I never went to my prom. It's not like I wasn't asked. I just couldn't go. I remember the sweet boy who asked me. I laughed it off like the prom was the most ridiculous concept in the world to me. I acted like it was beneath me and my ideals. The truth was that I was afraid to go. I had so many unresolved feelings and trauma from the first dance that I went to in 7th grade that I didn't have it in me to try again. So, I just didn't go. The night of the prom came and went. I spent that night with my head buried in a book. Books were always my means of escape. They enabled me to live in another world, even if just temporarily.
Growing up I did not know how to love myself. I lived with a monster that I had to acknowledge as my step-father from the ages of 4-14. My life was not filled with encouraging words, acts of love, or compassion. Instead, physical abuse, shame, and degradation were in my life's day planner.
Somehow, my stepfather always seemed to sense when I was happy. It was like an inner alarm system went off in him. That alarm always triggered something ugly in him, a sleeping demon that would awaken, ready to tear the last few shreds of flesh off of the bones of my childhood. I could find beauty in most things, but not him. There was not a single thread of humanity in that man. He was a robot on a seek and destroy mission, and I was always his target. Pure evil was an unwanted guest who never seemed to want to leave. There were times when he tried to kill me, and other times when I wish he had.
There are defining moments in all of our lives. Mine came on the day of my 7th grade dance. It was the first time that I had put on a fancy dress, curled my hair, and worn makeup. I was so happy when I walked out of the bathroom. I was like a princess being released from her dungeon. Yes, I can remember walking out of that bathroom, smiling, glowing really, with anticipation. I was comfortable there on my cloud of joy. That was until the storm came. He saw me; he saw my joy, and he pounced. He went in for the kill.
I could see that look in his eyes…that look that I learned at a young age was his tell. It was always there, invoking fear of the upcoming storm. Yes, he went in for the kill, and he did kill a part of me that day.
I had learned to endure his physical beatings, his mental abuse, and his sexual advances. My sails were tattered from a lifetime of riding the waves of his storms. This time was different though. This time was especially ugly, even for a pro like him.
This is how my day went. This is the story of my first school dance. This is the story of how he managed to hijack yet another one of my precious childhood moments. This is when the wind shifted in a whole different direction, the day that he almost capsized my small vessel.
I walked out of the bathroom, as I said, grinning ear to ear, floating on my aforementioned cloud of joy. I was beautiful. I was glowing. I was happy. My mom and their friend Bob were there to greet me. They kept telling me how pretty and grownup I looked in my new dress, with my perfectly applied makeup and perfectly curled hair.
He was there too.
He didn’t say anything. He just stared at me like I was a little porcelain doll that he wanted to hurl across the room and smash to pieces. For a moment I wished that I was tucked away safely on a shelf.
There was a part of me at first that ignored his tell. (Call it temporary insanity, or maybe just hope.)
I imagined that I saw a small glimpse of pride in his eyes. I imagined that he was proud like a real dad, instead of like an evil stand-in who was there to fill the void in the family photo. I imagined that he loved me like his own daughter. I imagined that he would dance around the living room with me, a pseudo father/daughter dance. I imagined that he would tell me how pretty I looked in my dress. I so wanted for him to tell me how pretty I looked. I had been trying for years to gain his love and approval.
That never happened.
He did speak to me though.
“Yes Lisa, you do look pretty. You just need a little help with your hair.”
The world stood still for a moment. I was touched. I smiled with pride. Was he finally acting like a dad? Was he going to smooth away a stray hair that I had missed? Had I finally managed to melt a little piece of his heart and gain his approval and acceptance?
I will pause here for a moment to reflect on that brief moment of joy……one of my treasured moments. The quiet before the storm.
Okay, deep breath now.
I did imagine all of those things. For a moment I forgot the monster that he was. He moved towards me. I waited for him to lovingly smooth down that stray hair that seemed to bother him so much. He did not do that.
What he did do was so horrific, so unimaginable that it brings tears to my own eyes just thinking about it.
What he did was pull me close to him. He held my arm so tight that I could not move, which was apparent later by the scattering of bruises on my arm. He grabbed a large handful of my hair; he grabbed it so tightly that I let out a little scream. He then picked up a pair of scissors, and he cut a large chunk of hair out of my head.
