Someone Forgot To Hold Me

"Someone Forgot to Hold Me"
By: Sugaree

It's funny how our minds can reach back into their own special little archives to recall love and the pain of not having it, especially if you're an adult still living without it. I often wonder when the archives of my mind will tire and forget some of these painful childhood experiences and just free me. I don't want to recall anymore. All it ever does is leaves my mind in turmoil and leaves my heart so sore.

Today I was just sitting in the lounge at the university that I attend as well as work part time. The lounge was not solely dedicated to groups, students or staff. People, with the same common interests sat around chit-chatting, some studying, eating or just relaxing in between classes or work. I didn't want to talk. I needed time to arrange the ill-visions that rushed through my head. Something, somewhere, somehow, had triggered memories I would have liked to bury forever. So, when I found this room void of people and the noise they make, I rushed to claim the space as my own, despite how dark and lonely is was.

The neat room had a homie type of feeling to it. There was a full sized refrigerator, a microwave and three tables with chairs set behind the sofa. I placed my laptop on the coffee table and gratefully relaxed into the plush overstuffed sofa. The lights were dim enough to view the mounted television with ease. Another sofa lined the wall near the window that separated me from all of those socialites.

It was too bad that I couldn't lock the door behind me. I sat alone in deep thought; maybe all of 20 minutes, before this petite almost teen looking woman came in and sat as if she was very familiar with this tranquil space. I tried to ignore her as I flipped through the channels in search of something to carry my mind away from some of the pain I was feeling at the moment. I really wanted to just take deep breaths and meditate but didn’t.

The remote control wouldn't work. I spoke aloud my dissatisfaction. She responded as though she awaited my first words to break the verbal ice. From there on, we talked for at least two hours. Ophra Winfrey was on television with one of her many topics exposing sexual predators. The teen-looking woman and I sighed in distaste of the little boy’s story. For whatever reason, I shared with this stranger the detestable secrets of my life as a little girl. It wasn't that I wanted to divulge such familiar dirty laundry. It's just that those painful memories are me. There are no ways around them. Just as it is to a person to share their jolly upbringing as a description of who they are, sharing my ‘not so jolly’ upbringing is who I am.

My heart went out to me as we listened to the words float from my mouth of how damaging what was happening to me during those times were. I didn't cry because there were no more tears left from the last time I'd cried about it. It seems as though each day brings with it new details of the horror that I experienced for at least a decade. That last cry was on Saturday night. This is Monday night/Tuesday morning.

Saturday night I sat before my computer listening to music and talking to a man on the phone that would be a friend accept that once upon a time we had a sexual relationship. I grew sickened by his allegiance to my sexually gratifying acts. The grown woman inside of me must have revealed him for who he is... Time and time again, I tried to express in many ways, how vile this relationship was and not what my heart, body or soul needed or wanted.

He ignored my words...my quest for love instead, offered more of the same. He ignored my pleas to talk versus rock the bed. Since my actions seemed like I was a willing participant, he continued. I guess it would be the little girl inside of me believing that our carnal unions would turn into love ever after. That maybe he’d see me instead of my body, so time after time, I let him inside of me.

Of course it was time to take action against his now assaulting demeanor. The last few times I detested his treatment, he found joy in that too. I did sinful sexual acts that should have repulsed him; instead, he campaigned for more. Who can say what a doggish man in heat is thinking when he's getting satisfaction without having to pay for it monetarily, emotionally or otherwise.

He played the game a bit. The one where he pretends that he is ‘just over to visit and if sex happens, it happens’ and 'if not then so be it' cause he just wants to be in my presence. I was supposed to fall for this wicked manipulation and crawl into bed and have sex on his renewed merit that ‘it’ just happened because ‘we’ are attracted to one another.. Too bad for him tonight, because I’m too weak to give in, is what I recall thinking. His game had grown stale. I’ve been taught this game over and over and some anyway. When my daddy would come to town, he’d come to visit and pretend he loved me so much and take me with him to spend the nights.

So, despite how sleepy I was, I continued listening to the tunes. Will Downing's, "Hey There Lonely Girls" came on and my tears came down. I felt one form as his sensual voice explained how much he loves the woman whose hearts been broken by another. I wanted so badly for the man, supposedly resting and awaiting my skillful delights in my bed, to feel this way for me... The reality that he would never love me invited more tears down my already soaked cheeks. I needed to be able to go into my room, curl beside him and just be held. I was hurting so bad.

