The First Time

non-subject: "the first time"

(aww: 01/27/10)

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I lay in bed last night, awake into the wee hours of the morning, wondering about "the first time."  Roberta Flack's voice ran through my mind, "The first time, ever I saw your face..."

The first time.  The first time.

What "first time" do I write about?  Why do I sometimes run from my own writing, from what seems the hard events or subjects?  Do I think I'm inept at conveying my own life? Am I scared I'll lie?  Oh that relentless gremlin that visits me too damn often; that little voice with its grating, accusatory, snide, detestable sneers..."you're making that up. Who would believe you anyway and how do you even know if you can trust you're memory, or any intuitive sense you feel you may have?  It's hogwash you know."

The first time.  The first time.

Do I write about Marshall, my first love at 13?  The first time we had intercourse?  But I can't write about something I don't remember. I remember the erotic letters, the sex at other times, secret meetings in the woods, sex in my parent's home when my parents weren't there, sex in Marshall's bedroom when I'd sneak out at night.  I hid under his bed once when one of his parents came into the room.  We were both thirteen with little parental supervision.  But I don't remember the "first time."

The first time.  The first time.

Do I write about the first time I decided to search The Way International on the internet? It was the end of 2002 or beginning of 2003.  Most folks were adept at internet searches by then.  But not me.  I didn't like the computer or the net. I didn't own a cell phone either. I much preferred a slower pace and face-to-face people exchanges, books, the library card, and old-fashioned pen and paper.

Do I write about the first time I saw Mark, my true love from when I was 18? Yet I don't remember the details of the first time; I just recall an essence.  It seems we were in a hotel-type meeting room, but not a huge one.  I do remember falling in love with him and when we both stayed at someone's home overnight.  It was almost love at first site.

Do I write about the first time I decided to post on GreaseSpot Cafe, the anti-Way/ex-Way online forum?  The trembling in my hands being afraid of something of which I wasn't sure in the unknown territory of cyberspace, a foreign world to me at that time.

Do I write about the first time I grieved the abortion? Not only of the life in my womb but of the loss of  relationship later with the father of that life. The grief suppressed for over a quarter century, only to appear in raw pain as what could have been, what might have been, questioning so much of what was.  A grief that felt so very unjustified because the events were from over 25 years ago; yet it had been another part of life that had been swept under the rug. Or more accurately, thrown out in the receptacle.

Do I write about the first time I had an image in my mind of the babe that may have been had I not had the abortion?  A new-born boy with dark olive skin, dark eyes, a head full of coal hair, nursing at my breast. An image I initially allowed for maybe 60 seconds, then tossed aside as silly and ridiculous telling myself it never was a life.  Only to spend the next seven hours, after the image, doubled over with grief.

Do I write about the first time I had blood on my panties? Who would ever want to read about the first time a young woman spots blood on her underclothes?  Yet, it occurs every day all over the world.

I didn't want to be a girl.  I wanted to be a boy.  Boys didn't have to endure a monthly "period."  I'd thought, "What a stupid name to call it, 'period.' "  And my breasts were starting to get sore, especially when I'd ride my horse. I loved to canter.  Now I'd have to start wearing one of those irritating bras, so my boobies wouldn't hurt.

I dreaded talking to my mom to tell her I had blood on my panties.  But I did it.  She got out the awful-looking elastic band that held the Kotex pad in place, like all ladies used before the days of self adhesive pads.

I didn't want to grow up. I didn't want to be a girl.

I was around 11 when I first spotted. Lucky for me, I didn't spot again until I was 13.  I don't think I ever brought it up again with Mom.  I had figured out that when I was 11, I must have broken my hymen while out horseback riding. The spotting had happened one afternoon after I'd been riding bareback on Black Eagle.

I'm amazed I never got pregnant once Marshall and I became absorbed with each other, always together and groping each other every chance we could, at age 13 - periods and intercourse, the first time.

Laying in bed this morning, after replaying/reliving some of the firsts. I'll write about the blood on the panties.

My husband's alarm rang. It was 5:15 AM.  Another night of insomnia.

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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