6—1961 CAPTAIN CRUSH Part 2

He had the bluest eyes, the darkest hair, and an authentic athletic swagger that magnetized my attention while scaring me silly enough to swallow my smile and lower my lashes, cloaking the blue of my eyes, whenever he'd sauntered down the aisle past my desk toward his own.  Blue eyes, dark hair, male swagger—a unique combination of physical traits, considering the quartet of crushes who’d come before ...  

In recent years the existence of a dark, experiential mystery, which had repressed any natural urge to lock lips with a guy, emerged from an unzipped pocket within my subconscious, and along with this darkly looming, somehow anxious awareness comes intuitive clarity as to why I’d ‘felt’ marked as prey each time male desire closed in on me. 

Though the shadowy nature of this darkly cloudy experience had grabbed hold of my mind via a repetitive nightmare years before high school, the details of that story remain buried within a foggy portion of my memory, even today, (as though my brain harbors a twilight zone where clarity, teasing my conscious awareness, has not yet emerged from its subconscious hideaway, and in the absence of succinct clarity my storyteller feels compelled to withhold details she may have already made note of.  

It’s as if she can whip this true tale out of storage and then just as quickly slip it back into its subconscious pocket, zipping her lips before my conscious awareness can make heads or tails of this childhood experience as if she wants to say:  You’ve developed the maturity to accept that something untoward happened to you during your youth, but the height of maturity necessary to absorb this particular story within your wholesome sense of self esteem requires a ginormous leap of faith on the part of your conscious awareness, and though your power of intuition must feel that readiness is not yet yours, the day will dawn when your storyteller’s lips unzip, freeing that haunting experience to slip out of its subconscious pocket, and rather than feeling overwhelmed by horror, your readiness to welcome insight to redirect it’s spotlight away from the towering nature of the lout who terrified the little girl inside you toward meeting the unmet needs of the traumatized child you once were will be yours ...

                            Deep sigh...

I think I get it.

My conscious fear has been concentrating on whatever the lout did to the child.  Once that fear no longer limits my ability to consciously process the child’s needs, my heart-mind connection will draw forth compassion, which will deepen into empathy as I absorb the fact that the bad guy is long dead while the child within, whose fear of my rejection of her has remained raw within me for all of these years, has been in need of feeling 100% safe and loved by the adult who she grew up to be—in truth, I’d felt compassion for the child while holding her separate from me when all along, she’d longed for the day to dawn when rather than my caressing her wounded self esteem, she’d literally be welcomed to melt into me, and as of today, right now, this very minute, rather than holding the child protectively, yet separately—she and I are one. 

Wow!  Talk about a visceral awareness concerning change for the better taking place in real time—that’s what you and I just witnessed as I placed my iPad aside for several minutes so as to fully concentrate my heartfelt awareness upon palpable change pulsing throughout my body from head to toe.  Wheeew!

She is no longer the child within.  She is me.

All the while I’ve been seeking to develop my sense of wholeness, I’ve been working toward rejecting no part of myself.

So ‘twas not intuition that thought me unready to absorb the wounded child into my deepest self but rather my conscious mind, which had concentrated its focus upon rejecting the predator rather than calmly removing the bully from inside me so as to absorb the whole of the child I had been ... Geez—

Thank goodness for EMDR Therapy (Google it)

And with insight into which mindset had need to shift and expand comes clarity concerning high school when my darkened mind set concerning guys on the prowl (marking me as prey) was subconscious in nature, meaning that I’d no conscious clue as to why one of my dates, who’d somehow managed to roll on top of my stiffened body and grind away while we were making out at his house, empty of parents, had dropped a confusing comment into my lap after kissing me good night—or should I say—after kissing me off on my front stoop—and that story, along with others concerning the flash-frozen state of my erotic reactions, will, most likely, appear on your screen before tales of my college days are withdrawn from my memory bank, being that during high school, I’d felt completely baffled, after we’d kissed good night, as to why his last words to me (ever) were—Annie, you remind me of The Prudential Building.

Believe it or not, years would pass before the dark secret I’d kept in cold storage defrosted just enough to whisper the meaning of his words into my ear.  And as long as the most painful secret that I’d ever kept from myself remained securely zipped up inside the deep freeze of subconscious storage, I’d laughed at his meaning, being that intuition had offered me no clue of the fact that dark truths concerning trauma had begun to layer up within my subconscious, behind the ever ready smile, which appeared on ‘center stage’ wherever I went feeling utterly oblivious to painful memories, which remained fully anesthetized by defensive denial—this mental block, numbing emotional pain, beginning when I was barely three, continuing throughout the greater portion of my life, and as to missing visceral hints, well—during my childhood, not even the good doctors at The University Hospital had had so much as a clue that the intensity of my need to scratch at an itch so intense that I’d drawn blood, every night, had hinted at a sweet compliant, good little girl’s desperate plight to get a deep dark horrendous secret out from under my skin ...

