That’s right – I know you’re reading this right now. This post is for those who come here to read stories, but haven’t submitted their own… yet.
(Before you start thinking, “this girl is nonsense, just let me read in peace,” hear me out, okay?)
When I first stumbled on to the Band Back Together site, I had massive steel walls up. Sharing anything that made me vulnerable was a HUGE no-no.
The devil on my shoulder told me that The Band was everything I didn’t deserve – supportive, honest people talking about REAL shit without fear. That stupid devil told me I had nothing to offer; no one could possibly relate to me. (Needless to say, those negative messages ran through all aspects of my life, not just about submitting a story here.)
So, I became a silent lurker.
Every single post led me to believe that I, in fact, was not alone. Life deals us all some horrendous, ugly crap.
Finally, I shoved that devil off my shoulder and decided to submit something.
The first moment I pressed submit, my heart fluttered with fear. Fear that I’d done something horribly wrong.
But you can probably figure out the rest of the story – nothing went wrong. In fact, it went truly, unbelievably RIGHT.
The Band told me I am brave, worthy of love, and not alone – three things that are incredibly hard, but important, to hear. In order to knock that devil off my shoulder for good, I needed to read those comments that were a direct response to writing I submitted.
As that devil lost his power, I had the urge to write about absolutely everything that was eating me up inside because I knew The Band would be there for me with unconditional support, hope, and virtual hugs. And, damn it feels so good to have that for the first time in my life.
Maybe you’re reading this right now and think:
–No one can relate to what I’m going through;
–My story isn’t worth reading; and/or
–I am not a good writer.
STOP. IT. RIGHT. NOW. All of those thoughts went through my mind, and let me tell you, NONE of it is true. That devil is trying to trick you, and you gotta FIGHT BACK.
You are 110% worth becoming part of The Band. It might be hard writing your first submission – in fact, it SHOULD be scary because you’re probably writing about something that you rarely talk about. But trust me: THIS is the place to do it. You owe it to yourself.
I know this is going to sound totally gross and the more I go on the grosser it’s going to sound, but please, hear me out. I’m in trouble here, folks.
I think my boss wants to sleep with me
When I say I think, I mean I’m about 97.5% certain.
He’s not just my boss; he’s also my friend. He’s also 62. He’s also my best friend’s dad. He’s also married. And I could say all sorts of shit, like ‘He’s 62 but he’s a YOUNG 62,’ or ‘He’s married, but his wife’s a drunk and from the outside it sure looks like they have a craptastic marriage,’ but that is making excuses. I’m not doing that.
In the last several months we’ve become good friends. There are times when we’re alone at the office and we hang out and chat. We talk about all sorts of stuff: music, arts, culture, literature, blah blah blah blah blah. He’s interesting and funny and a really good friend.
Years ago I dated a man who was 29 years my senior. I’ve never hidden that. In fact, when I started working at my current place of employment the (old) gentlemen and I were still together. In one of the many conversations the boss and I have had he mentioned that he hadn’t understood that relationship until recently. That I was just delightful to be around or some tune similar to that. I tell you right now just to save you all the time that I most definitely have daddy issues. Being a young lady in her early twenties dating men in their fifties isn’t the norm. I never thought it was gross though. I still don’t.
I’m not entirely sure that I wouldn’t do it. I’m really curious. Not curious enough to ruin a friendship, marriage, my job, etc., but curious enough to let my mind wander. Also can I mention that this is a huge fucking distraction in the workplace?!
That sounds bad, huh? Like I’m a bad person. I’m not, I’m just so fucking confused by the whole thing. But I’m listening to my gut here, and my gut’s telling me that this is what he wants.
I haven’t been 100% honest with you guys. I totally let him take pictures of me. You know the kind. Twice. He’s full on into photography, took hundreds of pictures just like mine years ago, has some bad ass camera equipment, never said anything inappropriate while the sessions were taking place, was super professional and I know everyone says this, but they were tasteful! And the second batch? Well, I think they are the prettiest pictures anyone has ever taken of me.
I know, doing shit like that opens the door to stupid and I just didn’t believe that would happen. All these little things keep adding up and the only conclusion I can come to is that my boss wants to sleep with me. I’m not saying he would or that it will happen, but my instincts are telling me something is there.
