Dear Damien

My roots begin in the dirty south.  I was born on September 16, 1972.  My parents were 16 at the time of my birth and my birth is spoken of a lot among those that were there.  My mother had a difficult delivery.  The doctors could not find my heartbeat and as I began to crown, the doctor told my father that my “soft spot” was that of a stillborn.  The waiting room was filled with family members as well as a mortician in a black suit smoking cigarette after cigarette.  He was waiting to take me away; with my Momma or without.

A storm was blowing and tornados were cited on that day.  When I was born, they wrapped me up.  No heartbeat.  No life.  Only they were wrong.  I fooled them.  The doctor was so amazed that he took me out covered in afterbirth and declared me to be the miracle baby of 72.  It took a few days to shake the grey off my new human form.  My Great Grandmother Sadie-a child born to a Native American and an English Witch said I had been born without a veil; that in my rush the Angels did not have time to take away my soul’s memory of what I had left behind.  Sadie whispered to my Momma, “She was born without a veil.  She’ll speak to the other side.”  And I did.  And I have.  And I continue to do so.

I was a good baby by all accounts.  I was a fast walker and talker.  My parents recall that I didn’t like to be touched though more likely I was a self soother which was probably good with such young, green parents.  I remember there always being a lot of teenagers in and out of our home though my parents were rarely in the same room or in the house at the same time.  I recall having conversations with my sister when she couldn’t possibly have been able to talk.  The world was big and full of magic. 

Elvis died on the same day I came home to find that my Daddy have moved out.  My Daddy had not been much of a husband.  He much preferred the company of his friends, smoking pot, getting drunk and chasing girls who didn’t know he had a wife and two kids at home.  Why would they?  He was only 18 years old.  My Daddy wasn’t much of a husband and Momma wasn’t much of a wife.  In Daddy’s absence, she became smitten with a young blonde cousin of Daddy’s.  The affair gave Daddy permission to leave.  They were 21.

My Daddy with all of his faults, was a good guy.  He had been raised in a good home as an only child to good people.  My cousin Twain had spent his childhood in an orphanage when his alcoholic mother could not raise him properly.  He was mean and violent.  I adored my Mother and would endure the turbulence to be with her.  She was blonde and beautiful and smelled of baby shampoo.  I almost felt I was there to protect her.  Sometimes there was no food.  Sometimes there was no heat.  She was pregnant with my half brother who was also my cousin technically.  My sister and I stayed at Sadie’s while she was in the hospital.  She went back to work and I began expecting her to pick me up after school but days and weeks passed.  I realized she wasn’t coming back.  I cried for three days without a bother to eat or sleep.  They say you forget pain but you don’t.  I’ve never forgotten that feeling and I’ve avoided being left behind my whole life.  I would say good bye first.  I would leave before they could.  My sister who was 5 and says she wasn’t that bothered by Momma’s abandonment is the same way.  We also both share a dislike for Mother figures.

Daddy knew that he was no kind of role model, and we lived with Sadie for a while before living with my Father’s parents.  Daddy lived a few houses away and ate dinner with us every night.  Grandma and Grandpa Jones were not raising girls, they intended to raise ladies.  Any manners and graces I ever learned were learned while living with them.   Years passed.  I saw Momma sometimes, and then not all but I never stopped longing for her.  She was where I wanted to be.  My father married his long time girlfriend and we moved in with them.  Another half brother was born.  For a short time, I felt I had a normal family.

After several years of no contact, she returned when I was 11.  She was engaged to a man who was a correctional officer which she made sound like he was really important.  What we found was a man you might describe as a Hungry Ghost.  I wanted my Mother’s love so desperately, that I went to that prison as often as I could.  He was a monster who felt he was entitled to whatever came in his reach.  I told my Momma that he had touched me but she said I had taken it wrong.  I tried to kill myself three months later.  Momma said I was just looking for attention.

Daddy’s alcoholism had hit an all time high.  I was constantly dueling with the Demon Alcohol.  My Momma had convinced me I had taken it wrong and I wanted to get away from Daddy’s drinking.  I thought I had made it all up in my head.  I moved in with Momma.  I moved into prison.  They really aren’t different after they leave work.  They come in and try to run their houses in the same way.  I was bullied and constantly fighting advances, being robbed of my self esteem and feeling as if I wasn’t safe anywhere.  I lived inside my head, searched for new age answers, wore a lot of black and imagined marrying Nikki Sixx as soon as I turned 18.

