Tag Archives: insecurities

1984 Brutal Truth: Fever

Fever

Every day in school a feverish nightmare was likely to occur.  Back then I was unaware of my learning disability and knew nothing of dyslexia.

This is my story.  A brutal truth, unknowingly living with dyslexia in 1984.

1984 Brutal Truth
Fever

“…fever…”

Fever should rhyme with never. Right? This was my only thought as I stared at the foreign word. Standing at the front of the room, I could barely see over the podium. I clutched the open book in my hands. The black letters swelled as the many faces of my grade four class blurred and shimmered in my peripheral.

“What?” Mr. Moir asked not bothering to leave his desk.

Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose from beneath his glasses. He was a stout man who liked to wear the color of oatmeal. Across the top of his shiny head strands of hair laid like lines in the sky after an air show. There was no sympathy in his expression once he dragged his palm down his rough chin. He looked tired and even a little annoyed. Meanwhile,

I was the one facing my worst fear;

standing in front of my entire class reading a passage I had never laid eyes on before.  It took everything I had not to cry or pee my pants and my teacher looked bored.

He scratched the air with his finger as a gesture for me to bring the book to him. When I did so, I pointed at the word with my chewed down finger nail.

“Fever.” He said these two ugly syllables in a way that showed his crowded bottom teeth.

I had never been eye level with Mr. Mori before and did not care for it at all.

“Fever.” I echoed in a whisper. “But it looks like never,” I dared to explain.

His face crumpled as if he were refraining from saying,

‘stupid girl.’

Then, from behind me, the tempered giggles and snorts that I ignored, became alive. The entire room erupted into laughter and I saw the jagged line of Mr. Moir’s teeth again. He too was laughing.

My face grew hot and my eyes burned. I felt so small and naked.  Ice cold realization hit me;

this was where my nightmares lived. 

Closed in by the chalkboard wall, the giant teacher’s desk, and the podium, I was trapped by fear and humiliation. This moment stretched on and slithered around me, swaying the room. Once the clatter of laughter subsided there was no apology or even pointless face covering. I was not asked to return to my seat. Instead, mercilessly, Mr. Moir pointed to the podium.

“Proceed.” He said as if nothing had happened.

I was not yet freed from this nightmare.

I am dyslexic and this is my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

1986 – Sad

1989 – Panic

1990 – Fear

1992 – Anger

1993- Crushed

1995 – Fraud

Victim Blaming

I blame myself.

He attacked me and I didn’t tell.

Victim Blaming
Victim Blaming – Break the silence

Why are we programmed not to tell?

This is my first Me too story.

Even at the tender age of eleven, I could not climb the stairs from the basement to tell my parents what had happened.  What is more upsetting is that I am uncertain to why. I may have been afraid of not being believed although, it is more likely that I feared being blamed. Instead of saying anything, I slipped soundlessly into a chair at the kitchen table to sit next to the middle brother, Wes. The only one in that house whom I trusted.

“Johnny tried to kiss you, didn’t he?”

 

Johnny was Wes’ older brother and this omission was in the form of a question. This startled me, but I could only nod. Wes was doing his homework and I sat stunned, scared and unmoving. Until, of course, his dad came in. This wiry man was my mother’s best friend’s husband and he shooed me away to the basement again.
“Wes doesn’t need any distraction during his studies.” His father had said.

The meager smile the boy gave me was meant as an apology.  Wes knew what the basement would hold for me and didn’t tell.

Victim Blaming
Victim Blaming
Slowly, I descended the stairs in my fuzzy pink pajamas with purple feet and mitten-shaped pockets. There, Johnny was with his littlest brother, setting up a board game. On the floor at the opposite end of the coffee table seemed the safest place for me. So, I masked my reluctance and joined. How could I have known that from beneath the table his leg crossed the distance? Every time he tried cramming his foot into my crotch, I smacked it away. On the third try, he sent his little brother upstairs.
The words “don’t go” were stuck in my throat as I scrambled to my feet.
Before I knew what was happening, he had me pinned down on the couch and I can still remember is crushing weight. In my panicked frenzy, I somehow managed to get away. Straight up two flights of stairs, I ran clutching the waist of my pajama bottoms.  I hid under the covers of where I would be sleeping that night; except, I didn’t sleep. I sobbed quietly, gripped by the fear that Johnny would try again. Luckily, he did not.

