I LOVE MEN!

I love men. Some people have assumed or suspected that I don't. But I'm here to tell you that I do. Once I hit 30 then 35 then 40 and still no marriage there were whispers about whether or not I'm a lesbian. After I went to work at a battered women's shelter, some folks suspected I would just write off men because they were all violent pigs. But it's not true. Nothing makes me happier than to glance at a really awesome tush (I'm surprised I don't watch football). And if a man I'm attracted to gets a fresh haircut, I feel like I'm in heaven just looking at the back of his neck. If you give me smart, funny, sensitive, tall, and he laughs at my stories, well then I'm down for the count. I have met that combo only one time in my life and it was a crazy and fun but ultimately heartbreaking ride.

After years of flirting, hanging out, apple picking, endless midnight calls and slow dancing on a bridge with a full moon while a big band was playing in the distance, I was still weak in the knees everytime I saw him. Soon after I met him I told one of my closest friends that I was honestly afraid of what I might do if I found him alone in the copy room. I told her I could not be trusted. I might not be able to stop myself from kissing him at any moment!  He's the one man who, when I first met him, I turned to my friend and said, "I hope I marry him someday."

My junior year in college we both worked in the same office- Student  Volunteer Services. We matched Calvin students with volunteer opportunities in the community. The year started with a staff retreat at a campground on Lake Michigan and I remember just staring at him through the smoke of the bonfire in pure lust mode!

  One problem right off the bat was that I was dating someone else. "Dave" was one of the sweetest, most funny guys I had ever met and we had a great time together but the relationship lacked the fire I was looking for (probably because, years later, I found out he was gay). I really had a way of falling for men who were gay. At one point I thought somehow I was turning them gay because on 4 different occasions I was the last person these men dated before they came out.

 But I digress. That story is for another time. Right now I'd like to continue telling you about hunkypants, HP for short. Another problem with HP was that he was a senior and would be moving to Washington DC soon. So I focused on our friendship and enjoyed working together and settled for him endlessly popping up in my dreams. Near the end of the school year I was so infatuated with him that I arranged to take over the lease of his apartment and live there for my senior year. I invited 3 girlfriends to move in with me so long as I got HP's bedroom (yes- I am embarrassed to admit that one).  I went back to Indiana to work for the summer and when the school year was about to start I moved all my stuff into his room and made sure to put my bed right where his had been.

 The very first weekend I was there HP drove in from DC and stopped by for a visit. I was ecstatic. I hadn't seen him in three months and he looked as hunky as ever. After a big hug we got caught up and then went out to grab some dinner. He told me he had a busy weekend so that night was going to be the only time I would see him. Then Sunday came.

 One of my best friends at the time, we'll call her Sissy, was my roommate for a second year in a row. Our junior year we'd have these late night, intense conversations on all kinds of (what seemed to be) critical matters.  Like what HP wore that day and how funny it was when his roommate dropped him off to our office on a particularly snowy day and he didn't realize until he got in the building that he had his, what came to be known as, dad slippers on. You know, the leather slip on kind that look so. . . mature. I told her how I loved him, not Dave, and we dissected his every move to try to detect if he loved me too. I felt really close to Sissy and grateful to have her as a friend.

 Okay, back to that first Sunday of my senior year. I'm sitting in my hunkypants bedroom when Sissy, rather sheepishly, knocked on my door. She proceeded to sit down on my bed and utter the following words. "HP and I have been on a few dates this summer and when we saw each other last night WE decided WE should tell you about it". She "we-d" me! Then she proceeded to tell me that a few weeks after I left for the summer he invited her to the movies and then they started hanging out. I was beyond devastated. All I could do was leave. I drove around for hours trying to clear my head.