BTW— if you ask me to ask my storyteller to release that horror story when next we meet, I know she’ll respectfully remind us to glance up at the title of today’s post so as to take note of the fact that she’s chosen to offer us a glimpse of details linking trauma, beginning in 1946 through to 1961, suggesting we have many miles to go before your sense of intrigue and my connection to courage have gained the insight to know when it’s best to muddle our way through connecting details that seem unrelated vs when to identify and then leap over repressed fear in hopes of gaining sound reason to sleep peacefully through the night rather than awakening my husband with nightmarish screams for help, which terror had  silenced during childhood ... and if you ask where our storyteller will take us when next we meet, I’d reply:  Only my power of intuition knows for sure, and so far, that little ‘know-it-all’ has not chosen to clue me in, suggesting why my capacity to muster the courage necessary to satisfy your curiosity requires a whale of patience—on your part and mine ...

🙋🏻‍♀️Annie

5—1946-1992 CAPTAIN CRUSH Part 1

Reflection suggests that my first major crush was not bestowed upon a boy.  I was Daddy’s girl, big time.  You see, when I was very young, my father’s unflagging attention saved me from utter loneliness once tragic  darkness hit our home. 

A second major crush saw me more in keeping with my age, mooning over Joseph, who proved to be leader of our pre-teen pack.  Then came seventh grade when I—along with every girl in our class—was smitten with tall, dark, handsome Mr. Mill—our math and science teacher—who was probably no more than twenty-three.  Though, at twelve, I’d no clue as to the meaning of ‘sensuous’, nothing mesmerizes the mind of an innocent maid as does a handsome, well built guy, whose Elvis-like swagger hypnotizes a lass to follow his lead.  

 The fourth male authority figure I’d crushed on taught U.S. History, during my junior year of high school.  Mr. Spat was young, handsome, fair-haired and charming with lively blue eyes.  His claim to fame, setting him apart from all other guys—ever—was this:  He was the first male to refer to me as a woman.  His exact comment (after I’d answered a question that he’d asked of our class) was:  “Leave it to a woman to think like that.”

Upon hearing myself referred to as woman, I, staring up at this male authority figure who—standing in front of my desk was smiling down at me—felt an electric charge surging straight through my body—oh my God, I thought, branding that moment in time into my mind—Mr. Spat sees me as a—woman!  Previous to that moment, I’d just been one of the kids.  Following that heady sensation, a mind shift crowned me—female—through and through. 

Upon reflection, Jack Spat’s comment was premature, because, in truth, my female self-assessment would remain in a suspended state of perpetual girlhood until the seductive words of a fifth male authority figure—teaching yet another class, decades later—thrilled my ears with innuendo, catalyzing all physical sensation (which had frozen into a deep freeze at an earlier time when my psyche had deemed sexual arousal too dangerous to enjoy) to experience a melt down, jump starting my intuitive quest to uncover subconscious secrets, which had scared me so senseless during my youth as to summon my defense system to lock whatever had happened with an uncouth lout out of my conscious mind into my subconscious where denial swallowed the key to that which would have otherwise soiled a child’s natural sense of wholesomeness..  In retrospect, any natural inclination toward exploring my sexuality during my teens had experienced painful reason to remain mentally blocked from conscious awareness during childhood, suggesting why no hot-to-trot teen-aged guy had been able to penetrate the inner sanctum of my mind where words of passionate persuasion had failed to light my fire until forty-seven candles on my cake enflamed my desire. 

That doesn’t mean after Joseph I’d never swooned over a boy, because of course I had.  One in particular during high school ... 🙋🏻‍♀️Annie