Has anyone ever dealt with anything like this? I need help, The Band.
I’ve decided to have an abortion. It was a very difficult decision, but I know it is right for my partner and me and he is fully supportive. We have a 6-month old, we are completely financially strapped, and having a baby was so out of the question for us right now that I actually had an appointment to get an IUD inserted 6 days after I peed on the stick.
The decision is made, the procedure is rather straightforward, and I’m not worried at all… until the moment I have to leave the clinic after my abortion.
I’m most afraid of how I will cope emotionally after the all is said and done. I’m sure I’m doing the right thing for our situation, and us but I don’t handle emotional stress well.
My first pregnancy was plagued with severe antenatal depression and I worry how that will play in.
For all of you going through infertility treatments and struggling with all the emotions that go along with that, I’m so very sorry and I don’t mean to be insensitive.
Have any of you been in this situation?
How do you handle the inevitable emotional fallout after an abortion?
Did you regret it?
Because, oh my goodness, I’m so scared I’m going to regret it. Choosing abortion is, in part, choosing the path that will be the least psychologically damaging for me in the long run. But I’m still so scared.
One of the weirder phobias I have–aside of my fear of tomatoes touching my food–is that I’m terrified of fish. I don’t mean that if I see an aquarium, I’m going to break out into a cold sweat and start crying, no, even I’m not THAT insane.
But since I can remember, my parents have been taking us to tropical places–I know, poor baby, right?–and along with tropical places = snorkeling.
When I was 4 or 5, my parents bravely took us to Mexico and in a stunning fit of idiocy on their part, they left my brother and I to swim alone while they leisurely relaxed in a cliff-type thing above us. Out of sight, out of mind, I think, was the idea. Having three kids of my own, I understand the urge. But I’m still unsure what the fuck they were thinking to leave a 14 year old in charge of a 4 year old in the ocean.
Because my brother promptly ditched me to go and strut his lack of muscles in front of a couple of bikini clad babes.
I could swim, though, so I just waded into the water.
What happened next has been replayed over and over in my mind for the next 24 years.
The fish, accustomed to friendly humans who might feed them delicious treaties, swarmed me. Since I wasn’t underwater myself, I couldn’t see their beautiful swirling colorful fins. Instead, I saw a bunch of black THINGS just swarm me.
I screamed so loudly that pretty much everyone at the beach–including my lazy parents– came running. Maybe they thought I’d been half eaten by a Jaws-like shark, or perhaps I caught sight of a fat hairy dude in a Speedo. Who knows.
All that I do know is that for years after this, I had to force myself to go into the ocean, shaking and terrified, every time we went on vacation. The fear would subside the moment I was under the crystal blue water, but up until that point, I’d be silently shaking in my swimsuit.
Our last family vacation happened in 2000. My brother–recovering from a nasty divorce and full-on taking every bad feeling out on me–was 30, I was 20. My parents made the grave error of leaving us alone to share a room where we fought like it was 1999.
This is likely WHY this was our last vacation as a family.
One of the days that we were there in Cozumel, we went to some renowned beach to get some snorkeling done and generally laze about the beach. By this age, I can assure you, I wasn’t upset that my parents didn’t watch me swim. In fact, I welcomed the opportunity to get the fuck away from everyone else and have some relative solitude in the waves.
I’m a decent swimmer, so once I got past the rocks and coral at the mouth of the beach–where, of course, in my normal good gracefulness, I fell and cut the shit out of my foot–I got pretty far away from the lip of the beach where I could get in and out of the water. This beach wasn’t really full of sand, you see. It was more the coral and other stuff that will cut a bitch (like me) up.
But I relished the soft whooshing of the ocean in my ears as I snorkeled about, following a family of yellow and blue fish around and trying to forget the hysterics of the morning. My brother had called me a worthless piece of shit for the 437th time that hour and I crumpled into a pile of tears outside of our villa. The 5,000 feral cats who’d been following me about swarmed me as I cried. It was strangely comforting.
It was wonderful to feel so free. There’s something so comforting about the soft lull of the waves, the ability to be a voyeur into another world, and after my initial fear, I am always reluctant to get out of the water.
