My parents were unprepared for the troubles I would eventually lay at their feet. There were no obvious warning signs that I would need a kind of emotional validation they couldn’t provide. Or even understand, for that matter. There were no subtle clues I would travel down every hard road but the socially acceptable one, or that I would abuse alcohol before I was old enough to drive a car. Even if there had been a hint or two, what could they possibly have done to thwart it?
They were good parents, praising my good grades, and providing never-ending encouragement when I struggled. They were supportive of my activities, attending every piano recital, swim meet, and softball game. But most importantly, they made sure every day I knew I was loved. They did everything they could to make sure I was a happy and well-rounded child. And I was, for the most part.
As children, most of us are taught that our “private parts” are just that; private. Whether it’s a lesson from our parents or a Sunday sermon, we’re led to believe our parts are unclean and we’re warned not to touch them. Doing so was sinful or deemed inappropriate behavior. My parents were hardly bible thumpers, but my mother would throw the occasional ‘God card’ on the table as a warning against guilty pleasures. “God knows all,” she would say. God was a prude, in my opinion.
I wondered if God knew how wonderfully amazing it felt when I hovered in front of the pool return and pulled my swimsuit to the side letting the rush of water massage my clit. And I wondered if he knew I could almost orgasm when I wrapped my legs around the swing set pole in the school yard, inching my way to the top. Realistically, how could he have known? No one knew how and when I pleasured myself, and I damn sure didn’t ask for forgiveness.