I wiped the tears away but the deeper the song went into the thematic lyrics, thrice the amount returned. I think I could have used some little eye windshield wipers. No longer did I challenge the tears. I let them flow as I closed my eyes and finished recalling the love that convicted me to these aesthetic feelings. With my face buried in my hands, I let the tunes rock me back and forth in a frenzy of love's stormy rainfall. My heart beat heavy as my breath weakened with each tear drop, now spraying, crashing through my fingers unto my keyboard.

Once my painful love rainfall was over, I sipped more of the Merlot that pulled me down into the dungeon of depression in the first place. The bitter taste seemed much sweeter than the pain I was feeling, however. I turned my computer's music library collection to yet another sad love song.

It was the late Phyllis Hyman. It still hurts that this beautiful songstress, my sister in pain, took her own life. She’d screamed and cooed song after song for someone to love her right, year after year until she could take no more of love’s rejection. Her title song, "Living in Confusion" seemed the most fitting so that's what I chose. It still hurts that I identify with her pain, even more now.

I listened intently, wondering when the next sheet of tears would come crashing down. Surprisingly, none did. Maybe they were all gone for the night and I could finally fall into my bed with the friendly stranger of a man and pretend that he loves me and make love. Maybe I could hold on just a little longer and the man that I really want to make love to will come home where he belongs and make love to me that special way that only he can do. Maybe I could hold my breath a little while longer and feel what Phyllis is feeling. No pain.

Reality is extremely sickening sometimes. After answering all of my own questions, realizing that the answers were never to be found, the tear storm began all over again.
I answered no to the fatal thought because that would devastate my children and maybe even some other members of my family. Certainly, it would have destroyed the joy my daughter would feel as she walked across the stage on commencement day. She’d already lost her father, not even a year ago.

Phyllis’s sultry gut wrenching final plea snatched my attention back to my void of love life. He loves someone else! Not you, Dummy! Wake up! He's with her now. He has not called you and here you are up at five in the morning waiting on his call. What will it take to get through to you? Do you need them to come to your bed with her and show you what they are do while you sit there crying like some kind of idiot? She's having his child, you fool. He wants this child with this woman because he loves her. Don't you get it yet? He said that he doesn’t love her. That he wants to be with me but he’s got to be with her because of the baby.

Here comes the evils of the wicked reality check again opening up the dams to the archives of the mind. 'No man has ever loved you so why do you think he does. What makes you think you deserve it? Every since you were six you've been a sex toy. He just wants a little extra temporary fun-girl. Don't you know this by now? You are good for one thing so you may as well go and get into that bed with that man that, by the way, that does not love you either. Give him what you're good at. You should be real good by now. Your daddy taught you well, right. He taught you every time you two were alone together. You liked it you little slut. You wanted it. Don't try to blame it on only being six years old. I was there. I saw your little spoiled hot ass wanting him to do it.’ “Daddy, let’s play ‘little secrets’ again.” You despicable little whore! You wanted it.

No. Please. Not these sorts of thoughts on top of my already broken heart. This can't be happening. In the myriad of the loosing battle of my mind and my sad will, all composure was lost. I had to get up and go into my seventeen year old daughter's room. I really didn’t want to cause she had a senior exam the next morning. Guilt of worrying her came crashing into my mind but the fear of what was to come next scared me more. I told her how much pain I was in. She tried as much as possible to understand what I was saying to her.

Thank God she can't identify. That's all I really ever wanted was to know that my children would never ever have to know this sort of constant agony. I always made sure that the misery would bypass their precious little innocent hearts and minds. The high price has been to keep away from all emotional attachment to men, despite how lonely it has been. The prize, however, is much greater.

When they were little, I used to sit and hold them and rock and cry and pray that nothing ever happened to them the way it had me. I prayed hard and long and held them oh so tight, night after night. Once they were in bed, I would peep into their rooms and thank God all over again that the misery of them being chased in dark a house from someone that was supposed to love them, holding them lovingly, was not their reality.

Someone forgot to love me this way. Someone forgot that I was a baby at six. Someone forgot that my heart had a soul that would be lost if no one rescued me after I told them what happened to me. Someone sacrificed me to save family grace….family fake ass face. Someone forgot to hold me right then. Someone forgot to kiss me goodnight and tell me not to let the bed bugs bite. Now, I don’t think no one can.