  Memory is a funny thing. Somehow, for awhile I was able to get passed

Victim Blaming
Victim Blaming

that night at my parent’s friend’s house. There were a few years of blissful forgetfulness and denial. Until one day that memory came crashing back fully loaded with the fear of an eleven-year-old child.

In grade ten drama class, we were to perform self-written monologues. One of these performances was of an intimate account of a sexual assault from the point of view of the victim as if he were talking to his counselor. Everything he said bore into a wound I hadn’t known was there. The memory of my attack resurfaced and it distorted all that I knew and tainted every relationship I had. Resentment chewed away at me and left a predominate chip.
  Mercifully, I never saw Johnny again. But, even now, thirty years later, on those rare occasions, his name is mentioned in casual conversation I stiffen and my stomach twists. That night will play over in my head and the agonizing self-deprecation begins.
 
I should have recognized the danger in the way he looked at me.
I should have declined the can of pop he offered me.
I should have kept my distance and not stood next to him when we were picking out a movie.
I should not have changed into my pajamas.
I should have…
I should have…
I should have…
 

I should have told someone.

 
 No one blames the victim more than the victim blames themselves.
 

 This needs to change! Why did I feel the need the justify how old I was or what I was wearing?  Would I have been lesser of a victim if I had been eighteen, full figured and scantily dressed?  The answer is NO!  The end of victim blaming starts with victims and potential victims.  Why didn’t I tell?

 

A victim is …a victim is… A VICTIM.

 

Johnny was fourteen when he attacked me. I worry that I may have encouraged his warped approach to woman and sex by not telling. I may have been able to stop him. The truth is, I really don’t know. I bolted and did everything in my power to ignore and avoid him. There is no way of knowing how many girls and woman he has victimized over the years. This thought haunts me.

 

Now I have a daughter of my own and I struggle with how to protect her without having to tell her of the many threats that may surround her. I want her to be aware without being jaded. I want her to be safe without losing her innocence or free spirit. More importantly, I want her to always talk to me.

Victim Blaming must end
Victim blaming must end
 

I resent having to raise my daughter to be cautious of predators. Programming women to scrutinize their own actions as a way of preventing someone from wronging them is fundamentally backward and socially corrupt.   The blame falls solely on the offender.

Sound Dirty

Wren Moxx: Girl Talk

Sex, Drugs, and Working Moms – excerpt

Sounds Dirty – Talk Dirty

Sound Dirty
Self-seduce with sound

How to sound dirty or talk dirty without feeling dirty.

Talking or sounding dirty does not have to be crude or graphic. It is quite simply the combination of words and their timing. Just saying things that are swirling in your mind could bring your pleasure to a whole new level. Your body will react.

talk dirty, sound dirt, seduce yourself using senses, sound
sound dirty

The thrill of saying things never before dared on your tongue, hearing the delicious sounds pass your lips and the response you will surely get from your partner, is too exhilarating not to try.

For the hesitant, blushing first timers, I suggest you begin when your lips are close to your partner’s ear. That way they can be whispered. If this is completely out of character for you, what you say does not have to be something you expect someone with Tourette’s to say. You could just moan. I kid you not.  Making pleasurable sounds, just loud enough for you and your partner to hear,  while cuddling and caressing will heighten arousal.

Many women will admit that…

…the act of faking an orgasm has itself triggered climax.

Why do you think that is? Because…

erotic sounds, especially your own erotic sounds, are stimulating.

Your body reacts to your own sounds and your partner’s response whether audible or physical. When your body responds, it seeks for pleasure. You will thrive and rock with a willingness to explore and be explored.

As the passion intensifies so can your sounds. Describe what you like. Not in novel form just a statement here and there. If the idea of speaking body parts makes you recoil, than don’t say them. Refer to them by using ‘you’re’ and ‘I’m.” Stick to adjectives. ‘You are so hard, and smooth.’ See, you could be describing his back or arms. “You’re touch drives me crazy.” Or, “I’m so hot for you.”

sex, sounds, seduce yourself, use your senses
Sounds of Sex

These words should not be forced, just close your eyes and breathe them.

