From Confused to Confident

By Monika Darling

A Glance, a Touch, Attack

Part 1 of 2 (Go to Part 2)

He served me coffee with tender words; such sweet encounters rarely occur. Instantly, my attention drew to him. My eyes constantly peered out from the corner of my book; his image distracted me. When he was not there, I was equally distracted — Where did he go? I didn’t even know that as I was studying proteinuria, I was studying him alike. So he texts in his free time, he doesn’t read. He really loves music. He is a hard, diligent worker. He doesn’t talk to most of the people he serves. I was doing my job: observing, drawing conclusions, making diagnoses.

I crushed from afar, the way I always do. This time, I did something about it. I made a move. He bit. We talked. He called. He promised me the world with tender words. It’s on. Excitement overshadowed the underlying fear. My mind responded to the excitement, ignoring the fear: Don’t talk to anyone about this. No assessment needed. You will draw on your own experiences, not your superior’s fucking useless advice. Trust no one but yourself. I felt like I got that interview to the place I most wanted to go or that rare opportunity to pitch on the softball team in high school. I was so scared I was going to fuck it all up, which didn’t matter; I knew I had to try.

I adorned my eyes in makeup, dressed to impress, not to reveal. I very consciously thought, I do not need to show cleavage. In fact, that is precisely the attention I do not want. So the boobs stay protected, allowing the minds to meet and intermingle first.

I zoomed over. We met in a parking lot. Ah, who knew neutrality could be so comforting? From there, I transferred myself into his car. Point of reflection: Was that okay or am I putting myself in a risky position? Regardless, we decided on Peruvian food. I wasn’t hungry.

As we talked, I started to collect data. I provided data as well. Often, I provide a lot more data than I receive. But God blessed me with the skills to collect. While I provide data, I never give more than I want to, and I am simultaneously collecting data on the person across from me. I am a true scientist, just unrealized. He seeks no intellectual stimulation. He is not learned. He is a real person, he gets humanity. He understands equality and family. Wow, I find these things as important as intellect, if not more important.

The kind valet fetched our car as we prepared our departure from the tasty, albeit ambiance-less restaurant. I feel like we just ate at a cafeteria, but I guess I’m “keeping it real.” Not only the valet, but also he attempted to open the door for me. Once again, I was struck by those sweet gestures that rarely occur. For this fleeting moment in time, everything was all right: I felt pretty; I felt wanted; I felt deserved. Not much more mattered.

Onwards … but to where? We sat in the car, lost for an option. Really, where does one go at 10 p.m. on a Thursday night, especially when one of us doesn’t drink? That, by the way, is not me. So he leaned over and kissed me and then, without hesitation, stuck his tongue in my mouth. What the fuck does he want me to do with that? Is he licking my face right now? The world is filled with too many bad kissers; I am guessing the scales tilt to one gender. “Can I ask you a favor? Can we move to the back seat?” No! This is fucking ridiculous. I just want to hold your hand and go for a stroll in the moonlight. What actually happened is that I grudgingly complied. I don’t want him to be upset with me. I don’t want him to disapprove. Maybe, just maybe, I can contort this encounter into a romantic one: he wants to move to the back seat so he can transfer those gentle words into gentle gestures. Or so I assumed. The gentle words coerced aggressive gestures.

First we were in this position, then we were in that. Then, he was on top of me and his hand was down my shirt. Nothing was romantic. Mildly disagreeable words met with struggling movement: his hands trying to hold mine down, my hands trying to hold his back. I don’t think I like this. “It’s too fast, we barely know each other,” I said, as I pulled his hand out from under my shirt. “But we’re just getting to know each other,” he replied. Nothing he said made sense to me, probably because I was getting fed so much bullshit. I said no, I know I repeatedly said no. But I didn’t make him stop. The sweet encounter rotted right in front of me. The night closed with a gentlemanly gesture: he opened my door for me, followed by a sloppy, wet, useless kiss. No wonder I was confused and disappointed.

The day after: feelings of guilt, sadness, and hopelessness perched over me. I felt so wronged, so wronged that I was even a little bit angry. Now, I was open to the public; now, I needed some external input. Apparently, he is an asshole of sorts. Apparently, I was violated.

The evening after: feelings of failure, sadness, and hopelessness overshadowed the evening. Ambien®, wine, weed, anything will do. Just get me the fuck out of my head for a bit. Anger from being misled and used involuted in front of my eyes. I was so sad that he had not called me. I texted him, I needed him to text me back. For the record, he texted.

The morning after the day after the date: I called him. I needed him to call me back. For the record, he called, but I missed it. Reflecting back on the date, his words were quite kind, the feelings they elicited inside me resonated, ironically, like church bells. I waited with desperation, with anxiety, for a call back.

After a talk with Shelley, the anxiety subsided. She asked THE question: “When did anger turn into want?” I really don’t know. It just happened. It always just happens: anger gives way to disapproval converts to guilt and worthlessness. Why, you may ask? I will tell you the fuck why! When your father touches your eight-year-old self in the areas you don’t want anyone to touch, you can’t say no. You learn to not say no. When he tells you that you telling anyone will destroy your world, you won’t fucking tell anyone. Well, you’ll tell yourself. The fear, the anger turns in upon itself. AND, unfortunately, it doesn’t change him from being your father. You still want his approval. So now, anger and fear involutes to guilt and worthlessness. All you want is your parent’s approval. The only way to get it is by not saying no, to allow unforgiving touches and to not tell anyone.

Part 2, Next Month