Out of nowhere, as I was admiring a particularly delightful looking puffer fish, my body caught fire. I was electrified, my body searing in pain and I began to hyperventilate.
I popped my head above water to see if I’d run into some electrified fence (I was in pain and terrified. I know how dumb that sounds now), nothing. I forced my face down under the water to see what I’d obviously run into. If it were a school of jelly fish, then I’d do well to make sure to swim AWAY from it rather than into the swarm. Still, I could see nothing.
I swam choppily back toward shore, hyperventilating and panicking, now noticing just how fucking far away I was from the beach. I looked down at my arms and legs and saw with horror that I was now a mess of criss-crossed red welts, from my legs to my arms and my chest.
Finally, after what had to be at least two hours (read: 3 minutes), I grabbed hold of a ladder and hoisted myself shakily up to the beach. I sat at the edge of the cliff-type, surveying the damage and trying to catch my breath, crying heavily. I was breathing so shallowly that I was starting to white out, and using the last bit of my common senseI crawled back away from the edge, lest I fall to my watery death below. This time, I really could have used a chaperone.
I passed out for I don’t know how long, and when I woke up, the welts had turned to bleeding blisters and I had uncontrollable goose bumps without being cold and a good case of the shakes. I was now officially fucked up.
Eventually, my mother found me and helped me back to a towel and gave me a medicinal Pina Colada. The rest of the vacation–including the following day which was a snorkeling boat cruise sort of thing–was uneventful by comparison. If that horse bucks you and all that good boo-yang, right?
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What’s attacked YOU, Internet whom I love beyond compare?
Here at The Band, we believe in kicking stigmas to the curb, flinging glitter, and shining a light into the dark. And now?
Your bandmate needs a sounding board.
It’s time to Ask The Band!
Hello, The Band. I’m afraid to share my story, so this is really hard for me.
When I was nine, I was sexually abused by my step-dad – the only father I’d ever known. I was born to a fourteen-year old mother who really didn’t want me. She was married at sixteen and had my brother, and at the age of twenty-one.
The sexual abuse happened every other day beginning when I was nine. I was so scared; I was afraid to tell anybody.
He manipulated me; convinced me that if I told anybody of the abuse, my brother and sister wouldn’t have a dad. He told me that my mom wouldn’t be able to make it without him – it would be my fault if they divorced. I prayed and prayed that that that abuse would stop.
I hid from him. I’d hide in my closet, under my bed, in the cubby holes in the walls. Wherever I could when I heard him coming up the stairs. Sometimes it would work, but most of the time it wouldn’t.
He’d normally find me and make me “perform” for him. I’d cry, begged him to stop. I’d beg him to just stop and told him that I didn’t like it. I told him that it was wrong of him to touch me in private areas, but he didn’t care. The abuse continued for a year. I kept trying to tell my mom and grandma by dropping hints and complaining of stomach aches. He kept my mom busy working and taking care of my dying great-grandmother.
She figured he was cheating on her; he always did. He was a drunk, a womanizer, but my mother was determined to make the marriage work. She took me to the doctor who asked if someone was touching me in private areas. I was so shocked that I stumbled across my words and couldn’t give him a straight answer. Right then and there my mom knew. When we left the doctors office and got to the car, she looked at me and asked me if someone was touching me in private areas. She was so upset that I couldn’t lie to her. I told her yes and broke down crying.
I thought I was going to be in trouble. I was so scared of how she would react. She asked me who had been touching me and I told her “dad.” She was furious, but not at me. My mom immediately took me to my aunt’s house and made me tell her what my dad was doing to me. My aunt was married to my step-dad’s brother. I told my aunt and then my mom took me to the police station to talk to a detective and fill out a report.
I did.
The next thing I knew, my dad was being arrested.
I’ve learned a lot over the years. I learned that pedophiles usually target children who don’t have a close relationship with their parents. If the pedophile is a parent, he or she will target the child that isn’t closest to the other parent. I’d always thought my mom favored my brother and sister. She was just too busy for the three of us. I was so relieved when my dad went to prison. The abuse finally stopped. I didn’t have to worry about him touching me ever again. My mom went through a long depression and refused leave her room.
