Shame and Anger

(March, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)

non-subject: most shameful moment
AWW ~ 9/13/09
1977, 1980, 1992: Various times of deep shame.
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That is the subject Fred threw out as a springboard. Or a plank, perhaps depending on one's perspective.

What is my most shameful moment? Dare I write about it? Do I know it?

Is it my promiscuous years? Is it the time I put the pillow over Heather's face wanting to end her life? Is it the time the pistol lay on the sofa beside me? Is it when I AWOLed from the Way Corps, breaking my spiritual commitment and leaving my responsibilities high and dry?

This is a subject I'd rather run from than address. So, Carol what is it. You could write about anger; you have had anger at times. Remember the time you threw the Tupperware cutting board down on the floor so hard that it broke in half? Or how about your hate letters to your husband? Why are you writing in second person?

Shame feels like such a dirty nasty word. It makes me want to go take a shower, and wash away the debris. Drown the little gremlins that chatter in the dark parts of my mind accusing me of the awful person that I have been. It scares me.

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I went to see Marty, that summer of 1977. I think it was July. I was 18 and he was 17. Marty and I had previously talked about spiritual matters. He invited me to come to his home and stay a week. He would introduce me to some friends of his that were Wiccan and I could attend a Wicca gathering.

Of course I was interested. I was exploring all sorts of spiritual avenues. I had recently graduated from high school. Around that same time I had broken my relationship with my fiance and called off our wedding date. He was 4 years older than I. We had been living together in a small cabin at the foot of Rocky Face Mountain, near Taylorsville, North Carolina, in the community of Vashti.

After moving out of his place I had moved in for a few weeks with Tula. Tula was in her 80's and I was helping around her home. Every Wednesday was wash day. Tula still used a wringer washer on her screened-in porch. She was a delightful little lady.

From her place I moved onto the Randall's farm to lend a hand. Margaret and her husband had moved down from New York to homestead, in a sense. I lived in the trailer in the cow pasture. The mobile home had an inviting covered, raised wooden porch deck that wrapped around it. I loved sitting our there, viewing the pasture and the mountains. Cows would often wake me in the morning, scratching their backsides on the porch. It must have felt good to them, indicated by their cooing moos.

I'm not sure where Marty and I had discussed Wicca. Marty lived over an hour away from me; it's not like we talked regularly or saw each other often. Perhaps there was a  reunion, or maybe we saw each other at a funeral.

Marty ended up having to work when I went to visit that summer. I spent most of my time with his mother.  But I did see Marty in the evenings.

Marty and I related on the spiritual level and would discuss it when we were alone. While visiting that week we discussed how sex was a spiritual experience. It was 1977, on the heels of the sexual revolution and free love.

One night during my week-long visit, Marty and I were lying on the floor in his parent's den. Apparently his parents had already gone to bed. I recall the dim lighting in the room. It was carpeted. Perhaps Marty was sleeping there and had given up his bed for me as a guest.

Though I wasn't promiscuous, I had been sexually active from an early teen. Sex was always a serious matter to me; not taken lightly. It was "making love" not having sex. So I'm sure the blow job I gave Marty that night was given wanting to please and make him feel good. I dare not have intercourse; Marty and I were blood relatives. I have a feeling I'm the one that initiated the act. Marty was shy and somewhat quiet.

At the time it wasn't a shameful act.

I would see Marty occasionally over the next 30 years. At first I chose to not think about the incident; to pretend it never happened. Sometimes I'd wonder what Marty's thought processes were when we would see each other at gatherings, the visual images in his mind. We had never discussed the incident after it happened. We didn't discuss much after that. I had entered The Way and life had simply changed; it's like I lived in a separate world or on a different plane or something.

After 32 years, after I'd been out of The Way for over 3 years, I approached Marty at a gathering and apologized. I felt I had perhaps been the initiator. It mattered to me, to not have this hidden secret that was never acknowledged.
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