I have a shoe box in my closet filled with poems, essays and short stories. All writings from years ago when I was earning my university degree. Now my email is brimming with drafts of anecdotes and ranting spiels. There are even flash drives with manuscripts and screenplays to boot somewhere. Until recently, I lacked the courage to share. The truth is,I am a story teller, a philosopher and a survivor who many look to for advice, opinion and insight.
I have decided not to let my insecurities about putting my words to print continue to be my accuse or deterrent not to share. Please enjoy.
This is my story. A brutal truth, unknowingly living with dyslexia in 1990.
Eventually, the constant chatter over my panic attack seizure, AKA choking episode, quieted. The most recent and dramatic stunt yet, to get out of reading aloud. The attention of my class mate’s was quickly claimed by other gossip and more pressing events like grade eight graduation. Until of course, I was called to the principles office one beautiful spring day.
This happened a lot, but the sinking feeling in my stomach told me this time would be different. The principle and I were on better speaking terms than almost all the students, even some faculty. This was because I spent a lot of time in the office. Three days a week, I volunteered to answer the phone and file documents over the lunch hour and after school.
This was one of the many perks of having a teacher’s daughter for a friend. In grade eight, my friends had a huge impact on who I was. Not only was I lucky enough to have beautiful popular friends, they were all brilliant. I mean honor role, enriched classes, smart. I guess that guilt by association isn’t always a bad thing. Many people assumed that I was a brainiac too because of the company I kept. Who was I to argue? But, boy, were they wrong.
Volunteering in the library probably reinforced this false image of my high intelligence. Yep, illiterate me, worked in the library and was good at it too. I took the dewy decimals system very seriously and was nice to the Librarians. Meaning, I acknowledged them and recognized them as being human and not just moving figures within the aisle of books like most kids at my school. I am sure that had something to do with them requesting me specifically to help rid the carts of returned books.
This walk to the office, however, had nothing to do with my volunteer work. I could feel it, something was up.
The secretary ushered me into the principle’s office as soon as I arrived. His door was already open and he sat at the conference table, not his desk. The sunshine streaming through his wall of windows muted the features of his face. So it was not until after our pleasantries that I noticed his weighed down expression. He was unreadable but my instinct told me to worry. The clunk of the door closing as I sat down, vaulted this bad feeling into mild anxiety that was quickly hurling towards panic.
Before him was a very official looking document. At first, I thought I had interrupted his work. Still, I had no clue what I was doing there, in the principle’s office during class, just the two of us.
Even at fourteen, I understood that his polite questions were an attempt to disarm me as a preamble to the bad news. Yet, I still had not expected him to refer to the sheet of paper on the table. After slipping on his glasses, the principle explained how he did not have time to read all of the papers that crossed his desk. Instead, he skimmed them by reading the first and last sentence of every paragraph. My throat started to close with the onset of panic but I managed to smile and nod; my ‘go to’ response in the face of anxiety.
Oh, no! He was going to be asked to read, legal adult jargon – ALOUD!.
Before my attack had a chance to alter my breathing, he told me that I should use this method to help me read more quickly.
Over his glasses, he pinned me with his brown eyes. I almost peed my pants. Then, his weathered face quirked into a smile and I was dismissed.
I didn’t get a chance to thank him for the tip even though I knew it would not work for someone like me. By the time I sifted through a paragraph to find the beginning of the last sentence, I may as well read the whole dang thing. That was the thought that carried me back to class until another one stopped me in my tracks. My principle had been troubled as if he had a big decision to make. He alone held my future in his hands.
He would determine if I graduated with my class or was held back to repeat grade eight.
DW: Fear
The fist of fear that clenched my heart was enough to bring me to my knees. I fought it but was not so lucky in holding back the well of tears that stung my eyes.
Never before had I been pulled into his office to lightly discuss my studies. That hadn’t been a polite preamble. That had been the entire point of the meeting. The panic started to rise again.
Would he really hold me back?
Three weeks later, I got my answer. In a puffy sleeved dress with big fluffy bangs to match, I was the happiest of grade eight grads.