I needed her more than ever but she locked herself away in her room – day and night. I didn’t know how to cope with the abuse. My abuser ended up serving eight years in prison. He got out shortly before I turned 18.
My mom began dating another abuser. He was very verbally abusive. My mother was also VERY verbally abusive – a skill she taught me. She told me that I needed to “toughen up.” My self-esteem was in the toilet. In my teens, I didn’t take any crap from anyone… except from my mother. All I ever wanted was her support, her love, her attention, and quality time. I needed her to proud of me. I needed her approval for EVERYTHING.
Thankfully, I had my grandmother who loved me unconditionally. My grandmother had been raped when she was younger. It was a double rape – not only did he rape my grandmother, but he raped my mother too. My grandmother was often the target of my mother’s verbal abuse.
In my teenage years, I started drinking and smoking marijuana. I started hanging out with boys and “giving them what they wanted.” I thought I was in love with them and that “love” would feel the void in my heart.
I was very wrong. Finally I was pretty, I was wanted, I was loved. I eventually dropped out of school and worked. My mom would take whatever extra money I had for herself, or make me spend it on her one way or the other. I paid my truck payment, insurance. I had to buy all my own clothes, and everything else I needed or wanted.
My mother was also financially abusive. She never wanted to buy me anything. If I needed something for school, I usually didn’t get it. I was told if that if I wanted something, I had to work and earn it. I began my first job at thirteen when I lied about my age. Soon, I got another job – this time I took total responsibility for myself. Who else would provide for me? She gave me a roof over my head, $100 a year in clothing, and one pair of shoes every year.
When I was working, I was happy that I could finally buy myself some of the things I needed and wanted. It felt nice. I had a truck payment, insurance, and money for my necessities.
I could buy food. There was hardly ever food in our house growing up. I usually was able to eat a meal at work for free and a bowl of cereal in the morning. I worked as many hours – picking up extra shifts – because I was only making minimum wage. I eventually took on another job and juggled the two.
Working nearly three shifts a day had become too much for me. I partied A LOT. I continued to drink, and occasionally smoked some marijuana. I’d have sex with my boyfriends – I felt used by other guys who only wanted sex. I experimented with women. Women were more comfortable sexually, they were more complex emotionally.
I started dating guys again – I found a really good guy. We got our own place, found really good jobs. Things were starting to look up. Things didn’t work out with us, but I had hope for a better future. I moved back to my mother’s house and remained focused upon getting my own place. That’s when I met my now-husband of twelve years.
He took me out of my mother’s house and brought me to the other side of the state to live in the country. He took me to church with him. I hadn’t believed in God and I didn’t know what to expect. We continued dating and eventually I saw a brighter future for me. I gave myself back to God.
My husband was verbally and emotionally abusive – but it was better than going back to my mother’s house. After a while, we moved out of his family’s house and got our own place. He proposed to me. A couple months later I found out I was pregnant. There were generally happy times for us. We’d still have fights in which he would belittle me and call me names; I just told myself that the first five years were the hardest and we would get through it.
After my son was born, things changed. He found another woman he was interested in and He became really mean to me. He would tell me that my son would be better off without me and better with him. He wanted me to move out so he could get a roommate. I was so depressed that I contemplated suicide. If I had to live without my son, I decided I wouldn’t live at all. I didn’t succeed at killing myself. At the last moment, I decided that I wouldn’t leave my son without me. I took my son and moved into my aunt’s.
I had no job, no money, nothing. He controlled all the money, he did then and he does now. He would take all of my paycheck and leave me without a dime. He still does.
We almost divorced, but instead got Christian counseling. Things became MUCH better around home. We both made life-long commitments to each other and decided we would become better people.
I’d been known to be verbally abusive during arguments in which I felt attacked. I quit – I knew it was wrong. While my husband had never physically attacked me, he remained verbally abusive. We hardly ever fight and get along pretty well, but when he lashes out the words, they cut me so deep that he might as well just swing on me. It hurts deeply.
He has my family and friends convinced that he is Mr. Perfect. They don’t see the control, the financial abuse, and the occasional verbal abuse.
