Ghosted: An American Story by Nancy French - Begins With Spotlight on the Cesar Sayoc case (Mail Bomber of Democrats) More Than A Memoir! "Ghosted" Because of Donald Trump!

 

Introduction...When I arrived home, I noticed a business card taped to my mailbox fluttering in the wind like a butterfly’s wing. I took it off, annoyed at whatever roofing company was trying to drum up business, and thumbed through my mail. But the card had a raised golden seal with five words printed beneath it: the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “Contact me at your earliest convenience.” The note on the back was written in slanted printed letters. “Urgent.” My chest tightened as I dialed my husband. “The FBI?” 

David was on a business trip, and his voice sounded distant now. “What did the agent say when you called him?” “You think I called him back?” I’d never been contacted by the FBI, but it seemed like an opening to a movie, the kind in which the unsuspecting woman ends up in a gas station bathroom cutting her hair with a knife and dyeing it with shoe polish hoping for a clean slate in Topeka. “Did you rob a bank?” His voice was teasing, laced with impatient incredulity. “If not, call them.” “Does the FBI typically come to a person’s house?” I asked. “I don’t know. Call him back, before it gets too late.” It was already dark. “Whatever this is, it’s not good.” I dialed the number. 

“Thank you for calling, Mrs. French.” The agent’s formality caused my throat to thicken. “Are you familiar with the Cesar Sayoc case?” Of course. Every news channel had been covering it around the clock for the past few weeks. In the days leading up to 2018’s midterm elections, Sayoc sent prominent Democrats pipe bombs in a wave of attacks. Fear of political violence spread across the nation. When the news first broke, I’d been on a job. I’m a ghost, but not the scary kind. The writer kind. Almost all celebrity books are written by ghostwriters like me, unknown writers who learn the minutiae of their celebrity clients’ lives and toil in obscurity to meet tight deadlines. But it’s true. Most famous people don’t have the time, skill, or inclination to write a book while starring in a television show, running for office, or training for the Olympics. That’s where I come in. I sit down, hear their stories, and go to their homes, studios, movie sets, weddings, or Olympic training centers and create books that will be in stores in twelve to eighteen months. 

When Sayoc mailed his first pipe bombs, I was with a client in a hotel lobby. The television news anchor on a nearby TV described how the bomber had targeted Bill and Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden, several members of Congress, Barack Obama, George Soros, and Robert De Niro. The other hotel guests and I got closer to the screen, which showed images of a cylindrical object wrapped in electrical tape, wires emerging from both ends. Black ISIS-like flags were taped to them, as well as photos of the recipients with a red X marked across their faces. Someone was terrifying the nation right before the midterms. Bad news for democracy. 

My client shrugged and continued the interview. “Anyway, so let me tell you about why I support the president, even if people say he’s divisive. He’s a unifier, if anything.” Days after the first attack, the FBI identified this domestic terrorist as a stockily built Florida man who lived in a van covered with pro-Trump posters. The feds found binders full of media clippings, photo collages of people’s faces, and writings that said, in a 180-degree twist on the words of Christ, “Kill your enemy.” He’d taken his cues from every serial-killer documentary ever made. “I saw it on the news,” I said to the FBI agent. 

“But what does any of this have to do with me?” “We found your address on Sayoc’s computer.” He paused. “Your husband was on his list.” I sat down at the kitchen table. I’d never thought David, a conservative Iraq-war veteran, would ever be listed with Bill Clinton, Joe Biden, and Robert De Niro. We’d been Republicans our whole lives, and I’d helped many conservative leaders on book projects. “He targets prominent critics of the president,” he said. “Would that include your husband?” It would. David, who wrote for the conservative magazine National Review, had been one of the only Republican thought leaders to oppose Trump. His name had even been briefly floated for a quixotic, third-party run for president of the United States. He declined, but not before his reputation among Republicans was sealed: traitor. “What do we do?” “He may have sent you a package we haven’t intercepted yet,” he explained. “We’re working with the US Postal Service, but one could slip through.” I put my forehead in my hand, and my teenage son—who’d been hovering nearby—walked over, eyes wide with concern. “Look out for nondescript manila envelopes you aren’t expecting,” the agent said. “And alert your neighbors. None of the packages have detonated, but they could.” I couldn’t breathe. I’ve always prided myself on having a certain amount of emotional awareness and flexibility. Being a ghostwriter requires it. I’d worked with celebrities like Kim Kardashian, The Bachelor’s Sean Lowe, a Chinese political dissident, and prominent Republicans who had inhabited the nation’s top political positions. As a ghost, I don’t write “he hit Clara’s daughter” but “he hit my daughter.” I don’t write “the car crash killed the passengers” but “the car crash killed my friends.” I describe scenes in such detail that I sometimes experience secondary trauma vicariously living through the moment to capture it in the first-person written word. 