High school, here I come. It couldn’t be worse than public school. Right?
was an everyday occurrence for me in school. Back when I was unaware of my learning disability and knew nothing of dyslexia, all I felt was stupid and panic when centered out and forced to read.
This is my story. A brutal truth, unknowingly living with dyslexia in 1989.
Panic has got to be the worst sensation next to dying. Everything seems to happen at once. My throat goes dry but not before an impossibly thick lump forms. My vision begins to blur around the edges and my limbs go numb. Then, there is the internal turmoil. My lungs don’t stop working as much as I forget to breathe. I can feel my heartbeat thrashing against my ribs and my lunch squirms its way around my gut. All of this because my grade-eight teacher has just passed around the school’s code of conduct that we are expected to read aloud in turn.
Dyslexic Panic
Once the roar of my pulse lessens, I can hear and I realize that we will all be assigned a paragraph. Frantic blinks, restored my vision and count the number of students that should be before me, as a way to find my paragraph. This routine is all too familiar but no less stressful. I read my part over and over in hopes to burn it into my memory. This is doable, I assure myself in hopes to calm my body’s commotion.
My breathing is almost back to normal when I hear my name.
Looking up, all eyes are on me. Panic rises again as I realize that the person next to me hadn’t been reading. I was to read after them, now all preparation time has been lost. The teacher has switched directions on me and it is now my turn. I haven’t a clue where we are or how to find this foreign paragraph that I have never laid eyes upon. Bile curdles in the hollow of my stomach and I feel my face grow cold.
Before I can think, I throw myself onto the floor seizing. The shaking is so violent that I whack my head on the leg of my chair. But that doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as what happens next.
All the students are on their feet. Desks and chairs screech out of the way. Girls are screaming, some are crying. I hear the teacher order someone to the office when I am picked up like a rag doll. Massive arms encircle me while a double fist slams into my chest. The first blow nearly breaks me in half and the fifth surely busts a rib. That’s when my lunch decides to make an entrance. At this point…
vomiting is more of less involuntary.
Faking a seizure seemed like a good idea at the time, although I failed to have an exit strategy. I did not foresee, Randy Caligan the captain of the basketball team and Boy Scout extraordinaire to jump to my rescue. He was so eager to perform his new found skill the Heimlich maneuverthat it didn’t matter that I was not choking.
None the less, minutes later, there I was in the dimly lit nurse’s room a complete and utter hot mess. With sore ribs, a bruised chest, and blood shot eyes I curled up on the prison style cot and waited for the final bell of the day to ring. The puke scent that I called my own was inescapable. Still, this was a far better outcome than having to read out loud.
If you sweep things under the rug, eventually someone will trip over the lump.
In my experience, it is best to wait for the fire to die out before revisiting the source of the inferno. For the passionate, this is not easy.
Be patient
It is all too tempting to hash it out, right there and then, while still flush from its heat. Sometimes this can result in a hefty helping of the Silent Treatment; the heartburn kind. Often, conflict is like an episode of Three’s Company; something or someone has been misunderstood or not completely transparent. Purely open communication is
…the ability to fully express your perspective to your partner and, brace yourself, seeing things from your partner’s perspective.
It is best to wait until both parties are calm and ready to listen to revisit an issue. The aftermath of an argument takes time.
Argument Aftermath
Often couple`s therapists will use tools for listening like the ‘speaking rock.’ The person in possession of the rock is the only one allowed to talk. This means that the one without the lump of stone is to listen. Corny! But it works. If nothing else, a huge spotlight exposes how often we interrupt one another – especially when we don’t like what we are hearing.
I once read on Pinterest,
‘Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.” Steven R. Covey
Something to think about the next time your partner is holding the rock. If an apology is in order, and it probably is, see my article on apologies to better your approach.
Don’t
Do Not Use the Car.
Fight the urge to approach the ‘we should talk’ conversations when driving. Why, you ask?
argument aftermath
You have a captive audience. Literally, your partner is trapped with nowhere to go. If they are not ready for this conversation or you are not abiding by the sharing rules of the speaking rock, you will land yourself in a bigger argument and possibly on the receiving end of the Silent Treatment.