4—FORBIDDEN FRUIT

I hadn’t seen him in 19 years, when suddenly, lifting my eyes to meet his which, being as blue as mine, proved deeply penetrating, palpitations warned me (but not until late that evening, upon reflection) that I’d leaped upon the fast track much too quickly, compelling my smarts to dial down whatever could possibly happen between us all the way back toward the safe haven of friendship before the mesmerizing nature of his interest in me could dizzy my thoughts to the point of making haste down a path where eroticism was sure to barrel straight past my level headed attitude, which had set a high value upon marital vows taken, decades past, suggesting the surety of my harboring repressed regrets if thoughts of cruisin’ toward a love affair had no intention of stopping to consider whether my visceral eagerness to follow wherever this enchanting spell of mutual headiness was taking us would end with both crying into half empty cups, which had been full to overflowing before our fiery attraction, igniting a wildly impassioned fling, had burned holes through the peaceful concept of trust within two amiable households until all that was left of lasting love was a pile of ashes swept up into a little black cloud on a cold gust of wind, hanging heavily overhead both abodes where lighthearted laughter had dimmed.  And knowing that Will, Barry, Steven and David did not deserve to experience heart break dealt by their devoted wife and loving mother, I, pulling back on my reins, pulled out diplomacy as seen, directly below, in my reply to his email request that we meet before I flew home:

If in any way I’ve misled you, please accept my apology.  My husband is my closest friend, and in no way would I ever harm him.  The most I could offer is friendship if you’d like to give that a try.  (And while being truthful with him and faithful to Will, that was the first lie I’d had no conscious clue of telling myself in many a year.)

His response:  I thought you were a wonderful person, as soon as I saw you.  Then when you said your friends understand why you devote all of your time to your mother whenever you fly in, I knew I was right.  I think welcoming this friendship would be worthwhile.

And that’s how it began.  The friendship, I mean.  Which was complex, right from the start, being that denial of erotica refuses to be wished way; in fact, erotic sensations denied grow ever more viscerally intense, day by day.

Speaking of my visceral eroticism, those engines had begun to purr at first sight of his swaggering approach when I was all of seventeen.  So with any luck, the storyteller, within—who, being self empowered with the intuitive freedom to retrieve lost keys that unlock secrets, hidden from my conscious awareness within subconscious storage—proves a bit too independent much of the time, so let’s hope that rather than going off on an intuitive tangent as frequently happens, she sees fit to swing straight back to that insecure teen-aged stage of my life so as to highlight a string of inter-related insights concerning the step by step development of my inner self when next we meet ...

🙋🏻‍♀️Annie

3—AND NOW, A BRIEF WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR

 Now that the kickoff in D.C. has taken place—Love, having won the coin toss over Hate, is bound to gain ground, yard by yard, toward achieving its illusory goal known as Unity, this time for real!  Why?  Because Clarity has opened the eyes of Complacency to acknowledge the extent to which Freedom, Liberty and Equality have been tackled from within our governing bodies where the Disenfranchised have not had a leg to stand on until the line between Love and Hate was clearly drawn during open debate between Biden and trump at which time Love won by a margin so great as not to be denied in more than sixty court cases so that Hate, having been inflamed by its undeniable loss, riled its troops to storm the Capitol where, thank Goodness, Hate lost to Love, Law and Order, yet again.

And now, just as is true of every citizen within our nation, the Commander of all current hate groups must pay stiff consequences befitting his heinous crimes against humanity so as not to remain at large to freely empower his army of rabble rousers to come out of the woodwork, unscathed, weaponry raised overhead, yet again—chanting—Death to Love in 2024.

Will the outcome of this week’s second impeachment trial procure the stable health of our nation’s democracy being that both Democratic and Republican Congressmen know full well that ...

As any course of Inaction would be sheer Lunacy, so, thank Goodness, Bigotry within our national seat of government has no place left to hide in plain sight now that Complacency has opened its eyes to Hate Mongers boiling over on back burners, within our very midst.  And now that the mist has lifted across the expanse of our nation, we, the peace-loving people of The USA thank our lucky Stars and Stripes for the proactive emergence of Democracy’s Deeper Truth, concerning the fact that on-going, generational battles do not arise between North and South but rather between Love and Hate, at long last!

LONG LIVE LOVE!

And when next we meet, back to our story ...🙋🏻‍♀️Annie

2—1990 SWINGING FROM CHANDELIERS

Emboldened as never before, she posed in the doorway until he glanced up at which time she with the dark, glossy, shoulder-length mane sauntered right past him without so much as a glance, and leaning toward the mirror above the sink with lipstick in hand, she refreshed the moist creaminess of ruby red across the fullness of her lips followed by studying her reflection while intuition suggested his eyes had not strayed away ...

In truth, she was a beginner at seduction and in need of reassurance, so the blue of her darkly lashed eyes slid, momentarily, from the mirror toward the man, sitting beside the sink.  As his stunned expression confirmed the startling effect of her transformation, he, who had shared her bed for twenty-five years, watched her lips curl into a Cheshire grin.