 How could she? I felt so betrayed and so hurt. I had never revealed my feeling to HP. He wasn't to blame. But Sissy? I poured my heart out to her. I reported my every interaction with him to her. I couldn't imagine having to live in the same house with her for the next nine months but I also couldn't figure out any other way.   So when I returned to our apartment that night I went straight to my room. For several months I pretended like she didn't exist. Right after Thanksgiving I heard through another roommate that it was over between them. Over Christmas break HP came into town and asked if he could see me. We met over lunch, talked about everything except Sissy and surprisingly had a great time. We picked up right where we had left off except I was protecting myself big time.

 I proceeded very cautiously into friendship mode with HP and tried my best to forgive Sissy and be civil to her until graduation. The spring was very busy with student teaching and job searching and worrying about where I was going to live after graduation. I was also grappling with the fact that I had to admit to myself that I didn't want to become a music teacher. It was one of the only things I knew for sure. But it was also the only thing I was qualified for so I started interviews. The only teaching job I was offered was at the high school in Climax Michigan. I could not even picture telling my friends that I was moving to Climax so I took it as a sign from God that I shouldn't teach and decided to move to Washington DC.

 Prior to that decision I had made a pro and con list. Pros were things like living near Jill and Randy- two of my best friends in the world, being in a huge urban area where I could volunteer for lots of different orginations and maybe narrow down what type of work I would like to do. I had also researched this Volunteer Management Certificate I could get at an area college and I really wanted to sing in the Oratorio Society at the Kennedy Center. Some of the cons included not knowing where I would live, if I could find a job and HP. Out loud I considered him a liability because I was so afraid of being rejected and getting hurt. But deep inside I knew that I may as well have throw out my pro and con list. I just wanted to be closer to hunkypants.

  For the next year and a half we hung out all the time, took in the sights of DC and got to know each other really well. I never had the guts to profess my love but I also felt like he had to know how I felt. It was also clear that he deeply cared about me but he never said it and as each day passed it made me sadder and sadder.

  Over the holidays my dad died suddenly of a heart attack. I decided I needed to move closer to family. My mom was not a mentally stable woman and I wanted to be there for my sisters. Some friends in DC threw me a going away party the night before I left. In all my grief and pain I told HP that I thought it would be best if we simply said goodbye. He had started hanging out with a woman from his church and I couldn't take the ambiguity of it all anymore.

 A few weeks after I had come back to the Midwest I found an apartment with a good friend and found a job and started getting settled into this new life. Then there was a knock on the door. It was HP. He told me he was worried about me and just wanted to check in. I don't know how he found me. I hadn't spoken to him since I left Washington. But there he was, being Mr. Perfect Man, going way out of his way to check on a hurting friend. By then some of the shock of losing my dad had worn off and I knew I needed all the close friends I could get.

After he went back home I started to put my "adult" life together. I was the Executive Director of a shelter for abused women and their children. I was decorating an apartment and buying furniture like a grown up. And on my 25th birthday I met someone.  

HP had gone on to more seriously date the girl he had been hanging out with while I was there and I began a serious, "grown up" relationship. But HP and I remained very close. We talked all the time and saw each other whenever he came into town and for a little while there I think we were happy for each other.

 Then my relationship took a turn for the worse, complicated by the fact that I was pregnant and I suspected he was cheating. To help me decide what to do I had suggested we take a vacation . . . to Washington DC. I wanted HP to meet him and give me some advice and I wanted to just have some concentrated time with the boyfriend to figure out what to do next.

 It was on day two of vacation that it happened. I found myself on a double date with HP and his girlfriend. There I was, seated between the boyfriend and hunkypants, listening to a concert, and I started to cry. The only thing I knew for sure at that moment was that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with HP, not the father of my baby (who NO ONE knew about at the time). I made up some excuse about how beautiful and emotional the music was and excused myself to the restroom.

 A few weeks later my boyfriend and I broke up. A few weeks after that I had a miscarriage that I never told anyone about. I kept in close contact with HP but he continued to date his girlfriend.  When he came to Grand Rapids to visit his parents for Christmas, I knew he had just broken up with his girlfriend. She had told him to propose or get lost. I decided that I had to tell him exactly how I felt and let the chips fall where they may. Tell the truth with no regrets.  But he broke our date and then had to return to DC before I ever got to see him.