Trust me on this. Getting out of the car to walk is so clické, but young couples everywhere have been there. Perhaps, it is their flair for the dramatic. But as we get older no one has time for walking (or the shoes because, let`s face it, these talks always happen when we are dressed up) and more often than not we are on the highway.
Avoid Tight Spaces
Even if you have all the best intentions and you promise yourself not to let the conversation become heated the odds are that it will blow up in your face. Cornered animals tend to jump to the defensive. They turn rabid and snarl. When strapped in and forced to start straight ahead there is nowhere for the anxious energy to go. People need their space and freedom to truly express themselves, especially when threatened. Body placement says a lot about what we are communicating; standing wagging a finger, sitting with crossed arms or even pacing are all conditioned ways to process and respond. We pick these up in our childhood and they are our own coping mechanisms.
Not only does the trapped person need an outlet for this energy but it serves the partner well to bear witness. We take greater cues from one another’s body language than words, especially from our partners.
When a driver is backed into a conversation and stopping is not an option, I promise you that they are visualizing pushing you out of the moving car. Okay, if it was meant to be, they may drop you at the next corner even in their fantasy.
Regardless the mental message is the same; SHUT UP or GET OUT!
argument aftermath
But to avoid the drama that would certainly follow that scene, not to mention criminal charges, the driver may opt to white knuckle the rest of the drive. They may pick up speed and begin to drive recklessly and erratically. Do not kid yourself. They are not distracted by the conversation. They are trying to get home as fast as they can to get you the hell out of the car.
Recap
Do not confuse the passenger seat with a soapbox or the car with an interrogation room. If…I mean when, an ugly conversation needs to take place, let it be somewhere that offers an escape. At least at home, if a door has to slam, no one is left on the side of the road (in uncomfortable shoes).
Of course, it is juvenile and immature. Not talking to someone is no way to behave.
Is it?
Never go to bed angry?
Who said that? Clearly, they have never argued with me or anyone to whom I have ever disagreed. There would be no sleeping if we were to hash it out before going to bed. No, thank you.
I would consider my heated form of communication passionate, however, my husband would call it an ugly display of rage. Either way, when I finally do lose my temper, it can be verbally explosive. Please do not confuse this with being abusive. I have a double bladed tongue that mercilessly jabs back in quick concessions when provoked. Depending on how long I have been holding my tongue and how deep my teeth have had to sink in determines how relevant, ancient, and fair the blows are once I have unleashed my thoughts through words. It isn’t pretty and contrary to the belief of those in the path of my wrath, I am not proud of myself nor do I gain any satisfaction in winning an argument in this way. Once the dust settles, there is no way around it, I have said hurtful things to someone I love and care about. It does not matter if what I have said is true. The manner in which I have expressed these thoughts is inexcusable and unnecessary. What is said can never be taken back and is not easily forgiven.
Can your rage sometimes lead to a verbal backlash? If so, then you know what I am talking about. It is actually better to go to bed angry than to voice the words roiling in your head. Stepping back and taking a breath allows you time to calmly check your anger and frustration into a reasonable, respectful argument. This approach is better for everyone. It has taken many years, countless apologies, and some lost relationships for me to learn this lesson.
Do not knock the silent treatment. It has its own purpose, within reason. However, not talking to someone is the easy part. Breaking the silence once the treatment has been doled out, is the pride swallowing, ego crushing challenge. This is where I fail. When I am giving my husband the cold shoulder and I drag it out, everything begins to break down. We stop eating at the table and start sleeping separately. There is no disagreement from me when he takes a pillow and blanket to the couch to watch the game nor does he stop me from occupying the spare room during this award times. We actually convince ourselves that the kids are none the wiser when we blame the separate sleeping on daddy’s snoring.
silent treatment
When you wear your stubborn streaks like a coat of armor, don’t expect it to be comfortable.
Now, we know better.
When we are no longer sharing a table or bed our communication is severed and our marriage is ultimately in trouble.