It is that simple. Nothing I have suggested is too risky.

It took me a long time to say things extremely dirty. The first time I did, my husband reacted so viscerally that I sent him over the edge before I had even warmed up. This only led to a very welcomed ‘twice in one night’.

Good luck. Have fun and happy Valentine’s day.

If what I have recommended is still outside of your comfort zone, consider reading erotica.  To yourself is fine and it may inspire your imagination to grab hold of things you are comfortable saying. But reading it aloud, to or with your partner brings seduction to a whole new level.  Here is one of my favorites.

Last Round.  

 

Continue to the other senses…

Taste

The mouth is very sensual.

Taste
Taste can alter mood
A soft tongue hides behind luscious lips and slick pearly whites. Our mouths are essential to the art of seduction and love making.  Kisses after-all are at the heart of all human affection.  

Beyond the physical.

There are two types of taste.

Taste
Self-seduce with taste

The first is the most recognized. It is why cooking can also be an art of seduction. Having exquisite flavours burst in your mouth is one of life’s most enjoyable sensations. Food, itself can be an aphrodisiac.

I want to focus on the second type; the subconsciousness of taste. Just as scent has the power to trigger nostalgia,  

taste has the little-known power to alter mood.

Spoonful of Nostalgia
Tastes fun

I associate peanut butter with my childhood.  As an adult, I very rarely eat it, however, when I find myself surly or sullen, I will scoop a spoonful right out of the jar into my mouth.  To me, I no longer savour the thick buttery flavour but, within a half-hour, my mood is lighter. I barely notice the transformation, unlike scent it is not instantaneous. It is more like taking an aspirin for a headache. After a few minutes, I notice that I feel better. It is as if my mind associates the taste of peanut butter with a calmer, less worrisome time and reverts back to then.

Taste
Taste Nostalgia

This phenomenon can help set the tone for romance too. Do pina coladas taste like paradise, barbecue taste like summer or hot cider taste like Christmas? It doesn’t have to be your favourite flavour, it just needs to be a taste you associate with a pleasurable mood. Chicken noodle soup may comfort you and mint chocolate chip ice cream may leave you jubilant.

Not convinced? Consider tequila.  If even the thought of this murky liquid causes your stomach to roil that is because you probably had a drunken tequila night that ended badly. The brain remembers and has since rejected the taste of (and possibly the sound of the word) tequila. On the other hand, if you are grinning with the thought of licking, shooting, and sucking…well, then cheers. But I would bet you know someone who would groan or gag at the same thought.  
Still not convinced? One word.

Chocolate.

Taste sexy
Self-Seduce with taste

This heavenly creamy flavour has so many benefits and for the purpose of this article, it is commonly associated with childhood, holidays and love. No wonder women (and men) crave it and indulge in it because it holds the power to alter your mood. Better than any drug. 

Please practice moderation with the consumption of any mood altering substance.
Fruit
Tastes like childhood

Before a night of romance, especially if the weather has taken its toll, put your subconscious taste buds to the test. Even if your plans include an evening of strawberries, wine, lobster and stuffed chicken; consider sneaking in an abstract appetizer or cocktail. It could boost your mood and widen the gates to the path of romance, seduction, and passion.  

This is an example of simple mind over matter. Allow your sense of taste to alter your mood to one of arousal.
I stash a tub of gummy bears in the car and a six pack of Corona in the fridge just in case we happen upon a night with the unexpected promise of romance. I trust in the flavours to nudge my mood to ensure my ultimate pleasure.
Happy Romance.
Continue to the other senses…

1 – Sounds Dirty – Talk Dirty

2- Scent – The Unassuming Sense

3- Touch and Be Touched (coming soon)

4 -Sight – Watch Yourself (coming soon)

The Secret of the Center Stall

 …..Let us poop in peace please….

Sometimes keeping up with the neurosis of being a woman is just too much.  I have enough on my plate without feeling the familiar rise of anxiety and insecurity when using the ladies room. ladies As a mother of a little girl, I am doing my best to curb these shared experiences of irrational modesties and needless embarrassments.  The problem is not only that we put these pressures upon ourselves. It is that we also refuse to sympathize with those suffering. It could be argued that this internal commotion is socially constructed or deeply rooted in old fashion upbringings. Regardless it is a well known, shared and understood and we do nothing to change it.

