I was born without a shell.
I was a “sensitive child”, empathetic to the point of sadness, easily moved to laughter or tears. Naive, emotionally vulnerable. I trusted people too easily, a trait I’ve taken through adulthood into old age. I try to listen to people. I can’t help being curious, and usually look for ways to try to help, with varying degrees of success. People told me I needed to toughen up, get a thicker skin. Not wear my heart on my sleeve so much. If I let everything get to me, I’d only end up getting hurt.
When I have gotten hurt, I’ve usually retreated for a while, then stepped back out, ready to believe people again. Though perhaps with a bit of “seasoned reasoning” thrown into the mix. Sometimes the retreat has been too long, too deep, depending on the recovery needed. Sometimes retreating wasn’t enough. Sometimes, when the wound was too much, my particular coping mechanism was to box things up and bury them as deep in my soul as I could possibly reach. But even that wasn’t enough.
My only way of building a shell when I was a kid was to gain weight. To be clear, this was not a conscious strategy. I just avoided being “active”, preferring to read, write, draw, all very sedentary interests, and let nature take her course (less movement = more weight). I didn’t go out much (though I had a decent group of friends), physical activity for girls was pretty much limited by location – no gyms or classes near me. No kids my age or gender anywhere nearby. School sports for girls were pretty much non-existent, and if you carried any extra weight, any activity was an exercise in futility and embarrassment. This was back when child obesity wasn’t all that common. There were no specialty stores, no compassionate doctors, no treatments beyond amphetamines or fat camps. Given my genetic makeup, lack of access, and emotional tendencies, I’m surprised I didn’t weigh 200 lbs or more by age 15. But the dye was cast. Weight was a convenient armor.
In my early twenties, I decided I didn’t want to spend my life as a virgin, no spinster aunt stereotype for me. So I lost my excess weight and embarked on my journey as a single woman in the 80s. That journey was, to put it mildly, a bit on the rocky side. I got an apartment, much to the disappointment of my father who wanted a live-in caregiver for the rest of time, and quite literally said “How many kids do I have to have before one will stay with us?” I was number seven, and had stayed at home until age 23. I guess something more than seven, Daddy.
Despite my father’s certainty I was going to be some sort of wanton woman, sleeping with anything that moved, I did not go all that crazy. I don’t have a list of men as long as my arm. Or women. I just have a short progression of “relationships” that, shall we say, left some scars. At the same time, I had a few “incidents”, where men I trusted, men I worked with, men I thought of as friends, taught me where the power actually was in the world. That power was not with me. My armor was gone, and all that was left was the trust I had in people that told me I was worthy of love. (Love, by the way, has many definitions, not all of which are particularly helpful to the supposed object of that love.). That trust was faltering.
A few years went by, I had a series of “disappointments” in the romance arena. One man I dated briefly decided sex with me while I was sleeping was the way to go. I lived with a man who liked to scream “spit it out” when my throat closed in anger during arguments after he came home drunk. I moved to Chicago for a Brand New Start, and was literally pulled into my apartment building by a man I’d known for all of two hours. I was terrified he was going to hurt me, or worse, and didn’t call for help even when he was gone a day later because I was afraid he’d come back. Sex was the price I’d pay for survival. Silence was the price for safety.
That was the last sexual encounter I had. Not intentionally, or so I thought, but just me saying ok, enough of that. I boxed it up, put it away with all the other experiences that seemed to reinforce my feeling of powerlessness. Little things: men who patted me on the butt, cornered me in elevators, pulled me toward them as I pulled away. All the little bits of intimidation that told me I was only safe as long as this man or that man decided to let me be safe. So yay men for backing off whenever they did?
I never considered myself a victim, though. I thought I was stupid getting into situations, too timid, too weak. I went on my way, focusing on friends, interests, career, etc. No dating? No problem. Tra la la.
At the same time, I gained 100 lbs. That’s right, 100. Even though I was walking two miles to work and back. Stress is an amazing thing, buried stress even more so. Nobody ever said “what the hell is wrong with you?”, least of all me. I was building my wall, what’s more normal than that? Reinforced by family history and what would today be defined as endocrine issues, it was overlooked, ignored. Year after year. My armor became thicker and stronger. And heavier.
I am bearing the cost of that armor now, have been for years. A lifetime of weight, emotional and physical, taking its toll through cancer, diabetes, arthritis, heart troubles, depression. I am a stew of pre-existing conditions and multiple co-morbidities. Destined for a relatively early demise, or descent into dementia.
But something has happened recently that might change things. For me, for millions of women and men.
One woman decided to take on the senate, and the so-called president, and the Supreme Court. One voice, one story, against a phalanx of old white men (and a few women) determined to keep the status quo. One woman standing up, igniting and reigniting millions of voices, inspiring women and men to tell their stories of assault and intimidation and violence.
I allowed my experiences to change me, change my life’s path, change my spirit. I put away dreams I had since I was a child, shut myself down. For decades, I have lived with the result of my own silence. Allowed my self-built shell to overtake me.
No more.
I may have waited too long, I don’t know. There are certainly options that are no longer open to me. At age 60 and sans uterus & ovaries, I won’t be having any kids. Probably won’t get married, but maybe there’s still some romance out there, who knows. But I’m not sure wife or mother was ever in the plan. There are a lot of other dreams still waiting to be made a reality, however. Being a writer, an artist, an activist. Those are all things in my power, not limited by age or strength or mobility. The only obstacle for me has been that box buried beneath the armor.
But watching that one woman stand so bravely in front of a bunch of ranting old men, I felt my armor crack. I felt myself shedding it like a decaying skin. And that box rose up and broke open, bringing all that pain back into the light.
A new armor is in place of that old shell. It’s agile and efficient and strong. And it carries with it truth, and hope.
I’m one woman, and an old one at that. But look what one woman can do? And all the other “ones” out there making their voices heard. We’re part of a much larger army. All ages, all backgrounds, all races, all beliefs. United by experience and sheer force of will. This army will not lose. There is no going back to fear or silence.
This country, this world, this future is ours.