Do not get me wrong, I am still a silent treatment kind of girl. To some, it makes no sense. It seems immature and a waste of time. It must be understood, that it is out of maturity and self-awareness that I stay silent. I know that my words can cut deep and leave marks that no apology can erase. It is out of kindness and necessary restraint that I use silence. I go to bed angry so that I can wake up clear headed and ready to communicate fairly without wavering topic or reaching back in time beyond reasonable limits. But now I know the sooner we meet the sooner we can talk, heal, learn, and grow with one another. The onus to break the silence is on me; the one whom initially cut off communication.
Ah, the apology without actually saying I’m sorry. Because it’s not really an apology, it’s a declaration of not being mad anymore. It doesn’t even mean that I am ready to talk about ‘it.’ Only willing to start from here.
silent treatment
I do this by pulling two wine glasses out of the cupboard and leaving them out with a bottle of Cabernet. I am not presumptuous enough to pour, for it is very likely that my husband is angry with me and not ready to sit and chat. So, it is up to him to fill the glasses and join me in a conversation. Then we can make up.
A wise man once said that a marriage needs only a table and bed.
Where do you eat? Sleep? Revisit the table and bed to help restore your relationship.
marriage tools
Communication is key!
This we know. But how and when can we sit and talk?
Consider courting. Most new couples relish going for dinner. We have conditioned ourselves to have our most intimate conversations while dining or entangled in bed. Sharing meals and pillow talk are essential to a successful relationship. When one or both are not being met, it is usually a true indication of trouble.
It was during a wedding ceremony that I experienced this enlightenment. My husband was an usher, and I sat alone in the pew listening to the minister. He began by gently poking fun at the young couple’s blissful obliviousness to their future struggles. This, of course, earned a chuckle or two from the more mature members of the congregation. In fact, I remember my husband finding my eyes to share a knowing glance.
At the time, we were secretly seeing a marriage counselor. So, we were no strangers to the struggles of which the minister spoke. Somehow, we managed to squeeze a few kid-free hours out of our already hectic weeks to see a therapist. After a month and a half of faithful sessions, many tried exercises, and countless dollars, the one thing we could agree on was that the therapy was not working. Yet, fifteen minutes into a wedding, I learned all I needed to know to recognize the markers of a troubled relationship. Who knew that advice came at the cost of a pedicure and an appliance from the bride and groom’s registry? Little did the new couple know that they had given us the greater gift.
Table – share a meal
I do not cook, and my second-hand table has been hurting to be refurbished for years.
That aside, ever since I realized the importance of the table, I consider it our meeting place as a family and as a couple. It is there that we share meals, talk about our day, play cards, drink wine, and pour over the weekly fliers.
At times, it is with great effort that we fight the urge to flop in front of the television with our plates on our laps. This we used to do all too often. Now, I understand that our meals are sacred. When we know beforehand that we will not be home for dinner, we try to outdo ourselves with brunch. And on those ‘eat in a hurry’ nights, my husband and I try to remain at the table and continue to connect while the kids rush to get ready for whatever extracurricular they have. This is just a simple concept made more difficult with the hustle and bustle of everyday lives. But it is important to find the time and worth it in the long run.
Table and bed – not TV
I seriously considered that minister’s words, and they all rang true. I do not regret divorcing my first husband, but I often reflect on how regularly we ate in front of the television and slept in separate beds. For the most part, we got along just fine. This happened because we had nothing to talk about. Perhaps, if I had understood the importance of the table and bed to communication; the cornerstone to any relationship, we never would have married.
Now, my greatest fault is that I am guilty of the silent treatment. When I am giving my husband the cold shoulder, everything breaks down. The first thing to go is sitting at the same table, which further fractures our connection. Then, one of us resigns to the couch or the spare bedroom, which physically severs our ability to communicate. By not sitting at the table or sharing a bed, we have annihilated any chance of coming together. Eventually, one of us will prepare dinner and purposefully set the table. When we meet there, we know not to discuss the tender issue at the crux of our argument. To sit at the table is a silent agreement to push past for the sake of a meal. There will be time enough to rehash the conflict once the dishwasher is on and the kids are in bed. Or not. Some arguments can pass without convincing the other person that you are right.