But in 2016, I felt a different, more personal type of trauma. That’s when things started to change in the GOP. Within a party proclaiming faith and freedom, an unsavory element bubbled to the surface. David and I were doing what we’d always done: speaking out about our values, values which had not changed. But as the political climate shifted, we suddenly were at odds with our own community. Either you were with the GOP, or you weren’t. We’d been ostracized because we refused to support a president who made a cameo in the Playboy film Playmate 2000 Bernaola Twins. We’d been confronted at church because we didn’t support a man who’d admitted to groping women. And now we’d been targeted by a domestic terrorist. I sat at my kitchen table, my hands shaking. Someone had to point out that the emperor—not just the Bernaola Twins—had no clothes. But at what cost? Not only was I forced out of my tribe, I’d lost my main source of income. My political clients wanted a ghostwriter to write what they told them to write. That’s the job. I was supposed to reflect their views for their books, not write my own. Not only did I write their books, I traveled with them, wrote speeches, and even sat at Fox News headquarters to sharpen their talking points. I specialized in witty insults, clever turns of phrase, and political statements aimed to provoke liberals. Combativeness was part of the fun, delivered with a wink. People would argue during the day and have a drink together in the evening. But the wink was gone, replaced by mean tweets. Acrimony had settled into our brows, and people from different political parties actually loathed each other. I tried to continue my political work but vowed not to twist the truth or bear false witness against my liberal neighbors. Because I lived in Franklin, Tennessee, I didn’t have many actual liberal neighbors, but you get the idea. I wouldn’t mischaracterize liberal positions, I wouldn’t make generalizations about an entire group based on the craziest outliers, and I wouldn’t assume the worst of every Democrat. Hadn’t my own approach to politics contributed to the problem? Couldn’t we all agree things had gone too far? Though my political clients had previously respected my opinion and enjoyed our back-and-forth dialogue, they now resented my questioning their talking points and softening their forceful rhetoric. 

I soon quit, or was fired by, all of them. That put me in a financially precarious situation. Now I was in a physically precarious one. I clutched the FBI agent’s business card. Since my multiracial family had taken a stance against Trump, we’d been mocked by Republicans, targeted by White nationalists, threatened with death, and alienated from our church community. But the American story is one of defiance, especially of the political kind. My unwillingness to bow the knee to an unsuitable president was the most American thing I’d ever done. And the ensuing rupture allowed me to see my nation and fellow Americans in new, more accurate, and ultimately more meaningful ways. I quit the GOP, which means I am no longer bound to toe the party line. Now I’m liberated from all expectations and can reveal what really happened. That’s what I’m doing now. Instead of writing for others, I’m telling my own story. As a ghost, invisible to the people around me, I’m coming out and making myself known. After floating along the outskirts of the powerful while our nation has digressed into unbelievable hatred, I’ve got a story to tell. It’s not tidy, nor is it easy, and it’s more than a little frightening. All good ghost stories are.

~~~

After an Introduction like no other, it was strange, then, to turn to the beginning of a woman's memoir, that was very much like any other personal memoir... So I wanted to share a little so you can get the flavor of French's background...

We tried to stuff that shadow in a mothball-filled closet back in Kentucky in a box labeled “Grandfather’s KKK Robe.” I’d heard stories about the “old” Ku Klux Klan, which—I’d always been told—kept law and order after the Civil War.

“What do you see?” she asked. Soft, prisms bounced around as I moved my head. Magical and mesmerizing. “Rainbows.” I twirled a tress of my dark hair. “What do you see?” 

My aunt took a drag from her cigarette and peered into the ball with me. “I’m a seer, so I see a lot,” she said. “But mostly, I see . . .” I straightened and prepared to discover the secrets of the universe. “Dollar signs.” 

I breathed out my disappointment but continued to look into the ball as the clock ticked. While we waited, my aunt told me about belonging to an Indian tribe and invited me and Grandmother to their next meeting. “We wear Indian headdresses, do dances, and even have our own Indian names,” she said, but Grandmother waved her off. She was the daughter of a Cherokee princess—one of our ancestors had been named Shield Eater—but her generation didn’t broadcast their identity on the mountain. When my dad left the mountain, we left behind all the Cherokee lore, the black magic, and the astrology. 

Still, I leaned in closer. “You need an Indian name to go with your blood,” Aunt Zinnia said. “Momma’s one half, and you’re one eighth, but I see it in you. Clear as day.” I shook my head. My dad would never let me attend any sort of Cherokee dancing rituals. We weren’t allowed to do any kind of dancing, but I felt the pull. My aunt packed up her crystal ball. “Guess he stood me up.” “Didn’t we know he wouldn’t come?” I asked, hesitantly. Because of Grandmother’s rag? Because my aunt was a seer? She tossed back her head and laughed. “I like you.” She flicked her ashes into a tray without looking. “Momma, she looks and talks like us, don’t she?” I shared their coloring, facial construction, and conversation style. I loved watching these women, whom I so resembled, move and talk. Fierce and beautiful. “Your eyes will melt many a man’s heart.” Aunt Zinnia pulled out a cigarette from her case. “The color of those old blue bottles your daddy finds in the woods. Cobalt.” Their own eyes were dark like coal, but my heart swelled at their sugarcoated insistence that I belonged in this stone house with magical apple peels and dishrags. I was one of them. My aunt blew the smoke from her cigarette away from my face and leaned in closer. “And you have the gift, don’t you?” “What gift?” “You can see.” I thought about it. My eyes worked. I clearly saw that the small home had provided shelter to two parents and seven tightly packed children. I saw the middle room, which had two beds—one for my grandparents and one for the two girls. I saw the room with dueling pianos where all five of the brothers had slept on one feather bed in a room with ice on the inside of the window in the morning. I saw what they still called the “new addition,” a closet-sized space with a toilet which replaced the outhouse my dad dug. When they got electricity and plumbing—reluctantly—they built a tiny addition with a single commode. My cousins stood over the toilet and watched the water flush away to parts unknown. Still, my grandfather didn’t trust it and never used an indoor toilet even once in his life. “It’s not my way,” he said. Aunt Zinnia always breezed in and out of our lives, and I felt honored to be in her presence, and I hung on her every word. “You have the gift. To see things that are far off, have passed, or will come.” As she took a drag from her cigarette, her eyes never left mine. “Reckon?” I hesitated. At church we were warned against soothsayers and psychics, but deep down I wanted to be like these women, to be special. She put her hand on my knee. “You have it. Don’t fight it.” For the second time in an hour, my destiny shifted. I had some sort of mystical power, and I only hoped my future husband—apparently a Mr. Quinn? Mr. Copeland? Mr. Shelby?—would appreciate that part of me. 

Grandmother put the chicken into the oven to stay warm, and the gravy needed to cook a bit longer. We walked through the middle room, which had a two-handed saw painted with vibrant deer-filled vistas hanging on the wall, into the far room. It had a couch, two upright pianos, and a chair in the corner. Grandfather had black lung disease from the deep-hole coal mines, but he smoked a pipe. The aroma—a blend of woods, vanilla, and tobacco—mixed with the smell of the stove. Slumped in his chair in his worn-out overalls, he bore an eerie resemblance to my father and uncles. While we waited on dinner, I tried to make conversation. 

“I’m reading a good book.” I held out my novel to my grandfather, who took in the pink cover without saying a word. Outside, the snow pelted in a horizontal pattern. Ice tapped the windows. He beheld the book for a long time, and no one moved. I didn’t know he couldn’t read and could write only his first and last names, a skill Grandmother had taught him so he could sign his Tennessee Coal Company checks. Not for a second did I consider anything to be beyond their capabilities. They had that lived-through-the-Depression resourcefulness, which meant they never threw anything away and stared problems in the face until the sun came up the next morning. Their spines were as strong as steel, their hair as black as coal, and their bodies as unshakable as the mountain. 

My dad broke the silence and addressed his mother. “Why don’t ya play us a tune?” My grandmother shook her head. Before she’d gotten married, she played piano on gambling boats, but marriage and seven kids put a damper on all that. Uncle Jasper stood up. “Come on now,” he said, patting the bench beside him indicating a seat for me. Jasper wore a red and black flannel shirt under his overalls; his glasses were tinted so he looked like a hillbilly celebrity. “Let’s play some music for these nice folks. They drove all this way.” They drove all this way. My sisters and I were on the mountain, but not of the mountain. He sat at one of the pianos and played the opening chords to “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” My grandmother, unable to resist the pull of the notes, sat at the

adjacent “dueling piano.” Uncle Jasper could play the banjo, guitar, and piano. But Grandmother was a savant. Her hands pounded the keys, yellowed and some worn all the way to the wood. She played all eighty-eight keys, no matter the song. “Your cheatin’ heart,” Uncle Jasper bellowed. I took lessons from a Baptist lady. One finger played one note. A mistake would stand out during recitals. But there was no such thing as a wrong note here. Grandmother played from the heart, several keys at once, sweeping her hand over the piano with confidence and ease. The music was syncopated, the beat was loose. I never knew where the notes would take me.

