Bruce
I met Bruce when I was 17. It was love at first sight. He was a curly headed musician, and he was irresistible. He played with a group of friends, some less good than him. We spent many nights jamming. I too had a guitar, and played along.
He got me pregnant. Then he said "It's not my problem." I cracked him over the head with a rubber tree, had the abortion, and that was that. Did break my heart, especially in later years. These things creep up on you on slow, padded feet. You don't realize how much they mean until they're staring you in the face.
Many years later, I was moving to Paris. My parents and I were living in Wilmington, DE. I got a call.
Bruce had tracked us down. Did I want to come see him and his girlfriend? Sure. Why not?
He lived in a shabby apartment in a bad area of town, I was pleased to see. The girlfriend was a skinny dog, I was even more pleased to see. He'd never gotten his degree. He worked in a factory, doing I know not what. Seeing him was a revelation. There, but for the grace of God, was the father of my child.
I moved to Paris months later, to model. And I never thought of him again, for many more years.
Love is a funny thing. You can be head over heels, and have it chopped off like it never was, in one fell swoop. After that scene where I crashed the rubber tree on his head, my love was gone with the wind. Especially after seeing him in that dump, with his skanky girlfriend. There wasn't a hint of my gorgeous Bruce left in him. It was all ashes and dust in my mouth.
My Mom couldn't believe I even wanted to see him.
"Why would you want to see that loser again?"
"I'm not sure. To see what he's made of himself, I guess."
He'd made nothing. I saw the guitar in the corner, covered with dust. When I walked in, he picked it up and began to play Stairway to Heaven, badly. It was well and truly over.
January 01, 2010
My brother is coming by today. My brother is a story unto himself. It's hard for me to see him, talk to him, hang out with him.
I'll tell you something I've never told another living soul.
When I was five, he and a friend were in our guest room with me. I remember the nobby red bedspread of the guest room, and the overhead light that was on. My brother Ted Bigham (different fathers) was a big boy, and thirteen years older than me.
They pulled down my panties and shoved fingers into me. I remember the pain, the stark pain of it. And the shame. Even at that age I knew something wasn't right.
They took turns fingering me. Seems I recall his friend had bright red hair, limned by the overhead light. Where were my parents? All I know is they left me in his care.
The tears didn't stop falling. Pain, panic. That was my first panic attack. I remember it in bits and pieces, and I know there was more to it.
Many years later, I went to a gynecologist for the first time.
I was not a virgin, at eleven years old. Had been riding horses since I was three, so they wrote it off to that. At that point, I didn't recall.
It didn't come back to me until I was in my thirties. Then I remembered the finger, the bedspread, and that pain. That awful, dry, ripping pain.
My best friend is telling me not to blog this. Yes I'm going to blog it. If there's the slightest chance some child reads this, decides to tell her parents what's happened to her, gets it stopped... it would be worth it. Saving one child would be worth it.
When my mother was near death, we discussed it. But my brother could do no wrong. Drug dealing, kiting checks - he could do no wrong. So she didn't believe me.
My father, on the other hand, believed every word. Of course Ted wasn't his son. So perhaps that made it easier on him, and harder on my brother.
Both my parents are gone now. I adored my mother, but I still hold it against her that, in my time of most need, she simply didn't believe me. And she knew I didn't lie. Knew for a fact.
I was raised that if you fucked up, that was one thing. Lie about it and you really got punished. So I've never lied. Blunt to a fault.
Mom, why would I have lied? What possible good did it to me to come up with a story like that? Just to hurt you? You know I worshiped you, and I would never do anything to hurt you. Dad and I protected you from bad things all your life.
This was one thing I needed you to believe in. I don't know what I expected. Horror, perhaps. A hug. An apology for leaving me with him on so many nights, when he so obviously wasn't trustworthy.
I didn't expect you to call me a liar. I didn't expect you to stick up for Ted, once again.
Ten years ago, on your deathbed, you admitted that Ted is what he is. A thief, a drug dealer, an abuser. Finally. And I guess, after all these years, I'll have to be satisfied with that.
I have discussed this abuse with my psychiatrist over the years. I've come to terms with it. I mostly date women these days, out of personal preference. No relationship with a man has ever worked out.
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