Posted by: Marie | January 31, 2011

(504) Pity party of the major kind

Post #504
[Private journal entry written on Wednesday, September 15, 2010]

So . . . my therapy homework is to write about this thing I’m finding hard to discuss – the connection between the absence of acceptance and validation from my dad and my history of promiscuity.

Here it goes . . .


I guess this whole thing is related to the appendage of my womanhood designed to allow me to connect with and relate to my chosen life partner.

It is the part of me that is supposed to facilitate the emotional bond that is created when I fall in love and that love is reciprocated.

That part of me is dead.

It started dying when the way in which I showed up in the world as a child was apparently so disgusting to my dad that he often wondered out loud if even my divine creator would want me around after I die.

It continued dying, piece by piece, experience by experience . . . every time I was used for sex, every time a man criticized the essence of who I am . . .

It finished dying when my husband of six weeks told me that he really wanted a tall, leggy, skinny, blond wife with a small butt and small boobs – that he really wanted a wife who could ski and hike and run marathons as astutely as he did. (I don’t know why he married me – I’m never gonna fit that mold even if I lose lots of weight.)

Then, my husband so graciously informed me that he was willing to stay in the marriage and make the best of a bad situation because it was the right thing to do. He would even do his best to meet my sexual needs even though he felt no sexual attraction for me. (As if I would want to have sex with him after hearing those words from him.)

With that conversation, that appendage of my femininity shriveled up and fell off.

Photo by Martin Chen

I haven’t gotten around to discarding that part of me yet. It is still sitting on the ground next to my feet. It is all black and rotted and shapeless now. However, it finally disintegrated to the extent about five years back that it stopped stinking.

I’ve actually grown accustomed to the idea that part of me is dead and absent from my body. I’ve completed most of the heavy grieving. The waves of grief don’t come as often anymore and I can almost process them without breaking my daily stride.

The part of this mess that now generates the greatest angst is my self-condemnation. I condemn myself for not having the strength to stop the dying process. I condemn myself for not having the fortitude to hang onto hope. I condemn myself for not having the courage to belief the miracle of resuscitation from death is still possible.

I am a woman. I am human. I am designed to be in a partnership. It was fundamentally wrong for me to allow that appendage to die. It is wrong for me (I am sinfully weak) to be unwilling to fight to bring it back to life. I’m a bad person because I allowed this to happen and I’m not doing anything to reverse it.

Sometimes this self-loathing conversation gets the best of me and I extend my foot and give the rotting vestige a shove to see if there are any new signs of life. (In other words, I dare to hope that someone I just met might show some interest in me and I might be able to return that interest.) But, there never are signs of life and I let the corpse drop back down to the ground.

Sometimes I indulge in fantasies of a man sitting down with me, intent on learning what exists in my brain and in my soul. Sometimes I can almost feel the warmth – the safely and security and comfort – of my hand encased in his.

But, then I remember it is only a fantasy, one that will never be part of my world. It is not an option for me. I take a breath and shake my head to bring myself back to reality. I go back to the task of finding ways to keep all of me from drifting into that state of deadness – maybe I can find some reason to live.

So, that has become my focus in life . . . to stop feeling all dead and find some parts of me that still have life.


Then, I read back over what I have written and I hear and see whining and complaining and feeling sorry for myself. I’m being overly dramatic. I can’t let anyone know I feel this way. I need to get over my pity party and find a solution . . . or stop hoping for a solution.


  1. Dang, Marie. This rang so loudly for me I looked to the ground at my feet to see if “it” was there. I knew I wouldn’t find it, but I’ve given up, too. Men don’t want a life companion and they don’t want to know what’s in a woman’s head. Until THAT PART of THEM dies, they don’t even know a woman has a head… Venus / Mars. However, tho it may have sounded like a pity party, it needed to be said and I think you said it very astutely. I had my party hat on, too!

    • Hey, Ivory –

      It does seem reasonable to arrive at the conclusion that there are not men in this world who want a life companion and do want to know what is in a woman’s head. I have lots and lots of evidence of that.

      I also know that, through this blog and through my experience with Edward, I’m starting to find contrary evidence. And that is hopeful.

      – Marie

  2. I don’t think it sounds like a pity party; I think it sounds like you’re being honest about your pain, disappointment, and self-loathing. It’s hard to let those things exist without judgment, and also hard to know that acknowledging them doesn’t mean you aren’t looking for progress.

    • Oh . . yeah . . . I keep forgetting about that . . . it is okay to lay claim to what I’m feeling. It’s okay to talk about it.

      Thank you, David, for reminding me about this . . . my childhood programming still affects how I view the validity of my feelings . . . I’m getting better at it . . .

      – Marie

  3. Hi Marie, sometimes we do ‘kill’ parts of ourselves in order to survive. It’s awful that people are driven to do this.

    I’ll be interested to hear how this develops as you work with Edward. I know that it is personally difficult – and only made more difficult by many messages in our culture.

    • Hey, Evan –

      I agree that the many messages in our culture really impact our ability to select our own messages . . . unless we are taught to do that . . . but, how many of us are?

      – Marie

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