Every kid from grade one through grade twelve knows the very back seats on the school bus are choice. They are the most fun when the driver goes over a big bump and you go flying up in the air. It was always a race to the front of the line so you could get on the bus first.

I, for once, made it to the front of the line and took my well deserved seat at the very back of the bus. There were a couple of older girls who decided they wanted to kick me out of my seat and take it themselves. They forced me to move over and they tried squishing me up against the bus wall and when I told them I still wasn’t moving they resorted to something known as pinch hickeys.

A pinch hickey is when you take a bit of the skin on the neck and pinch and twist it. It leaves marks on your neck that look like hickeys, and they are quite painful. I sat there, stoically staring forward without any expression on my face. Tears burning and threatening to escape my eyes. I didn’t let them though, I held it all in and stared forward.

They didn’t give up for a long time. I’m not sure what made them stop, maybe the bus driver warned them or something, I don’t remember. What I do remember is explaining to my parents why I had red marks all over my neck. My mother blamed me, it was my own fault I was bullied. I was, after all, a piss pot*. She clearly didn’t understand the situation, it had nothing to do with having an accident, I didn’t have one that day. Nothing was ever done about the incident but I was told to sit closer to the front of the bus.

As far as I can tell the bullies won the day as there were no consequences for either one of them. I also learned something though, I learned I could shut down and dissociate enough to remain stoic and stare blankly forward in the face of physical and emotional pain. I learned that if I need rescuing I’d better do it myself or it won’t get done.

*Piss pot- A name my mother frequently called me because I experienced urinary incontinence until I became a pre-teen (11 or 12). A piss pot is exactly what it sound like, basically a chamber pot.

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I called my parents for the first time in months and the last time was just to talk about paying for counselling and I only spoke to my dad. This time was to give them my new address. My mother answered, as I expected, she was always the one to update things like that. We exchanged some pleasantries, she asked me how things were going and then she asked me about therapy.

That is when I felt a lump in my throat and tears burning in my eyes, I said it was going okay, dealing with things from my childhood has been hard. I told her I knew she would never believe me about my older brother. She said she was sorry. I’m not sure what she’s sorry for and didn’t bother asking. Is she sorry she’ll never believe me or is she sorry for all the crap in my childhood, or for something else? Digging into it with her would have been a no-win, I would have just been upset and deeply triggered more than I already was. I just reminded her of the reason for my call and then she asked if I wanted to talk to my father. I said if he wanted to talk to me I would talk to him. The conversation with my father was short and mostly small talk. I didn’t volunteer a lot of information, just basically answered his questions.

After I hung up the phone I cried a bit. I’ve been a little teary eyed today too. The conversation I had with my dad last year came back and invaded my thoughts. Him threatening to disown me and take me out of the will. All the cruel things he said about my life before. How I left that conversation feeling like a piece of shit. It took a lot to resist those thoughts and feelings talking to him had provoked.

This is why I practice coping skills when I am not in crisis, so I can be ready for any trigger that might come along. Yes, I was upset but I didn’t angry text him after, I didn’t get into it with him or my mother on the phone, and I was able to bring myself back from those invading thoughts and feelings every time they hit me.

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Since my hard crash into a wall of depression in 2017, the hardest one ever, I’ve been in and out of therapy, and have grown every step of the way. I’ve gone through some one on one; Dialectical Behavioural Therapy; a Day Treatment Program unique to Nova Scotia; and most recently one on one with a trauma therapist for the last year and a bit. When I started out with my latest therapist it was twice a week, and for the past six or seven months, once per week.

In that time I’ve done a lot of hard work; a lot of healing (even if it’s still a little raw once in a while); and a lot of self-discovery and expression. I’ve become a full time artist and even sold some paintings; I’ve written lyrics which a band turned into a song and played live; I’ve become a blogger with a small following and limitless room to grow. When I think about what I have accomplished I blow my own mind.

I never thought any of my so-called art was worthy of the title or that anyone could possibly like it well enough to want to buy it but here I’ve sold four paintings and had four stolen. Ex-hubby number two always told me nobody would be interested in writing music to my words but here a band did just that and has played it for a live audience (it was well received, by the way). I left my second marriage believing nobody would care what I had to say but here I have a small following on my blog so clearly that’s not true. But I digress…

These things I do to express myself combined with the hard work I’ve done have made me strong enough and confident enough to go down to one session every two weeks with my therapist. If I have a need I can always schedule an extra session.

I still have a lot of stressful crap from the past to deal with but I’ve gotten better at managing my anxiety and nervous system when it’s in overdrive. And there’s no doubt going from once per week to once every two weeks will be an adjustment, perhaps even uncomfortable at times, but I think I can handle it.

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September 28 was my wedding anniversary. I would have been married twenty years. Thank goodness I’m not. Understand that he was mentally and emotionally abusive. He has stalked me, chased me down the highway and prevented me from leaving a room or the house. By the time I left I was very broken and suicidal.

When I brought up my anniversary with my therapist she wondered why I would want to mark this day in any way. My marriage was a nightmare. She suggested that I mark a different anniversary such as the day I left or the day my divorce was final and call it Freedom Day or something like that. Sound advice.

I think I’ll celebrate the day I left as my Freedom Day. The day I broke free from the abusive ex-husband and broke the cycle of getting into abusive relationships. I’m not really sure what day my divorce was final, the ex took care of all that and I never got the final papers. I don’t really care if I do or not. I have no plans of ever marrying again. It’s highly unlikely he didn’t go through with the divorce, and if he didn’t, who cares? It’s just a stupid piece of paper.

So, what shall I do to mark the occasion? I think it’s only appropriate to make it a “me” day. This could mean anything from mani-pedis to sleeping all day. It’s a day to do whatever the fuck I please. There’s no abusive husband telling me self care is a waste of time or that nothing I do for myself is productive.

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Marriage is an outdated patriarchal tradition, in my ever so humble opinion. Up until about four thousand years ago families were small groups of up to thirty people. Most anthropologists believe these groups had several male leaders and multiple women shared among them. Marriage became popular sometime after 2350 BC. The idea that a man and a woman should marry has since spread through the many cultures of the world like a virus that never goes away, kind of like herpes.

As hunter-gatherers settled down humans entered into the age of agriculture and as a result, property ownership became important. As property ownership gained importance so too did marriage. The purpose of marriage was to bind one woman to one man so that the man would be guaranteed his heirs were 100% his children. Women were chattels to be given away on their wedding day along with some livestock and property or some other dowry. Essentially the father of the bride would pay a man to take his daughter for a wife. Love and morality had nothing to do with getting married.

While women were bound to one man the same could not be said of the man in some cultures. Ancient Hebrew men could have multiple wives, ancient married Greek and Roman men could satisfy their needs with concubines, prostitutes and teenage male lovers, however the women were to remain faithful. A little lop-sided, if you ask me.

The Catholic Church may have been happy to preform marriage ceremonies since the eighth century but it didn’t become cannon law until 1563 at the Council of Trent. From then on the Catholic Church only recognized marriages preformed by them as legal. I suspect from then on marriage became a moral issue.

I should mention that I’m not anti marriage, it’s fine for people who want to be married. I also happen to think that monogamy is a made up social construct but that’s a whole other article.

Origins of Marriage

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