy to the next until I was twenty. Then Paul got me pregnant, and I dropped out of college.”
Greg and Lisa asked a few questions about her parents, Amy, and the cologne, but no one was really sure where this was going. It seemed to be going nowhere as every question led to an answer of Angela condemning herself. Finally, no one wanted to ask questions for fear of it making things worse.
After a long time of silence, to ease the tension in his mind, Greg imagined himself yelling as loud as he could.
Francie finally asked, “So, Angela, was this your first sexual experience?”
Angela’s eyes bugged out, and she stared at Francie and thinking, “Who the hell are you to ask me that question?” It was the one question she didn’t want anyone to ask. “No,” she said. Then she exhaled really big, leaned back, and seemed to in a moment, change from a bitter woman to a soft, young girl. Then she spoke. “When I was ten, my cousins lived in the same neighborhood. Stacy was my age, and I really looked up to her. She may have been eleven, but no matter what, she knew a lot more about life and things than I did. One day, she wanted to play a new kissing game with me in the attic room of her house. My mom and dad would kiss me, and she was my cousin, so I didn’t think much of it.” She paused as she began to get nervous.
Francie said, “How brave to share this with us.”
Angela decided to go on. “Stacy told me she would teach me about boys and girls and the birds and the bees. She said we had to take our clothes off. She went first, so I did next. She told me what to do and had me kiss her all over. All over.” Tears began to fall as she put her head down and continued, “This is the story I wanted to write, but I just couldn’t do it.”
“Angela, we are about out of time, but I need you to look at me. This is a really great place for you and very important. We are going to come back to this tomorrow, but this story with Stacy is directly related to the one you wrote about Brian. Stacy made you feel special and then took advantage of you. This was sexual abuse even though you were girls and only children. You brought the story of Brian to us and have spent most of the time blaming yourself. There is no way anyone here could blame this ten-year-old little girl.”
Everyone at the same time said, “No.” Then, they waited for a good while for a red Cardinal to finish singing on the fence line. Everyone watched and took it in like a dance coming to an end. Angela sat far back in her rocker with tears dripping from her cheeks onto her coat.
“Well done, Angela. I am so proud of you. This is good, really good. Now breathe.”
She did and looked at Francie with a smile. When the group saw Angela’s smile, everyone knew that victory was just beyond sight and not just for Angela but for everyone. Francie rocked back and spoke, “All right, you all are amazing; now take a deep breath.” Everyone did. “I know our work is not finished, but I am proud of each one of you. I look forward to being back together tomorrow. Now, it’s about 4:30, and you have free time until dinner at 6:30. You can take a nap, go for a hike, play a game, or whatever you like. However, there is one critical thing; as hard is it may be for some of you, there can be no discussing your particular story with anyone outside of group time. What happens in group, stays in group.”
After a moment of thinking about what Francie just said, everyone felt a sense of relief that free time would not include anyone trying to fix anyone. They all stood up, and Greg headed to the bathroom. Brock began lighting a cigarette while walking to the fire pit once more. Lisa walked the other direction toward the pasture, and Angela sat back down in her rocking chair and wrapped herself with Lisa’s blanket and began to rock.
