Torrey
09-28-2012, 08:20 PM
Perhaps this little event in my life will resonate with some of you. Maybe, just maybe, it fits into that cliche that tells us we are, essentially, the sum of our experiences. I think the equation is more complicated; that there are variables beyond the reach of measurement. It’s the old nature versus nurture argument. I’d say it’s a gumbo comprised of both. Still, I would not be who I am without the cumulative effects of everything that has happened along the way.
I arose early one morning at the age of thirteen to find my father in one of his classic moods. He snarled at me as I walked to the kitchen. I knew it was about to hit the proverbial fan.
“Are you a freak?” he asked.
“Um, no,” I answered with a very weak voice.
“Yes, you are. Joyce just called, and I know what you did last weekend. What’s wrong with you?”
My voice caught in my throat. I could not speak. Though I could not conceive of how he found out, no doubt existed in my mind what it was he knew.
“The next time you decide to go through some girl’s clothes and dress up like a circus freak,” he said, “you should make sure the drapes are closed!”
Yeah, that was it.
“An old couple next door watched you for a long time. They told Joyce’s roommate everything. Now Joyce has to find a new place to live! Do you know what you’ve done?”
Well, as rhetorical questions go...
Joyce was my father’s 21 year old girlfriend. Closer to my age than his (50ish), she lived in the nearest big city, about 5 hours away. Most of the time, either he went to visit her, leaving me alone, or she came to visit at our farm. She had an older, female roommate who owned the house they shared. For some odd reason, the previous weekend, I’d gone with the old man.
I generally enjoyed being left alone for those weekends when he would visit Joyce. I did my chores, watched a lot of TV, and generally stayed out of trouble. I never threw a party; I never invited friends over; I just...was. As an only child, I had already reached a comfort zone being alone with my thoughts.
The weekends Joyce visited us, on the other hand, were exhilarating. They would always go out dancing, drinking, and whatever else adults did in those days...and I would be alone with her clothes. I tried to be very careful putting everything back in exactly the same place, folded the same way. The problem became an overwhelming anxiety, a nervous giddiness, if you will, in anticipation of the time I would have access to dress.
Since we lived on a farm, with our closest neighbor over a mile away, I did not learn (until it was too late) about back lighting, but I did always keep a watchful eye out on the long driveway for headlights. Only once had I been caught off guard and forced to scramble out of pantyhose and a bra before the car reached the crushed limestone of the oval drive in the yard.
I had been up to this for over a year when we made our trip to the city. The roommate went away for the weekend. Joyce and my father, of course, headed out on the town both nights. The first night, I explored the house and only spent a minute or two in Joyce’s room. The second day, I was as bored as could be by the time they left. Within minutes, I was in the roommate’s room, and began dressing. Yes, the lights were on in the room, and it never occurred to me to close the drapes.
By the end of the night, I put everything back where I remembered. Now, I faced my judge, jury, and executioner. He went from zero-to-psycho in the blink of an eye. He frothed at the mouth. He ranted. He raved.
I was a freak.
I was insane.
I needed to be institutionalized.
I needed medication.
Shock therapy might work...
Military school...
Are you gay?
What is wrong with you?
Do you want to be a girl?
What?
A girl. Do you want to be a girl?
And then like Peter in Gethsemane, I denied “her.” I had so vehemently denied all the other allegations, that when my father actually asked me the one question I wanted to answer (and had for years), I panicked. In retrospect, it may have been a trap. A positive answer may have been followed very quickly by electrodes protruding from various body parts. I’ll never know.
I arose early one morning at the age of thirteen to find my father in one of his classic moods. He snarled at me as I walked to the kitchen. I knew it was about to hit the proverbial fan.
“Are you a freak?” he asked.
“Um, no,” I answered with a very weak voice.
“Yes, you are. Joyce just called, and I know what you did last weekend. What’s wrong with you?”
My voice caught in my throat. I could not speak. Though I could not conceive of how he found out, no doubt existed in my mind what it was he knew.
“The next time you decide to go through some girl’s clothes and dress up like a circus freak,” he said, “you should make sure the drapes are closed!”
Yeah, that was it.
“An old couple next door watched you for a long time. They told Joyce’s roommate everything. Now Joyce has to find a new place to live! Do you know what you’ve done?”
Well, as rhetorical questions go...
Joyce was my father’s 21 year old girlfriend. Closer to my age than his (50ish), she lived in the nearest big city, about 5 hours away. Most of the time, either he went to visit her, leaving me alone, or she came to visit at our farm. She had an older, female roommate who owned the house they shared. For some odd reason, the previous weekend, I’d gone with the old man.
I generally enjoyed being left alone for those weekends when he would visit Joyce. I did my chores, watched a lot of TV, and generally stayed out of trouble. I never threw a party; I never invited friends over; I just...was. As an only child, I had already reached a comfort zone being alone with my thoughts.
The weekends Joyce visited us, on the other hand, were exhilarating. They would always go out dancing, drinking, and whatever else adults did in those days...and I would be alone with her clothes. I tried to be very careful putting everything back in exactly the same place, folded the same way. The problem became an overwhelming anxiety, a nervous giddiness, if you will, in anticipation of the time I would have access to dress.
Since we lived on a farm, with our closest neighbor over a mile away, I did not learn (until it was too late) about back lighting, but I did always keep a watchful eye out on the long driveway for headlights. Only once had I been caught off guard and forced to scramble out of pantyhose and a bra before the car reached the crushed limestone of the oval drive in the yard.
I had been up to this for over a year when we made our trip to the city. The roommate went away for the weekend. Joyce and my father, of course, headed out on the town both nights. The first night, I explored the house and only spent a minute or two in Joyce’s room. The second day, I was as bored as could be by the time they left. Within minutes, I was in the roommate’s room, and began dressing. Yes, the lights were on in the room, and it never occurred to me to close the drapes.
By the end of the night, I put everything back where I remembered. Now, I faced my judge, jury, and executioner. He went from zero-to-psycho in the blink of an eye. He frothed at the mouth. He ranted. He raved.
I was a freak.
I was insane.
I needed to be institutionalized.
I needed medication.
Shock therapy might work...
Military school...
Are you gay?
What is wrong with you?
Do you want to be a girl?
What?
A girl. Do you want to be a girl?
And then like Peter in Gethsemane, I denied “her.” I had so vehemently denied all the other allegations, that when my father actually asked me the one question I wanted to answer (and had for years), I panicked. In retrospect, it may have been a trap. A positive answer may have been followed very quickly by electrodes protruding from various body parts. I’ll never know.