~~~

If you've read any books by Dolly Parton or other southern writers and enjoyed them, I think you'll enjoy the early part of this book, especially. I did! School, church, and playing music took place in my early home life, so if it sounds like yours, you'll be right at home in Nancy's early life... maybe not all of it though...

She was an early reader as well, so I can see where she would look toward writing as a career. But being able to listen to somebody else's story and make it sound like their own? I'd think that takes a special kind of person and skill. And French was doing well as a ghostwriter for many celebrities and other personalities...

Until they turned on her...

Even as I read her story and so many other book, I still can't quite figure out where all the hate came from that arose in America... Nancy and her husband, David, had been conservatives for most of their lives. David wrote for the conservative magazine, National Review. And was known as one of the "Republican thought leaders." But both David and Nancy had been one of the very few who refused to support DJ Trump. While I don't consider myself a conservative, I, too, had been questioned about my choice to not support a republican candidate (as a Christian)... The French family was greatly affected financially as they made the choice to not support a candidate who admitted to "groping women..." And, then, being targeted by one of those followers that listened to Trump and acted as they were incited to do...

Nancy also shared an early sexual assault within the church. Her story was included in a Discussion of Sexual Abuse earlier (see right column for info). When I think of her extended title for this book, I can't help but wonder whether this, then, is a major part of our American Story... Sadly, that is very possible... On the other hand, there are uplifting and heartwarming stories which have been shared... which, for me, supported my belief that God is touching people who are speaking Truth at this critical time in America...

Nancy began to seek out other jobs and soon was offered a column in "The Liberty Bell." It was the first time she'd ever had an ongoing job. While along the way David wanted to, and joined, the military services. And adoption was one of the callings for them...