Pillow talk, however, needs no explanation. It is inherently intimate and not only because of its simplistic correlation to sex. We are at our most vulnerable when in bed. It is where we sleep, retreat to when we are unwell, make love, lounge naked, or wear pajamas not suitable for public display. Nowhere else are you as truly yourself than in bed. There, couples share everything and bear it all. Meet there.
Let it be said, a marriage needs only a table and bed.
Still not convinced? Then, consider the most popular advice given to couples undergoing a rough patch. The two of you need a weekend getaway, a vacation, a night out. This implies going out for dinner and getting a hotel room. Strip it down…
reconnect by sharing a meal and engaging in pillow talk.
First of all, make it happen. Be present. Turn off the television.
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
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
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.
Never Buried Forever
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 counsellor. 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 pyjamas.
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
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.
It had only been moments earlier that I was engrossed in a game on my phone and only mildly aware of the other passengers that had stepped on and off the subway around me. There are so many stops along my route that I just get used to the movement of the train. But on this Saturday afternoon, I happened to glance up and instantly began to shake. He was in full camouflage garb and under his raised hood was a black mask. All of his features were undecipherable
masked man in camouflage on the subway
but, it was not just what he was wearing. His stance and behaviour caused me alarm. Although he was not a particularly big man, he stood with his back against one door while admiring himself in the reflection of the adjacent entranceway. He shifted from one foot to the other, gyrating while tugging at the wrists of his black gloves. Every so often he would slip a hand into his jacket and begin the ritual all over. There is no other way to describe his behaviour other than he appeared to be preparing to do something. He was amped up.
I froze, not knowing what to do. I slowly took in my surroundings and realized no one else noticed him and I considered that I been gripped by paranoia. Then, I looked at the map above the door nearest me to assess how long until the next stop. We were half way between the two stations which were the furthest apart. My ears began to burn and my eyes began to sting; all signs that I was not okay. This is my visceral response to the fear, helplessness, and doubt this stranger had provoked just by standing twenty feet from me. The train was slowing. We were nowhere close to the next stations and my heart began to thunder in my chest.
choose vigilance
The thought that perhaps security had spotted this man on their cameras and had suspended the train as a way to organize a plan at the next platform not only calmed me a little, it twisted my fear into vigilance. It was still possible that I was being paranoid. Then, once the train made its complete irregular stop the man turned and started walking towards me. I had considered taking a video but my shaking hands and his proximity botched that idea. What I saw next changed everything.
The panic and fear that prickled at my spine had been replaced with a burn. There was no camouflage on the back of his jacket. Except for his sleeves, it was all beige. Markings that I
W or guns?
could not identify, with my limited knowledge of anything middle eastern were scrawled in black across his shoulders. What I was seeing appeared to be Islamic lettering with two symbols that resembled hands either using the thumb and fourth finger to make a broken ‘W’ or guns. Regardless what it was, it pissed me off.
He stopped at another doorway to watch himself rock back and forth while pulling at the cuffs of his gloves and touching inside his jacket. This time he threw tight little air punches. It was as if he were antagonizing us; begging for everyone to notice and daring someone to say or do something.
Where the hell were the drunken sports fans who often take this very train? Three burly guys with the bravado that came with being in an excited energized group was exactly what we needed right then. No luck. Most of us were single passengers or paired up in couples or young shoppers. Some had noticed our trouble maker and were slowly processing what he was and what could be going on and decided to ignore it. The train jolted forward again and the man bolted back to his original spot two doors ahead of me. At this point, not only was I watching him, I was trying to figure out if he was alone and if anyone else around me was on alert. A few puzzled expressions looked his way but seemed disinterested. The voice came over the speaker system announcing the next stop and he turned and stalked by me before returning to his secondary position
fear on the subway
again. As the train turned slightly to the right, I lost sight of him and purposefully moved to the other side of my car. We turned again, this time to the left and I returned to my seat, all the while never taking my eyes off the man. Finally my actions and, I can only assume, intense staring caught the attention of other passengers who began to take notice of the man in full combat gear and mask taunting his own reflection.
The gentleman nearest me looked my way and said shakily, “Is that..?”
“Fucking suspicious?! Hell yes.”