Noting the man staring incredulously at this sensuous, scantily clad, feline creature, she brazenly accentuated the tremulous pout of her full bottom lip as an upsurge of courage—speaking volumes of what lay directly ahead—observed his eyes running up and down her body, taking in three triangles of black, satin lace barely covering the swell of her curves above her graceful waist and below—and as their eyes locked—

His hand shot out to touch till her voice torched the air with:  Not so fast!  Look now, touch later ... and with that tantalizing promise lingering in the air, this cat-like creature, casting a come-hither glance at the man, slipped out of the door so lithely that only the musk of her fragrance lingered when he, tuning into Bolero, made haste as tissue paper began to roll ... And within seconds, a spell binding table dance, captivating his eye, entranced his mind so completely as to ignite a night smoldering with passion beyond compare as not a hint of wife or mother was to be seen in his bed until the next day when, having awakened in their hotel room at high noon, he and she felt as though both had just emerged from the same utterly wanton, enchantingly erotic dream  ... 

If you wonder what catalyzed the woman's libido to fall into a coma, early on, only to awaken many years later, exchanging her white cotton Maidenform Bra for a black laced attitude so sensuous as to compel two bodies to intertwine in a dance proving so naturally provocative as to be just short of swinging from chandeliers—please stay tuned ... 🙋🏻‍♀️Annie

1–2021 INTRODUCTION TO: STRIPPING SNOW WHITE

Every author knows there are as many ways to begin a story as there are versions of that story.  And then there’s me who has known, right from the get go, exactly when, where and why this version of my life story would start on a specific night in the middle of my life followed by going back and forth in time.

Being that it’s taken quite a while to muster the self confidence necessary to begin my story at the exact moment that intuition insists is right on the mark, suggests my need to up my quota of courage, as proved necessary, every day, during my current recovery from open-heart-by-pass surgery followed the very next day by the removal of a significant portion of my right lung.

The fact that the well-practiced scalpels of two renown surgeons had need to cut so deeply into my flesh and bone, the first time through my sternum, the second time through the rib cage of my upper back, all within a 24 hour period of time, highlights why everything that had ever pained or frightened me before these surgeries has paled by comparison, and it’s highly likely that since my husband, Will, and I were injected with our second doses of the Covid vaccine, yesterday (only six months after both life saving surgeries), my storyteller awoke, today, feeling injected with the ‘author-ity’ to be hot to trot having been sequestered inside my mind for fourteen months, starting with the severity of my cancer diagnosis (as if threat of Covid during the time of trump would not have been enough to make my hair stand on end before chemo made it all fall out)—sooo just as my power of intuitive thought combined with courage to guide my mind to rise to the level-headed mental state of positive focus—over most of my adult life—I can feel my story teller’s hand readying its pen to tap into the courageous side of my memory, today, which is why if I were you, I’d stay tuned to see if intuition and courage combined will empower my storyteller (who resides within the self-confident side of my brain) with carte blanche, tomorrow ...

🙋🏻‍♀️Annie

THE BARD’S MOST OUTLANDISH FARCE EVER!

Greetings, one and all!

Will and I are going along, day by day, counting our blessings during this crazy time in everyone’s life.  Our second dose of the Pfizer C-19 vaccine is scheduled tomorrow, after Sw which we’ll be deeply grateful to have this life-saving drug working its magic inside us.

Looking several weeks ahead, I may actually feel safe enough to mask up and sit on my patio, six feet apart from friends and family, who Will and I have only seen through our Arcadia door for over a year.  Can’t be too careful while recovering from heart/lung surgery.

Every time I think of Biden, Harris and their team of sane, knowledgable, high principled states/persons at the helm, a sigh of relief is released until the crazies in congress who voice their irrational beliefs come to mind, and then I surmise—better to know these crazies exist so as not to be blindsided by their supporters, down the road.

I feel as though we’ve been living a modernized version of one of Shakespeare’s trilogies, the third act, beginning with Biden’s win, completing not a tragedy but The Bard’s most outlandish farce, ever—penned from on high with quill in hand as this wordsmith extraordinaire, gazing down upon the befuddling muddle that we’ve made of life on planet earth during the aftermath of his demise, inspires the greatest recorder of human nature to chuckle at the fact that so little, other than space travel, has changed since his insightful observations concerning the human condition hit the bulls eye, repeatedly, during his lifetime. 

So having acknowledged that crazies continue to walk amongst us, I hope you’ll take care to remain aware of communal need to stay well, be safe and please take note of my belief that, with patience intact, the arc of The Bard’s three part farce will see our nation land on its feet at the rainbow’s end, and at that blessed time, may The Force (of all that is good) be withIN you and yours and me and mine.

🙋🏻‍♀️Annie