Discussions were constant as things were happening, such as when Steve Bannon had joined the alt-right and was now supporting white nationalists... Yeah, those who were previously in their lives in some way were now part of what I call the cult... Then, Nancy was in somewhat of a panic about her "sin" being discovered--which really had been an assault--as David had been contacted to possibly run for president as well... Seriously, folks, you just can't make up this book!

This is a personal favorite for me, for many reasons... but mostly because Nancy French, and her family, Placed God as their highest priority! I call this a Must Read, especially before November!

GABixlerReviews

Talking with Kelsey Carlee, Author of Double-Crossed & Unraveled - A Memoir - A Couple Surprises

 

I woke up this morning singing this song in my sleep. I awoke just as the words were "For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, Forever... Amen... I knew that God wanted me to post this song with this post - Another God Incident in my life - I was led to this song, sung by Rhema Marvanne, who asked that her song be shared... Rhema sings the song, as I would sing it. I knew this was the child I had been led to to open this post... I believe that God is speaking to us today. To those who are listening for His Word... It was Jesus who spoke of allowing children to come to Him... I firmly believe that it was my early life, in getting to know Jesus and that He loved me, that I was led to this day to speak out... I thank Kelsey and Rory who agreed to participate in this extremely personal discussion...  I believe it is what Jesus wants us to know about how America--the world--have and are treating His children. People are speaking out. Memoirs are being written, fictional writers are including these things in their stories... and I also am writing an Open Memoir, some of which is included in this post... 

If you have read yesterday's post about Kelsey's book, Double-Crossed & Unraveled, you will already understand that the topics covered in this book are extremely revealing of Kelsey's early life years. I quickly was invested in knowing more about Kelsey. Her life was so different than mine in so many ways. Yet it was alike in one way... Please note that there are three generations included in this discussion. All of them are still living in America. I am one of them. I was led this morning to differentiate the responders simply by color. Readers will undoubtedly see who is speaking; however, I am led to say that we are mere representatives of children living in today's world...