I said without looking at him because at the same time the man started toward the front of the train. I got up and bolted towards him refusing to let him out of my sight. As people stood for their nearing stop, he was more difficult to track. The train slowed and l maneuvered my way through the crowd. When I caught him in my sights again he was right at the very end of the train. He was nearing the conductor’s booth. I did not know what to do. The train stopped and the man turned and stood strangely close to the last set of doors. When they opened, he swayed back and forth, as if playing with the decision to get off. I stepped onto the platform but was prepared to jump back on. The doors closed and the man stayed on board. The subway began to move and accelerate past me. I ran to the stairway while looking for a train number. In doing so I looked right into the frightened face of the gentleman who had been sitting near me. I will never forget that face and expression of fearful confusion.
fear on public transit
Now, what do I do? Do I get on the next train? Was this worth being late for work? If I am over reacting and being paranoid, how do I explain that? How can I get on the next train with my suspicions? What if I am right? What good will I be to anyone if something happens? I will just be stuck on the next train, stuck underground. With that, I ran up the stairs and found the first uniform I could. It turned out to be a bus driver to whom I reported what I saw.
The sound of my own voice trembling was enough to convince myself that the threat was real. Even if it was not a terrorist attack in the making, what kind of ass-hole gets on a train to provoke terror? I was afraid for me, for my children and every single person on that train. I was angry at the way he made me feel in my own community and how defenseless I felt. I think that I am tough but doubted that I was tough enough to take him down. But what if I were wrong? That was the question that stirred the most inner commotion.
The bus driver did not waste any time. He ran to the subway booth operator and after they exchanged words both sprinted in opposite directions. I stood there all alone, not knowing what to do.
Finally, I reasoned that I had done all that I could and climbed into a cab once I reached street level. Traffic was terrible and the cab driver looked at me strangely when I asked him to avoid routes that followed the subway. In all fairness, after everything, what sense did it make for me to remain within proximity of that train? It was a few minutes after my start time once I reached work. At first, my colleagues laughed at me for allowing my imagination to get the better of me. But after a few minutes of discussion, they all agreed that there is something just not right about wearing a mask and behaving so strangely on public transit. The agreement being; no organized terrorist group would be that obvious. I agreed but a wannabe terrorist could be just as dangerous. What if he was looking to be recruited and this was his act of loyalty? What if he were just a punk trying to get a reaction? Well, he succeeded. I was afraid and then I was angry. Hell, I am still angry. The general agreement was that no one would have blamed a soccer mom for getting up and kneeing a punk on the train who was clearly an idiot and potentially dangerous.
I spend the next few hours waiting for something on the news and was grateful that there wasn’t anything. Then I spend the next two week scouring the internet looking for the lettering I saw and a general image of what he looked like. Two weeks later there was another attack this time in Brussels. My experience was terrifying and so insignificant in comparison to what all of those people felt and continue to feel. The images of people fleeing and victims struck down are devastating and heart wrenching. I refuse to let my fear outweigh my anger but I will continue to be pissed off and vigilant.
And as soon as I can find an image that best depicts what I saw, what he was wearing and what was on the back of his jacket I will post it. This person could have very well been a woman, so pardon the constant use of ‘he’.
Thirty is the new twenty! Who has not heard this, especially if the big 3-0 is on the horizon or if you careened by it in the last fifteen years? Either way, this growing delusional trend allows us to prolong maturing, postpone responsibility, and provides us with an excuse to remain noncommittal about life decisions.
‘It is a welcome suspension of time and a 30 pound load of crap!’
When I first started dating my now husband, I asked him, “When do you see yourself as a dad?” At the ripe age of 33, his answer was, “Maybe in 3 to 5 years.” Easy for him to say, but that is another blog.
So, I let it go. A few years later, I managed to obtain some rock solid commitment in the form of a diamond but not a date. Then, I waited and asked again. “When do you see yourself being a father?” What was his answer? Brace yourself. “Oh, I don’t know. In 3 to 5 years.”
I reminded him that he gave me that same answer 3 years ago. Did that mean he meant within the next 24 months? Or did the last 36 months not count? It’s not that I was in a hurry to have a baby. I was growing increasingly frustrated with…
“the wide spread aloofness among today’s young adults.”