Instead, I left it.  I got out, quit school and learned the art of survival.  It is an art form.  I got a few good breaks.  Good things happened but I fought the effects of that abuse for years.  I think that’s why I’ve never stayed in one place very long.  I continued to beg for my Momma’s love and her husband continued to feel he had a right to make passes and try to touch me.  I put on a lot of weight hiding from men but wanting them at the same time.  Nothing truly changed until I visited my Momma in 2005 while living in Chicago.  He made a scene of coming in on me while I was taking a bath, wouldn’t leave and traumatized me.  Afterwards, he admitted to it when my brother Jeremy confronted him about it.  My Momma heard it.  She knew.  After years and years, she finally knew the truth.  She stayed with him.  It was at that point I was free to give up on her and start healing.   Healing is an operative word though, isn’t it?  At the time that felt like what I was doing.   Later, life has shown me different.  I still have a very long way to go.

I guess in telling you all of this, I want you to know I understand at least in part what you go through.  I know that special kind of monster that you deal with everyday.  I know what you mean and that makes knowing you’re there at no fault of your own so much harder to deal with.  I suppose we were both innocents…born with greatness but held down by something.  Life is suffering.  It’s true.  And what you said about pain being at the root of true wisdom?  I believe that too.

Momma is dying.  We’ve been astranged for years.  When I was little, I was warned about black people hurting me.  What somebody should have warned me about was that my love would be used against me and real monsters can come in and destroy your family.  My Sister tried to have a relationship with her.  She saw her as a victim but now she knows better.  It’s just taken her longer to see it.  I feel for her.  I’ve forgiven her role in it.  My Daddy gave up drinking and I forgave him.  He is a great friend to me. Somehow, it is harder to forgive my Momma’s husband because I do not see him as human.  I see him as a form of evil.  I still fantasize about pissing on his grave.  God, I hope they give that fat bastard a grave.  Cremation would be a waste on him and I deserve getting the chance to fulfill that fantasy.

I met a lady once and she said that you can forgive anyone by taking away the personal effect.  See that person as a stranger.  See that person like someone cutting you off in traffic.  I sometimes wonder what my life would have been if I had grown up in the normal ways.  No monsters.  No pain.  I imagine I would have been boring and that is something I’m never accused of.  I am strong.  I do not ask for anything from anyone almost to a fault. 

Unfortunately, what I have shared with you is not anything I share with others.  I don’t know how without feeling I’m a victim.  I meet people and they don’t have a clue.  It sometimes stands in the way.  It has recently. 

I live in a small college town.  Not long after moving here, I met a college professor.  I sure didn’t see him coming.  I figured him for the type to get inside my head.  I just didn’t expect him to move the furniture around.  The man has done everything right.  He did 4 years in the Marines.  He went on to get a Ph.D .  He teaches four hours a week in the Masters Department and makes six figures.  He’s impressive.  I guess that’s the best word.  He looks good on paper.  He’s incredibly beautiful like Narcissus and I feel like Echo.  I am Echo.

I wanted so much to impress him.  I’m a clever girl.  I’ve mixed and mingled with lots of impressive people and I dodged the where I come from and where I’ve been.  I show dominance and it’s not questioned. 

Robert saw through it.  He called me on my bullshit.  Who was I to tell him he was a Libra therefore he was indecisive and had his own concept of time?  He got so angry!  Historically, he’s proven me right but at the time he was so mad that I would try to tell him who he was!  He walked away from me fast and I was relieved.  When he showed back up and asked if I would like to try again, I was excited and very nervous.

I didn’t try to glamour him.  I tried to bend to him; something I’ve never done.  He then says to me, “You know what you are?  You’re a submissive. ..”

In one of your letters you told me that you’d like to design a tarot card deck around BDSM.  Do you remember this?  I didn’t understand this at the time.  It was out of my realm of experience.  Robert opened that realm up to me quickly.  I loved the need to serve him that I felt.  I couldn’t speak or share as I’m sharing with you, but I loved being submissive to him.

Being under his control and completely out of my own released something inside of me.  I learned that a slap to my face or being denied orgasm or being called a slut…things that should be painful added to my pleasure and made me feel more alive than I had ever felt.    I was masterslaved and as hard as I try, I find it hard to put into words.

Can I tell you about my experiences?  I need to put them down.  I want to share them with you and yet I do not want to offend you.  I wrote about one experience in my blog and a couple of my readers flipped out.  They couldn’t handle hearing of anyone showing dominance over me.

The power of our relationship isn’t the problem.  It’s the issue of me being unable to share my feelings.  I can’t be open about myself.  I know that it’s because I feel inferior.  I spent a life time surviving instead of thriving.  I haven’t accomplished what he’s accomplished.  My life has been different and I don’t know how to talk about it.  I’m embarrassed and afraid of rejection.  I’m afraid he’ll walk away and not just over a silly fight to come back but that if he knows how weak I’ve been and how I never got beyond the struggle of life, that he will abandon me and I’ll never feel what I feel with him.  I won’t have the chance to heal and that’s what he is for me.  He heals my broken places.

I know that you don’t have time to write and yet I long for your thoughts on what I’ve written.  I wonder if you think I’m insane to tell you all of this.  I wonder if you want to know more. 

Love and God,

Echo xxx