Fire and Rain

When I was in high school, a very attractive, athletic classmate asked me out. I had only been going to that school for a year, and I had become friends with his sister. Although I was very attracted to him, I turned him down. At this point in life, my self-esteem was so low, having years upon years of “you’re so ugly, you’ll never get married, nobody wants to marry a fat pig, you’re just like your great, great grandmother, a bitch, no one will ever love you, you’re just not worthy” drilled into my head that I actually believed it. The guys I was interested in never had anything to do with me, and the one’s I wasn’t interested in flocked to me. Guys would say they’d “tap that” but that was about it, another notch on their belt. So when this guy asked me out, I categorized him as one of those people, and I never gave him the chance to find out if he was, in fact, different. If he actually liked me or saw me as another notch on his belt. I’d just broken up with a guy who slept with a friend of mine because I wouldn’t sleep with him, so that was that.

I’ve spent years chasing those demons, dealing with different forms of abuse that had me wanting to commit suicide by fourth grade. And I would have if a teacher wouldn’t have entered my life at that moment. I couldn’t see how life would ever get better, and I was so isolated from love that I didn’t know it existed in the world. She taught me otherwise, and for 30+ years, I held on to the notion that I’d one day thank her for saving my life. I got that opportunity three years ago, and it’s been like she’s been in my life all of these years.

Despite years of depression, suicidal thoughts, and secretly drinking my pain away, something always made me hold on. Maybe it was that love that that teacher showed or maybe it was a power greater than I was. Maybe God placed her in my life at that moment to show me hope existed. It didn’t last long though. The negative slurs always outweighed the positive, and to me, everything about life was darkness.

I’d been through so much in life by the time I joined the military that I was prime pickings for them. With their constant slogans of “Army of One,” “Be all you can be,” or “Aim High,” I finally felt like I could serve a greater purpose, that my worth would be recognized. But that never happened because females are treated like sex objects in the military. You’re either a “slut,” “a bitch,” or a “dyke,” all of which the men throw around for various reasons. Women are sluts if they sleep around just like men do. You’re a bitch or a dyke if you don’t want to sleep with a guy. These two were reserved for me. I couldn’t see dating guys who treated women like doormats on a regular basis, how being in a relationship with them would make them more loving, less controlling, more respectful of me as a person.

Growing up with an absentee father and three POS stepfathers, I already knew the types of men that I didn’t want to date or marry. That seemed to be the same type of men I attracted, so I didn’t stay in those relationships very long. My mother always said I was too picky, but you’d think that would be a good thing. Others say, “Oh Brandy, she’s an old maid. She’ll never get married.” They’ll never understand that part of me being single is the abuse I’ve suffered my whole life, that their words had power over the thoughts I had about myself. And they’ll never understand how much their words hurt, even now, and they’ll never admit that they did anything or said anything wrong. They’ll say that they never said anything or did anything to hurt me. But the truth is, they don’t get to say that their words didn’t hurt me. Only I can say that.

The military only served to repeat this cycle, always feeling like a failure, never feeling worthy for anything I did. The sexual harassment and innuendo was rampant, and I absolutely hated going to work. I literally felt ill walking down the hall to my office, knowing what I was going to have to deal with. I’d start having migraines; my body would ache all over. On some days, I’d have a few drinks before I went to work just so I could deal with the BS. And when I said something to supervision about there being a problem with “sexual harassment,” well, I became the problem. I was moved to different shifts so that I wouldn’t have to hear it. I was denied medals because my shop didn’t want to recognize that I had done outstanding work, that I had won numerous awards, especially on deployments. I actually had to go outside of my shop to ask higher ups to intervene. It took years for me to finally say something about the harassment, mainly because I had learned to believe my whole life that I wasn’t worthy of anything anyway, so why would I be worthy of respect and equality at this stage in life. I didn’t want to hurt people’s careers because “boys were being boys,” because let’s face it, men don’t treat women this way. Sometimes, I wish I would have tried to ruin careers, maybe paved a way for women behind me. But I know that wouldn’t have happened either, not with the mentality of the military constantly covering up rape and sexual harassment by boys and blaming the women for everything.

Over the last five years, I’ve went through many trials. The loss of my father triggered years of abuse and trauma from before and during the military. When life started spiraling out of control, I wanted nothing more than to pick up the bottle again, to drown myself in liquid courage that never did anything except make life worse. I wanted nothing more than to drop out of school, run away, reinvent myself the way I did with each deployment or each TDY. I wanted life to be different, thinking that a new place would somehow bring me that comfort. A professor had noticed that my writing had changed, that I was different in class, and she asked me to please get help. And on my second session, I promised my counselor and myself that for the first time, I wouldn’t run away, I wouldn’t pick up the bottle.

There are many aspects of my life that have been downright miserable and depressing the last few years; constantly seeing images that haunt me; waking up panicked, can’t breathe because invisible smoke invades my lungs, thinking that the house is on fire; hearing whistles in the air that almost cause me to wreck my car as I slam the steering wheel across three lanes, almost hit a wall, and duck for cover; hearing that voice in the back of my head that says no one will miss you if you end it now because you’re not important, you’re not worthy, no one will ever love you, you’re a cold-hearted bitch, you’re so selfish…things drilled into me over my lifetime.

There have been many negatives. But through all of it, I’ve met some really amazing people. People who finally helped me understand the power of words, that words only have value and meaning if we allow them too. That the negative things people say to us are a true reflection of how they feel about themselves, but they will never admit that. That our worth is measured by our own standards and no one else’s. I’ve learned these things through self-reflection in writing. I’ve learned these things in hundreds of hours of therapy. Therapy is not a onetime session. We can’t keep putting Band-Aids on problems with drugs and alcohol because we are afraid of our own demons. We have to face those demons and defeat them in battle, because yes, it is a battle, a battle for our soul. In the words of James Taylor, throughout my life, I’ve seen fire, and I’ve seen rain, but I’ve also seen sunny days again. Those days are made possible by the positive people I’ve surrounded myself with because they have helped me understand the person I really am. They’ve touched my life in ways I can never explain, and some say I’ve done the same for them, and I’m thankful for both of those facts.

As I write this, I think of that guy in high school, the one I never gave a chance because I didn’t feel worthy of his attention. I’ll never know for sure if he really liked me or if he thought I was another notch on his belt. And it doesn’t matter what the truth is. In reality, him asking me out, despite not having the courage to say yes, made me feel beautiful, made me feel worthy. I think about this all-American boy who seemed to have it all when life was hell for me, and I’m burdened that he feels his life has went to “shit,” that he should just end it all, that he doesn’t recognize his own self-worth. And I wonder, what would have happened if I had said yes. I wonder what would have happened if we had reconnected during a period of life where we were both in a “good place.” After all these years, I hold a special place for him in my heart because of the way he made me feel that day, a moment in time that never fades. Sometimes i want to just say, "Hey, let's grab a coffee and talk about life." And now, as he contemplates life and death, thinks he’s a failure in life or as a father because he has chosen to believe what others say to or about him, I want to return the favor. I want him to know that if he gets the help he needs, if he surrounds himself with good people, then there will be sunny days for him again too!