Sadly, this is a group of which I was a member. This new relaxed attitude that time no longer matters irked the planner within me. It is what I started referring to as
…Thirty Something Someday Syndrome.
young adults
It is the right to put off big decisions and continue floundering around like an experienced teenager indefinitely. And to some extent, there are a lot of benefits.
Don’t rush to get out of school; Once you start working you will be working the rest of your life and you are less likely to return to class if you take a break.
Hold off from marrying your high school sweetheart. If you are meant to be, then you will still be together in 5 years. If not, you won’t have to be the ugly half of that divorce statistic and save yourself a boat load of legal fees and heartache.
Travel before settling down. You don’t need money to see the world, you need youth and imagination.
These cautionary words that encourage the delay of life altering choices are sound and make sense… for people under thirty.
Thirty something someday syndrome – suspended time
To those, over thirty, who have used this advice as…
“a crutch to dodge having to make big decisions and put off growing up”
…that need to listen up.
Now, I have yet to figure out how one develops a case of Thirty Something Someday Syndrome. It could be based solely on an acute juvenile immaturity that lingers like a drunken buzz from your twenties. It could also be a genuine unawareness of age based expectations. If the latter is true, then maybe it was instilled within
Thirty something someday syndrome
us by our parents whom perhaps felt rushed to become adults by being thrown into careers, marriage, or parenting in their early twenties. Unfortunately, by not setting some age related goals, ideals, and responsibility they have (in some cases) stunted the growth of their own children. The fact that the number of thirty something children still living in their parent’s basement is on the increase kind of proves this point.
Gone are the days that one is expected to get married right out of high school. The term ‘cougar’ has replaced ‘spinster’ and a new mom at forty is more common than one at twenty-two. This is progress. Approaching forty without having to make one major decision in your life is not cutting edge independence – you are simply dragging your feet.
Do you suffer from Thirty Something Someday Syndrome?
Thirty something someday syndrome – time is slipping
If so, time to move out, put a ring on it, or start shopping for strollers. Do whatever it is that you are afraid of doing and maybe, you might just become a real life adult. Cease the day! Or, before you know it you will be closer to fifty than thirty and life will have passed you by.
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.
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.”
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.
It is a powerful sense that can trigger nostalgia or even deja vu. I once told that if I wore a certain perfume on a romantic getaway or my honeymoon than I could return to that memory easily later by just wearing that scent. I tried this. It worked, but I have since realized that specific smells are more difficult to place than generic ones. The cotton vanilla fragrance I put on while in Punta Cana five years ago doesn’t have nearly the effect that my suntan lotion has.
Last winter, I ran out of body moisturiser and applied the after sun lotion I use in the summer. Instantly, I was taken back to a time of sun and heat. On another occasion I changed my shampoo. I had not realized that it was the brand I used when my husband and I first dated until he buried his nose in my hair and gave me ‘that look.’
Do not under estimate the power of scent.
Use it to your benefit.
While getting ready for a romantic evening perhaps dab on that perfume at the back of the shelf collecting dust. Or ditch the perfume and rub on baby oil or suntan lotion. Close your eyes and breathe in its scent. Where does your mind take you? A place? A time? If you are reminded of fun, youth and freedom you have found your scent for the night. Don’t over do it by putting on too much or by applying it too often. It will loose its effect.
When ever I smell aerosol hairspray, I am reminded of my early twenties and going out dancing. I feel like an episode of Sex in the City and I am instantly in the mood for a little fun. My husband is more than happy to hitch a ride on that little buzz of nostalgia.
Self-seduce with scent
What I am saying is that smell is the unassuming sense that is easily forgotten until someone is cooking fish. Then see how quickly it is able to cripple a romantic mood. If used correctly, you can enhance your own arousal by tapping into past romantic moments to create new ones.
What did your first apartment smell like? Did you use potpourri, incense or candles? Did you use to wear baby oil, body spray or fruit scented shampoo? It is that simple.
There are smells that turn you on. Find them.
Consider the most erotic time of your life. When you feel sexy, sensual and aroused. What did it smell like?
Beware of this power. Unpleasant odours can just as easily have an adverse effect.