And Jesus is Crying for His Children...

~~~

Once in a while, I've bought a book purely because of its cover. I pictured the author creating this one. Then on the inside, there is also an almost magical use of dots and dashes, as if a secret code...To me, this means that the writer has an important statement to make and she wanted to do it--her way... I could relate... While reading the book, I was curious to know more, so I've asked the author to come to Book Readers Heaven to talk about about what was covered. But, further, I wanted to look at the issues from a time perspective, from my own experiences, the author's...and from a later time period... I knew just who to contact... 

I am incredibly glad that you reached out to me! I cannot wait to see this on your blog and link it to my website. It really means a lot that you are asking these questions and your words about my cover art and the use of morse code (as when we are abused, we use secret codes and hiding things to protect ourselves, especially when the abuse is at the hands of family members).

With that said, I drew my cover art while sitting on my front porch with a pencil on a blank piece of paper. It represents the innocent girl I once was, sitting on the steps of the arched stairway in Seattle right before fleeing the Fat Tuesday Mardigras riot. The MMI represents the year 2001, the morse code along the bottom reads Seattle, and in the cobblestone is a memorial plaque for a young man who gave his life helping a young woman up from the ground.

I want to do a comparative look... I believe it is a contrast that must be considered as we move forward in today's world... Primary issues are dating, car privileges, sexual activity, parent interaction, peer relationships... Based upon the book, but also based upon sharing today's thoughts and opinions...

Was religion a part of your early life? Did it play a part in your teen relationships/dating? Was there religious instructions regarding sex? How does religion fit in your present life?

I have to admit that I've been amazed at the differences of those who are much younger than me. Reading this story reminded me as to just how times have changed. I think that is an important factor since each of us normally have at least a memory or living grandparents, as well as parents. Each generation appears to be quite different--and yet--very much the same... I hope this discussion will  bring that out to be considered...

For me, living in a small town, the church was the only real center of gathering. We had two churches where I grew up. Both were protestant. We did have BYF, Baptist Youth Fellowship which was merely meeting by age groups and studying scripture or related learning materials. There was NO discussions or guidance on dating, teen relationships, or religious instructions regarding sex. I was baptized at 13 and have been active in one church or another for all my life, up until recently when health issues resulted in several surgeries and a need to stay at home. Of course, Covid led to much of that time period. Earlier, though, an incident at church resulted in my leaving... I have a wonderful relationship with God through His Holy Spirit, which is, perhaps, extraordinary at times...

I remember there was little about religion in your book, until the very end. So, could you share a little, please.  

Religion was very much a part of my early life. I never had any instruction regarding sex as I attended private school. I don’t currently practice organized religion, but I very much believe in God. 

Yes, Christianity. I received no religious training. In fact, religion did not play any part in my teen years. By that time, I had stopped participating in church. And, religion is not a part of my present life.

I was baptized at 13 when I was attending a small Baptist country church. Do you mean you went to a religious school? If so, I guess I am surprised that you had freedom of the car...Me? My older sister wouldn't even let me drive, until she wanted to go out on a date with a new guy and wanted me to drive our carpool members home. LOL, I stood up to her and said no, you wouldn't let me drive before, and I'm sure not going to drive after not driving for years!

Was incest or sexual abuse an early event in your life? What did you do about telling what happened? Do you believe that what happened affected your life, short-term? long-term?

I'm single and never married, by the way, and I realized that I didn't ask too many personal questions, so, are you married? Involved?Any children? And, if you have children, what are you doing, if anything, about talking about sex? 

I am not currently married. I have loved and trusted, but sexual experiences do not have any influence on that current decision. It’s just a personal choice to be single at this season in my life. 

I am married and have a young child.

 Although there was no talk about the early experiences in the book, I do want to include some basic info. I know it is sometimes difficult to share about what happened when you had no ability to control what was happening. I have to believe that what I remember was true, but I'd be happy to have you provide any feedback if you wish.

I don't know when and how my first sexual abuse happened. What I remember is that, when a certain uncle died, it was as if my mind remembered something. In those days, a body was often "shown" at home prior to burial. I remember the house clearly. It was one where you could walk all the way around the floor, going from room to room, coming out where you started. That day, it was in a room which was rarely used for routine events. I remember that I walked around and around and around the circle of rooms, crying deeply and whispering to myself "I'm glad he's dead. I'm glad he's dead. I'm glad he's dead. And when I came into the room again where he was, I would cry even more, because I felt guilty for being glad he was dead... I would imagine that I was at least 8 or 9 when he died. I heard people saying that I must have really liked him, which made me feel even more guilty... I WAS GLAD HE WAS DEAD... Struggling with guilt did not change my mind about my feelings about his death!

Again I don't remember my age, but there were three other individuals who I remember touched me inappropriately, all in my family. I've shared a little with my two sisters in later years. Neither of their responses held my respect for their answers. All four individuals were also active church members. I never told anybody what had happened, really, until the time when the "Me-Too" movement began... 

I agree with what you said about the “me too” movement, which makes it much easier to talk about these types of things that happen.  I was six when I was first sexually abused by my uncle. I didn’t speak up for many years, until it happened again when I was in my early teens. Incest was normalized in my family, and my talking about it was quickly dismissed. I always knew it was wrong, but no one was ever shocked to hear about it until I told someone in a hospital. I think it very much influenced my life and my ability to trust others. It’s a very deep betrayal to be molested by a family member under the guise of love.

The way you phrased that last sentence, set me back to wondering about something, so this might be a time to bring the issue up... I was the baby of four children; my mother was pregnant for me when my father was killed in an accident. I wondered if things would have been different if there had been a man in our home. What you mention as "normalized," I wondered about whether this was part of normal curiosity of children at various ages... Although I've obviously heard stories about "playing doctor" but I, too, always knew it was wrong, so what or how is secret touches determined to be "wrong" by the child (even if they never share what happened with anybody)? Many years have passed and I am still not able to trust many people...