I decided to write him a letter and explain to him that from the moment we had met, four and a half years earlier, I had wanted to someday be his wife. I told him that if he asked me to marry him, I would say yes. I told him that I would quit any job and move anywhere to be with him.

 A few days passed and no phone call. A few weeks passed and not even a letter. A few months passed and I got the invitation. The invitation to his wedding, with a handwritten note inside. He told me that I was strong and smart and independent and never acted like I really needed anyone. He said that he needed to feel needed. He wanted to take care of someone and she fit into the mold of his conservative family. She would not rock the boat or make his mom uncomfortable. She wasn't career driven and would be happy at home taking care of a family. How could he have known me so well and been so wrong about me at the same time? How could he not have known that I could be all of those things? Why didn't he know that I was just afraid to ever let him know how much I needed him?

I didn't go to the wedding. I never spoke to hunkypants again.  But I did start seeing a counselor. I was a big tangled up ball of issues that needed unraveling. I did some really hard work and I promised myself that I was not going to become a man hater (even though I thought I had every right to be). So, today I can truly say that I love men!  And I still hope to find one who makes me weak in the knees and blush when I peek at his tush.

That Wasn't Even The Half Of It- The First Time Part 2

The doctor walked in the room and said, "Well the good news is, we have a diagnosis.  You have PCOS- Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome." After the relief of knowing there was a name for what I was going through, reality set in. Out of control weight gain, hair growing in places it shouldn't, fertility problems, extreme hormonal fluxuation and unpredictable periods, to name a few symptoms. I was 21 years old and facing a future that would include daily medications, managing some pretty unfortunate symptoms and some bleak possibilities.

For the next few years it wasn't so bad. Once they found the right birth control pill to manage my cycle I hardly had any pain. But the December after my 25th birthday the medication stopped working so my doctor decided to try a different approach.

A few months later I went back for my annual exam and when my doctor read the results of my blood tests she said that the window for the possibility of ever getting pregnant was closing. As a matter of fact, even with fertility treatment, it might already be gone.

At that point in my life I had learned an important lesson: Once you lose your virginity it's gone, period. I never felt the same. Another thing I knew was that having sex with someone you loved was amazing.  After a very confusing and traumatic "first time" I no longer felt any motivation to restrain myself. I also was in a long distance relationship so everytime I saw my boyfriend we were staying over at each other's apartment. The temptation was too great. And my greatest motivation to wait was gone.

We had been talking about getting married and I told him that after watching friends and family jump into marriage before they really had a chance to get to know one another, I had decided that I would not get married before I had dated someone for all four seasons. We had met in the summer on my birthday and so we talked about getting married the next summer, on my birthday.

But that spring I was beginning to have my doubts. My close friends and family were worried about me too. I kept trying to convince myself that the warning signs were in my head. Not to mention the fact that I felt like my chances at being a mother were fading fast.

After my change in medication, we started using condoms. But we weren't that careful. I was told that I was not ovulating on my own anymore and besides, I was in a monogamous relationship.

At the beginning of June I found out I was pregnant. I was thrilled, disappointed, scared, confused, torn and worried, to name a few of the emotions I was experiencing at the time. I was expecting to elope the next month but I knew that decision was a cop-out on my end. I told myself we were going to run off and get married because he had been married before but deep in my heart I knew I was doing it because none of my close family and friends would be excited about this wedding and really deep down I suspected I wasn't either.

People who loved me were worried and I hadn't even told them about some of the things he had done. I was so confused but I was so in love with this man. I believed in the possibility of who he could become but I knew I didn't trust him.