…..stupid hang-ups that denied my generation…..

When I look back to my adolescence, at a time when I was innocent and as flawless as I was ever going to be, I am infuriated with locker room behaviors and decisions.  None of us girls sneered or snickered at one another. We were all too busy covering up and facing the wall when changing our clothes. Making eye contact let alone speaking to one another was out of the question. It is only decades later that I realize that

…this was a collective panic and fear of criticisms and judgement.

I hope my daughter’s generation is stronger, smarter and are able to reject such stupid hang-ups that denied my generation the courage to shower after grade nine gym.  Think about it.  All 25 of us refused basic hygiene as a way to avoid full nudity in a locker room full of other girls with the exact same anxieties.  How bloody ridiculous is our gender?

  Meanwhile, the boys are floundering around buck naked engaging in horseplay and literal sword fights on the other side of the cinder block wall.  Can I get a what the hell?  Unfortunately, this asinine dichotomy follows us out of high school and right into adulthood.
Where I work, there are three stalls in the women’s wash room.  If one uses the guy code of urinal selection, no one should ever use the facilities in the middle.  Who wants neighbors? Given that theory, the stall in the center should always have bathroom tissue and be the cleanest. I can only assume this folklore to be true for I never use door number two.  But if women are neurotic about their nudity than natural bodily functions catapults that same anxiety into a realm of incomparable insanity.
  It irritates me to no end when I slip into the soundless rest room to only find a closed stall door whose occupant is obviously trying to go unnoticed.  Seriously, I mean they don’t move.  Except for their feet, the wad of clothing bunched up on their shoes and (on occasion) the not so pleasant odor that one would (sorry should) expect in a bathroom, the person in the stall is absolutely still and quiet.

Only a woman could stop in mid-movement to prevent being embarrassed…

by her own bodily sounds, smells…function.  Like I don’t know what she is doing in there.  What’s more, I don’t care.  Why do we do this?  Unfortunately, I am no better.  The food court, ten flights down, has a full public wash room; one with two long aisles of stalls. It is almost as if the first bank is designated ‘express’ and the second for, let’s say high maintenance. It is like a dream that’s only 10 stories, 2 escalators, and a half an underground block away.
   On those days that I happen to pop into the ladies room on my floor and there is a poor soul pretending the be invisible, mercifully I act as if she is.  stallOkay, that is not exactly true.  In fact, I usually respect her efforts to go unnoticed and do what I can to avert stage fright, up my PSI, wash my hands as quickly as possible and leave.  I do not do my hair, file my nails or apply lipstick.  What I don’t understand is why some women feel the need to chat or lounge around.  It is one thing to do that when you are in the wash room alone, I mean really alone.  It is another thing to stand around when you know there is someone sitting behind a closed stall. She is probably holding her breath waiting for you to get the hell out so that she can unburden herself.  Why do women torture one another like this?  I am not saying that it is rational for someone to be embarrassed while in a washroom, but we all know where that comes from.  Hell, who hasn’t heard that you should always wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a bus?
 …Is your underwear clean in case you get hit by a bus?
This was something a grandmother would say. Imagine how horrible it would be for the doctor or nurse to cut your blood soaked clothes from your mangled body to find dirty bloomers?  It did not matter that if you were actually hit by a bus that you would surely poop yourself anyway.  What matters is that you are always proper even at a time when being proper should be your last priority.

…comes down to building confidence, silencing judgement and prioritising our values.

  Point being, these warped insecurities, regardless where they stem from, will hopefully phase out eventually.  Until then, be kind, don’t linger.  Why would you want to be putting on makeup or brushing your teeth when someone only five feet away is doing what we all would like a little privacy doing?  Even my dog gives me that pleading ‘don’t look at me’ glance when I happen to catch his eye when he’s crouching.  Let us poop in peace, please.  We will address the irrational modesties and needless embarrassments by teaching our girls to be stronger and smarter.  It all comes down to building confidence, silencing judgment and prioritizing our values.