I also agree that things may have turned out very differently if there hadn’t been an absence, emotionally in my own case, of a man and protector in the house. I think this definitely contributed to the situation. I didn't tell anyone until years later. The result for me was long-term since I do not easily trust others...

I was molested by a member of my family. I didn't tell anybody until years later when my best friend shared a little about her own life with me. I remember she included that she had lost her trust and I agreed that was the same for me. 

When did you start to date? Was that a parental determination or was there a discussion and agreement? Were you satisfied with the final decision?

Did you learn how to drive and at what age? Were you allowed to drive? Did this affect how you interacted with your peers? As you look back, would you have done something different?

I don't remember dating was even discussed with me. We lived in a small town, so being the baby of the family, there was enough of an age difference with my sisters that there was nobody nearby to be my friend. My childhood "boyfriend" (we liked each other, LOL) was allowed to date much younger than I would be allowed, so it was not until the 7th grade when I started riding a bus to junior high that I even got to be friends with my peers. At school we hung around together. One of my friends was Black and there were few of her race in our age group... the other was involved so he and his friend joined us for lunches. Me, by that age, I was very overweight and although I had good friends of both sexes, dating never came into the picture during high school. 

I first began to date at fifteen. There was never any discussion with my parents. I learned to drive when I was fifteen, and I had my permit by sixteen. I was allowed to take the car, and it very much affected my interaction with peers as none of them had driving privileges or access to a vehicle. While reflecting, I realize that I can’t change the past when I think about whether I would have done anything differently. There are certainly things that I wish had never happened in my life, though. 

I started dating when I was 14. It was my decision and I informed my parents. They had rules where I could see them and how often. I was never happy with their decisions. I did learn to drive at 16 but was not allowed to drive. So, I was forced to sneak out to hang out with my friends. I felt I had no choice so I wouldn't have done anything differently.

When was your first intimate sexual experience? When was sex first involved with dating? Is your sex life important to you?

I was going to say 23, but then I realized that it was earlier, probably around 20 when I had double-dated with my best friend who didn't want to go out with somebody she had just met. Both were businessmen. from out-of-town. We stayed out all night and met again for breakfast. John was the perfect man with whom to be involved. I admitted I was a virgin and he was very kind and said that our intimacy would not change that... I was happy to learn from somebody who put me first.

My first intimate sexual experience was with my first serious boyfriend, and we’d been together just shy of a year. I was fifteen, and this was the first time that sex was involved in dating for me. It was a consensual sexual experience. I am currently celibate and do not engage in sexual activity by choice. I am happy with that decision, as intimacy can be uncomfortable for me.

Dating which included sex began at 15. My sex life has been important to me.

Has pain ever been a part of any sexual experience? What did you do if it was? And, if it was, what did you decide about it or its effect on your life? Do you feel now that pain is a part of the sexual experience?

I think whatever experience that I had when I was very young must have been painful. Somehow I was sheltered from rape or anything like that--that I know of. And I had made a decision after reading some erotic books (from England) where, supposedly, young girls were sent to places to be "trained" for their future with men... I made a firm decision that I would never be willingly involved with pain as part of making love. It was, I believe, God watching over me, even then...

Pain has been a part of several of my experiences with sexual activity. I have been raped by individuals I thought I loved and trusted. I picked up the pieces and moved on with my life afterwards, feeling that I had no other choice. I decided not to let it take hold of my emotions or life. I didn’t speak of it for many years, but I decided that sharing my story might help someone else who had been through something similar. I wrote my book in hopes that others may be able to relate, as I wish that I had that for myself when I was in the trenches of suffering from abuse. Like you, I think that pain shouldn’t ever be a part of the sexual experience, and as an adult, I now realize that what I went through was not normal and was actually horrific.

I have to ask a follow up on this question. I got very emotional about your continuing a relationship which included physical abuse. You definitely were raped, but what I couldn't understand since it was going on for so long, how would your parents "not" know? Especially when the two boys had taken you away from your porch, what followed, and then for your having no support from your mother... Please, if you can, share a little about your mother in particular. Did she use the texting as you included? Why? Was there no rules ever set for time, how the car was used...and, if there was, was part of the problem that you didn't agree with them, so thought you'd ignore them? 

You ask a valid question as to why the abuse in my early relationships was allowed to continue. Throughout my lifetime, I have often asked myself that same question and have been unable to come up with an answer that makes any real sense. There were certainly a lot of concerned individuals whose names are redacted from my records with child protective services. I believe that my parents didn’t recognize the signs of abuse, and I hid them well, such as covering bruises with concealer and making up excuses. It was role reversal in a way with my mother, in that I would try to shelter her from knowing the truth in the beginning. As to why she initially blamed Cole for my EtOH overdose and now Howie and Drew, who were very clearly the ones involved, I think it comes down to shock. If I had been my own mother, I certainly would have been in shock to be woken to see myself in that state. I have at times wondered how differently things may have turned out if she had owned that mistake, those boys had been held accountable, and justice had been served in relation to that incident. At the end of my book, in the unsent letter I wrote to Howie, I reference judgment day. I believe that at the end of our lives, we will have to answer to God about the decisions we chose to make or didn't make. Writing my story down from start to finish was my own way of finding peace and justice for myself in hopes of setting it down. It also produced a tangible account that I was able to share with others. When I was going through my youth, I wished more than anything that there could be one other person to personally understand what I was going through. Abuse thrives in isolation, so being able to share my story with others has been healing and also helpful. The e-mails and letters in the book are in SIC format. I believe in her mind that she honestly believed that I was best off going to A.A. meetings and attending treatment groups. She gave me the car keys to attend these, which was ultimately where I met others who had serious drug problems, were in legal trouble, and hadn’t just dabbled socially with pot use. In later discussions, I would learn that she didn’t want me to turn out as she had. Her rule for using the car was that I was home before the bars closed and drunk drivers were out on the road, which I didn't understand the meaning behind until later in my life. I believe that when we know better, we do better.