So I suggested we take a vacation. I thought I would be able to figure out what to do after we had some concentrated time together. The last week of June we packed up the car and drove to Washington DC. His parents had given us a week in their time share and we stayed in Virginia in a beautiful, romantic park overlooking a waterfall.  The whole week I felt like I should be happy but I wasn't. We fought on several occasions but at other moments he treated me like a princess. I finished the week as confused as ever. The only decision I made was that I wasn't going to tell anyone about the baby until after the wedding, including him. At the very least I wanted to know he was deciding to marry me for me, not because of an unplanned pregnancy.

The day, well almost the minute that I got home from our trip my sister called. I don't remember the conversation that well. All I know is that she said she had to tell me something that she knew would hurt me. She said, "Your fiancé was accused of having sex with a woman at a party the week before you went on vacation." My sister said that this woman was saying that it was a rape. I was shattered. I never thought I could hurt that bad.

Hours later, after I had somewhat composed myself and after I knew he had had enough time to drive from Grand Rapids back to Indiana, I called him. Through my tears I told him what I knew. I never even asked if it was true. It was beside the point. I knew it was over. A few days later I drove to Indiana to see him once more face to face. He spoke the words that I couldn't. We went through the details of breaking up. We gave keys back and I gathered the things I had at his apartment and we said goodbye.

A few weeks later I panicked. Again, reality started to set in and I had to decide how to deal with the fact that there was a baby in my belly. I wrote him a letter begging him to go to counseling, talk to my pastor, go to his parents for help, do any and everything to make it up to me and promise to become the man I knew he really wanted to be.

Weeks passed and I heard nothing. Then I started bleeding.  I went to the doctor and there was no detectable heartbeat. I had lost the baby. At that time I still hadn't told anyone about the baby. I had the procedure alone. Then went onwith life trying to pretend like nothing had happened. A few weeks later, as my head started to clear, I knew I needed to be tested for STDs and HIV.  I was so ashamed of myself that I decided to never tell anyone about my baby or any of it . . . until last year.


Why last year? Well, I was 41 years old, strangely sick and no one could tell me why. It wasn't the PCOS. Six years ago I had started hemmoraging really bad, after bleeding for nine months straight. I was 35 years old and I had to have a radical hysterectomy- no more ovaries, no uterus, no cervix. It was all removed. I had grown a cyst the size of a football so it all had to come out.

Now I was throwing up all the time and no one knew why. Last year, in about May, I began to wonder if the secrets and pain of the past were making me sick. I decided to try to find him, after 15 years, and tell him about the baby, to talk about everything. The details of that conversation don't matter. He doesn't matter anymore. But I knew that telling him was only the first step in coming clean.  

I had to tell those people who loved me the most. One by one, I very unpoetically blurted out my story. It's been hard, really emotionally exhausting, but in the end good. Which is why I'm now telling you. Maybe my story can help someone else make better choices than I did. I haven't stopped throwing up all the time yet, but here's hoping.

My First Time

My mom was a very crazy but kind of progressive woman. When I turned 16 she sat me down and we had our umpteenth conversation about sex. Only this time her focus was only on birth control. She explained all the options and how to get them and then told me that when I needed to, come to her and she would be happy to help me get what I needed. Several times I tried to stop this heart to heart then finally I interrupted her and said, "MOM, I'm telling you, I am waiting for marriage. We do not need to have this conversation right now." Then I paused and said, "Let me amend that- marriage or 25 (which sounded ages away). I don't think even God would expect me to wait any longer than that." I smiled and she hugged me and we laughed together. It was a really good moment in what was otherwise a very rocky relationship.

All through high school and college I had fun dates, a few boyfriends and a couple times I thought I had found "the one". After college, I even followed a guy to Washington DC and lived there for two years because I was sure he was it, but he wasn't. Through all of those years I kept my promise to myself to wait for marriage, to be pure. I totally expected that I would only truly share my whole self with one man, my husband.