I’m convinced that I can’t make it without him as I’m disabled without disability. I’m currently trying to get disability and should have an answer sometime this year. I should be seeing a judge sometime next month.
While disability isn’t that much money, it’s certainly much more than I have. I promised to myself that I will NOT allow him to take my money this time.
The financial abuse has to end.
In a lot of ways I feel I married someone similar to my mother – just not as bad. He is a great father to our two children. He spends the money on our bills, our bills are always paid, the children always get whatever they need and a lot of what they want.
I tell myself “at least the children are getting what they need and want” and “at least I have a roof over my head,” “we always have food and our bills are always paid.” I feel greedy, selfish that I am so unhappy.
I’m stuck at home under lock and key all the time. We have two vehicles and he’ll leave me one of the vehicles, but the gas tank light is always on, and the gas gauge is always well below empty. My wallet is always empty. If he gives me $5, he will make me spend it. He is very quick to take it from me.
Over the years I have reached out to the church for marital help. My husband usually convinces them that he is Mr. Perfect and I am the bad guy, so they come down hard on me. My family tells me I should stay with him as they are convinced that he’s so wonderful.
I wonder is it just me?
Is there something wrong with me?
Am I in an abusive relationship?
I am turning to Band Back Together. I need help, badly. I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m on an antidepressant. I honestly do not know where else to turn. I wish I had my own place so I could leave with my children and find myself.
I know I have to step outside my current situation and because something is just not right.
This year, it’s time to take action. It’s time to pull our heads out of our asses and make some plans for world domination.
How? By telling the world, not what we want to do this year, but what we will.
So what will YOU do this year?
I wrote a lot on this site about the drama I have in my life, but this time I wanted to write and share something that is made of pure glitter for me: dance.
I started dancing when I was really young, but it wasn’t until I was eleven that I found Irish Dance. I was obsessed with Riverdance growing up, and Mama found a school that just started up in my hometown, so I tried a class. I was instantly hooked. I have done so many other types of dance in my life (ballet, modern, jazz, ballroom/Latin/swing, etc.), but Irish always held a special place in my heart. I loved going to, and competing in, competitions all over the nation and Ireland. I was addicted to the thrill of the performances we would do all over the state, and I never thought I would stop. Fate had other ideas.
When my knee blew out, I thought that I needed to leave all dance behind to be able to put that part of my life away and start a new one as a photographer. I tried to leave it, joking that “dance was my passion, but photography was my love. You never marry your passion, you marry your love,” but soon I found my life missing a huge piece of something. I never could figure out what was missing, but I kept moving forward.
In my classes, I would always practice old steps I choreographed or competed in my head while I worked on other things, and I would always end up choreographing new dance numbers to random songs in my head. But it wasn’t until after my Mama died I finally figured it out.
I was living at my best friend’s house when a fire caused my town to evacuate during the summer, and I went to dance, the same dance class I use to live at, with her little sister. I thought “Well, I’m here, I might as well dance,” and I found myself hooked again. It was coming home after a long time away. Now, I know where I belong and what I am: I am a dancer who is studying photography.
Dance is either magic or pure glitter, depending on what you want to call it. It makes all the world quiet, all the problems just vanish for a few hours, and nothing matters but your body and the music. I love being able to lose myself completely in the movements, the music, and the small, little movements that others find boring. I spend hours remembering how to move my body, how to turn out, how to balance, and how to jump again. It sounds easy, but being able to take my time and just fix my old problems is amazing.
Dance is something I can, and know how to, fix. This is a place where I am safe. Dance doesn’t lie, it is the truest way to see someone’s soul. It is an essence of the person him or herself. I don’t even know if this makes sense, but when your world starts to spin out of control, the best thing I think you can do is dance. It helps you… feel. You don’t have to wear a mask or hide, you are truly free.
It is pure glitter to me, and my resolution is that I will dance! I will remember the simple joy of moving, of perfecting each step, and being in the moment completely. I hope some of you will join me: dance is not just a studio and lesson, it’s all around us. Just turn on music or listen to the wind outside, and dance! I promise, you will feel better and most likely will be smiling and laughing, even if it’s just a moment, and you’ll feel better.