Pain has been a part of some of my sexual experiences but it was always as part of a discussion with my partner and never the type that would be considered abuse. Specifically, I would decide on a day to day basis whether something experimental would be involved. I've always felt that I was in control of that involvement. It rarely happens for the most part...

Have you ever had an abortion? What do you think about abortion in the context of your personal health... What kind of contraceptives do you use if any

I have strong feelings about abortion. I believe it is a personal issue that should never have any legal ramifications. It is a part of women's health that can often be used to save the involved woman's life. I do not believe that abortion is a religious issue! I further believe that a mother's life is more important than ever mandating a birth. Too many women already die in childbirth because of medical issues. The law should not be part of it!

In response to the abortion question, I have never had an abortion procedure. I took birth control when I was younger, as my mother didn't want me to be a teen mother as she had been. I have also taken the Plan B morning after pill one time after having been raped, and I was thankful for the local Planned Parenthood clinic. Personally, I could never have an abortion. Having children is not something that I will be able to do, so contraceptive use is not relevant for me. On that note, I will say that I believe abortion should be the choice of a woman and that "her body, her choice" is applicable. I also believe that past a certain stage of development, a fetus has developed enough that terminating its life is a complicated decision, and it’s a fine line. In my opinion, certain cases, such as rape and incest, should be treated differently. No woman should be forced to carry her rapist's baby to term unless she chooses to do so. I understand that it is a controversial topic, but those are my thoughts on the subject.

I am one of the many women who have had a miscarriage and who also had a difficult birth. It was my body that was involved in those issues. Nobody should be included in those decisions except as the woman wishes. It is not a legal issue! It is a medical issue. No different from any other medical issues where the law are not involved! In my opinion, it is also not a religious issue...

After I had already been talking about putting this discussion together, I went on to another book... I am providing a portion of that book as it relates to this discussion--the second and new participant's story...

After VBS, I scanned the adults leaving the building. “Did you get a lift?” Conrad asked. He patted his truck and told me to climb in. I was honored. Conrad was young and popular, especially with the kids. Preachers had dedicated their lives to God, and were cut from a different, more holy, cloth. We generally idolized them as being better than us and so I felt special as I climbed into his truck and cranked the window. We drove down Highway 89 and saw a hitchhiker. “Scoot over,” Conrad said. “I’m going to do a good deed.” “What?” This seemed foreign, reckless, and invigorating. I had an appropriate fear of strange men on the side of the road but not for people in the church. There were good guys and bad guys, and the formula for telling which was which was easy: church people were good, everyone else was suspicious. But Conrad was joking. He sped past the hitchhiker, and I was relieved. After winding down the long gravel road to my house, he shifted into neutral, pulled the emergency brake, and asked, “Mind if I grab some water?” I wasn’t supposed to bring boys in the house when my parents weren’t home, a new rule now that I was no longer in elementary school. But Conrad wasn’t a boy. He was twenty-three, eleven years older than me. Plus, he was a preacher. He picked up on my uncertainty. “For whosoever shall give you a cup of water to drink in my name, because ye belong to Christ,” he said. “Verily I say unto you, he shall not lose his reward.” “You memorized a Bible verse in case you ever needed to ask for a drink?” He flashed a grin. “Did it work?” We climbed the stairs and walked past a porch swing my dad made. The door wasn’t locked, and the kitchen still smelled of bacon grease. I handed him tap water. He tossed back the water and thudded the glass on the table. “Gotta go. Catch you tomorrow?” He didn’t look at me as he headed out the door. A few seconds later, however, his face appeared through the screen door. “Forgot my keys.” I let him in, and we looked on the countertops, near the sink. Nothing. “Check your pockets?” I asked. He reached into his front right one and his left. No keys. “Maybe you left them in the ignition?” He left the kitchen, and I followed him. “Your keys won’t be in there.” He walked into my grandmother’s old room we’d repurposed after her recent death. There was a love seat along the wall, and her power-lift chair in the corner. Suddenly, his hand was on my face, and he turned me to him. He was looking at me in a funny way. At school, we played a staring game, the first one to look away loses. But this was different. I wanted to look away, at the floor or my hands—anywhere but his eyes—but looking away felt like defeat. He held my gaze, then leaned in and hugged me. I awkwardly accepted the embrace. But after I pulled away from him, he kissed me, moved me onto the small sofa, and climbed on top of me. I froze as his hands slid into the bra I’d only recently started wearing and reached for my zippers and buttons. A few things happened all at once. First, my sexual purity—vow or not—was shattered. Second, I became “damaged,” ruined for all future love interests. He moved on me, his thin lips and pointy tongue on my mouth. It happened so quickly. There was no fumbling, no exploration, just direct and confident motions toward parts of me normally covered in clothing. Parts that had never been touched. He was fast and deliberate, like doing combat maneuvers. Then it was over. He climbed off me, stood up, and smiled. “Well, look at this.” Conrad patted his back pocket and pulled out a key. “If it’d been a snake, it would’ve bit me.” He smiled, before a sober expression passed over his face. “You can’t tell anyone about this. We really shouldn’t have done it.” He tucked a wisp of hair behind my ears. “If people think a preacher’s a hypocrite, they might not believe in God.” And with that one comment, I gained a secret burdened with the weight of other people’s eternal salvation. He walked to the door. “Catch ya tomorrow, okay?” The screen door slammed shut, locking me inside with my shame. What happened on my dead grandmother’s love seat was reserved for married people. At the same time, I was conflicted. He was a preacher, and he chose me over his deeply held biblical beliefs because he liked me. I was special. I was a different person the next day, walking back into vacation Bible school. Older. I didn’t need a scarlet letter to know I was a trampled rose now with no chance at getting my life right. I pushed this dread away. For the first time in my life, my real life conflicted with my spiritual life, and I was adrift, and I didn’t know how to fix it. It was a dreadful feeling to have ruined your life at such an early age. For months, Conrad popped by the house to visit my parents, before secretly stealing visits with me on the porch for some