Then I met Joe. My dad had died suddenly of a heart attack a few months before and I had moved back to Grand Rapids so I would be closer to my mom and three younger sisters. The weekend of my 25th birthday I came home to Indiana to celebrate with family. When I walked in the house my mom introduced me to a coworker who had stopped by to do some sort of home repair for her. I was immediately attracted and his pop-in to screw or nail or weld whatever he was fixing turned into a five hour conversation on the front steps. As he was leaving I told him that I was having a pool party on Sunday for my birthday and he should stop by. And he did.

The next week he drove two hours north and visited me. A few weeks later he told me he loved me. Long distance bills piled up, our gas money got steep and we were spending every minute we could together. Neither one of us had a cell phone yet but I had to carry a pager for work and throughout the day it would beep with the numbers 143- I (1 letter) LOVE (4 letters) YOU (3 letters).

Now Joe was not the kind of man I thought I would end up with. He was 30 years old, had been married before- TWICE, and was a security guard at a maximum security prison. Frankly, he was not the man anyone thought I would end up with but no one had any doubt that I had fallen hard for this guy.

Early in our relationship I sat down with him and gave my own sex talk. I told him that I knew this would be hard for him but I was really committed to waiting. I told him about a sermon my pastor had preached where he took two pieces of duct tape and stuck them to each other then showed us how practically impossible it was to tear them apart. He then took two other pieces and stuck one to the pulpit and one to the carpet. He then ripped them off and stuck one to his jacket and the other to his hand. Then he tried to stick them to each other and they would not stick. He compared this to sex and said the more partners each person has slept with before they find each other the harder it will be to really bond. I told Joe, "Honey, I want to be sticky. You are not as sticky, I'm not sure where this is going and I want to give my marriage the best chance to create as strong a bond as possible." He laughed and hugged me then cupped his hands around  my cheeks and told me that he respected and loved me for being sticky and he could honor my wishes. I could trust him.

The evening before Thanksgiving, Joe was in town and so were some friends from college. We made plans to all meet at a fancy restaurant and I was really excited to introduce them to my boyfriend. We had so much fun! I remember feeling so happy, so safe, so comfortable. My friends and I ordered a pitcher of Sangria, Joe drank a beer and we had some fantastic food. At one point in the evening I leaned over and whispered to Joe about who was going to drive back to my apartment. He said he would switch to water and for me not to worry about a thing. So I poured myself another glass of Sangria. Then my friend poured me a glass, then her husband poured me a glass and it was only when I went to stand up to leave that I realized I was really drunk. I remember coming back to my apartment and kissing Joe. The rest of the night is a bit of a blur.

I woke up very early in the morning with a terrible headache and a funny feeling. How did I get to bed? Where were my underwear? Why did I notice some blood after I went to the bathroom? I started to panic and woke up Joe and asked what happened when we came home from our date. Then he said it, "We made love." My head was spinning. I started crying and I fell to the floor. He picked me up and said, "I know you want me to regret it but I don't, it's natural and I love you." I racked my head for any memory of it. Vague images flashed in my brain.

Then I pushed him away and said, "But I trusted you. I never trust anyone but I trusted you! You knew what I wanted. You promised me that it was fine with you. You told me that you even wanted to wait with me. You wanted it to be special. I can't even remember it!!!." And I stormed out of the room.


The next few hours I sat on the couch while Joe slept in my twin bed. I was convinced that I had let it happen, that he couldn't help it, that I was to blame for having too much to drink. My final assessment was that the only way to make this feel ok was to assure myself that at the very least he would be "the one" and technically, still I will have only ever been with my husband.

We had a comepletely silent drive to Indiana for what was my first family holiday without my dad. My mom had decided that she couldn't bare making dinner so for the first (and only) time in my life I had Thanksgiving dinner at The Old Country Buffet. The worst holiday of my life, filled with firsts.

It took me years to forgive myself for that night and much longer for me to realize the truth about that night. It was the night that I was raped by my boyfriend. It took me many more months to break it off but thank God, he did not become my husband. And I am A okay about that.