variations of the same activity. Preachers weren’t inerrant, but they did hold the keys to salvation. Men made the rules—both the patriarchs of the Bible and the church. Conditioned to appreciate any attention men in spiritual authority might give, to obey their teachings, and even alleviate any of their inconveniences, I never even considered putting a stop to this. All of this must’ve been okay, I decided, because he’d one day ask me to be his wife. I’d been told this sort of thing should happen only within the confines of a marriage bed. He’d said that, and I believed my church’s moral instruction. But the secret I carried was cumbersome, and I spent all of my efforts trying to carry it alone. While Conrad attended Wednesday night services, I sat in the pew stealing glances in his direction. He never met my gaze. After a few months, he hadn’t dropped by the house in a while, and he was keeping his distance from me at church. At first, this seemed like a romantic cat-and-mouse game. It took me a few weeks to realize, with a sinking sensation, that it was just abandonment. He’d ruined me and left. I’d thought my relationship with Conrad meant I was “in,” but it shoved me “out.” The warmth and comfort I’d always felt from church was replaced with a cold dread. At first, I still sat with the youth group on what we called the “amen pew,” dropped coins into the collection plate, and volunteered to read the Bible passages. But my innocent, wide-eyed faith was gone, and all of these familiar activities now felt like they were happening on a stage. I was acting. I’d learned about sin when I’d gotten baptized “for the remission of my sins” the previous summer at camp. I’d emerged from the swimming pool waters spiritually pure and clean. But that evening at church camp, I’d laughed at a joke someone made at another’s expense. I was crushed that I hadn’t been able to live a full day without sinning, and I didn’t know how to tap back into that sensation of purity. The only way I knew how to achieve this was to “go forward” during the “song of invitation” after every sermon, as preachers asked wayward souls to come forward and either get baptized or confess their sins. When I got back home after camp, I walked down that long, lonely aisle as the congregation warbled the words of “Just As I Am.” The preacher looked surprised to see me, since such public confessions were usually reserved for public sin like an unwed pregnancy or upcoming jail time—something obvious a person couldn’t hide. When the preacher handed me a white index card to document the reason for my public confession, I didn’t know what to put. I checked the box for “unspoken sin.” My desire for absolution, of course, embarrassed my family, who had been shocked to see me walk down that aisle. I’m sure all the people in the congregation had assumed I’d been caught up in something scandalous. Truth was, I was keenly aware of my own shortcomings and had no idea how to deal with them. Now that I truly had a scandal, I was too ashamed to go forward. You can’t go forward during every service, and I’d already wasted my shot over something trivial. Plus, I couldn’t go forward as Conrad sat on the front row glaring at me. The church convinced me sin would send me straight to hell. Once this was my inevitable eternal destination, I resigned myself to it. I had no recourse. I wanted to be pure again, but I was too damaged for that now. A hard carapace formed around me, a shell of cynicism to protect me from my newfound lack of hope. I started skipping Wednesday night class and sneaked off with a friend named Henry who was two years older, someone who was already on “the outside” ever since his parents’ divorce. Henry and I pretended to go to class but instead walked the long rural road in the dark, learning to smoke cigarettes together and popping mints before we returned to the building. He didn’t ask why I was suddenly morose, and I never asked about his parents’ divorce. We were malcontents, wondering if any of the church teachings were real. When I went back to school that fall, my moral standards slipped. Any time my friends and I weren’t directly supervised—between classes, in the locker rooms—we played a game in which we held our breath while friends pressed down on our sternums. We passed out in each other’s arms, coming groggily back to the harsh reality of school with great reluctance. It was dangerous and terrifying, but I enjoyed the lightheaded, skin-tingling sensation of not being present in my own body. At sleepovers with my school friends, I watched Freddy Krueger movies, smoked Marlboro Lights, and pretended to like beer. One day, a school counselor conducted a special gathering of eighth graders. She wrote her name on the board in cursive: Ms. Shaw. My cheerleading friends shot me a sideways glance. Nothing screamed “lesbian” more than her short hair and her identifying as a “Ms.” I’d never known anyone to identify as a Ms. That was just something we’d learned about in grammar lessons, a question on an elementary school test. The only way it would come up in real life is when we didn’t know whether a lady was married and didn’t want to offend her. It’s a whole different matter when someone chooses it. “First, I’m going to define sex abuse.” Ms. Shaw’s speech was the first time anyone had ever introduced the concept of kids having bodily autonomy. While she sat on a stool at the front of the class, I picked at my fingernails. A football player slapped me on the back of the head. “Listen to the butch, will ya?” He made a V with his fingers and a sexual gesture with his tongue. My friends giggled. My skin grew hot, but I laughed too. “If you’re ever touched in a sexual way by an adult,” she continued, “please tell a trusted adult.” My heart pounded, though I didn’t believe I was a victim of anything. I had secretly dated a preacher and we’d broken up. If anything, I was responsible, since I’d let him come into the house and caused him to stumble. A pedophile was a guy behind the wheel of an ice cream truck, not someone who loved me. Conrad had loved me, at least, until I did something to lose that love. What? I didn’t know. But I’d never heard we were too young to consent or that adults who pursued us were predatory. If Ms. Shaw explained these concepts on that day, I didn’t hear it over the thudding of my heart. I contemplated making a secret appointment with her and confessing everything, asking for help. “If you’re ever in a bad situation, my door’s always open.” She climbed down off the stool as my friends made snarky comments behind me. She said all the right things and her office was right down the hall. But I was like a drunk swimmer unable to grab onto the life preserver because I didn’t identify that sinking sensation as drowning. My heart was broken, but that was the cost of what I’d done. Conrad had taken away my innocence, my church community, my relationship with my parents, and my faith. He had also messed up my perspective of other romantic possibilities. When guys my age had an interest in me, I clammed up and expected the worst. I couldn’t go back in time and be casual about romance again. I used to fall in and out of love so innocently that I didn’t even identify it as love. I’d taken love for granted...

This is a First Major Thrust of

my Open Memoir

A Single Christian Woman:

Is Sex All That?

This will be posted on Both of my Blogs

Be Prepared For Links

All Participants are Welcome

Formally or By Comment

There are none so Blind than 

People Who Will Not See...

When I had cataracts removed,

I had to wear glasses to keep my eyes from bright lights...

Are we wearing dark glasses rather than

seeing the Light of Jesus?

Do you Hear What I Hear above the noise of the World?

Watch for More Books on Today's Issues!

and God Bless Us All

Gabby