A part of me sighed with relief because at least the pain had subsided as I fell to the floor. At least, for a moment it did.
He yanked me up off of the floor, and he grabbed another huge chunk of my hair and cut that one as well. His friend Bob tried to stop him, but my stepfather was too strong. He punched Bob square in the face and broke his nose.
I looked down at the defeated lump of a man sprawled on the floor that Bob had become. I looked at him with both pity and pride. I was sad that he was hurt, but I was proud of him for trying to help me. Somebody had finally tried to help me.
My pride only lasted a few moments until my stepfather grabbed both of my arms and dragged me into the bathroom. “Now let me help you with your makeup,” he snarled at me.
I wasn’t falling for this one. His tell became a warning cry.
I tried to struggle from his grip, but he was too strong. I couldn’t get away. My heart pounded in my chest as the next few moments flashed in front of my eyes.
He picked up my tube of perfect pink lipstick. He pulled my head back towards him, and he smeared my perfect pink lipstick all over my face. He covered my face, my cheeks, my eyes, everything. I could feel the lipstick burning my eyes. I cringed because I knew that he was not done.
I tried to get away from him. I tried, but I couldn’t. I was helpless. He was just too strong. He was always too damn strong.
My body went numb. My thoughts floated away. I tried to imagine that it was a bad dream, but it wasn’t. It never was. My life was the one bad dream that I could not wake up from. I never could.
I eventually felt the lipstick break from the force of his hand on the side of my face. He punched me hard in the back of the head, and I fell to the floor.
I could feel the vomit burning in my stomach, threatening to come up. I held it down. I always held it down. It was always worse if I let the vomit come. He would just smear my face in it and beat me more. So, I had learned from a very early age to make the vomit stay down. I swallowed it hard to hide the evidence of my pain and shame.
He forced my face up and made me look at myself in the mirror. He wanted to show off his handiwork. He was so proud of himself. These were the moments that he craved. He loved to taste my defeat. He licked the side of my face like a predator enjoying the first taste of his kill.
“Look at yourself in the mirror. Now, you are ready to go to the dance”, he shouted at me.
I pulled hard, and I finally broke free from his grip. Maybe he just finally let go. I don't know. I fell to the ground. The tile was cold, but it was a welcome mat for me because it meant that I was free from him. He laughed and went back out into the living room to gloat.
That was the day that the little girl in me became a woman. I didn’t cry as usual. I wouldn’t let him see that he had broken me. He had, but I was not going to give him evidentiary proof of his perfect crime. No, I was in control now.
I turned on the water in the sink, making sure that it was scalding hot. I scrubbed my face then. I scrubbed it so hard that it was raw. I scrubbed off all of the perfect pink lipstick and the underlying makeup. I scrubbed off all of the shame. I scrubbed away the humiliation and pain. I scrubbed until there was nothing left.
I was a blank slate again.
Then, I picked up a brush, and I brushed my hair, trying my best to hide the bald spots. I brushed, and I brushed, and I brushed, straightening in the process all of the pretty curls that I had worked so hard to perfect. I straightened my dress, and I walked out of that bathroom, and I felt even more beautiful than I had the first time that I had emerged.
Oh, and I was beautiful.
I walked up to my mom, and I told her that I was ready to leave for the dance. She told me that I did not have to go. I told her that I was going, and she could tell from the look on my face that I meant it.
I finally had the courage to look him in the face. His pride had momentarily subsided, and there was a look of shock on his face. His mouth was slightly ajar. He was shocked, I’m sure, by my strength, my lack of tears, and the fact that I had not reapplied my makeup. He did not try to stop me from going. He wouldn’t dare at that point because he could see in my eyes that I was going.
Nothing was going to stop me.
My face was burning from scrubbing it so hard, and there was a lump growing on the back of my head from where he had punched me. I still felt like I wanted to vomit, but I walked out of that house with my head held high. I was going to my very first school dance after all. I wasn’t smiling, but I wasn’t crying either.
The drive to the dance was silent and seemed to last forever. I couldn’t look at my mother. I couldn’t speak to her. It was the first time in my life that I was ashamed of her. It was the first time in my life that I realized just how alone I really was. I wanted to scream at her and ask her why she didn’t protect me, why she never protected me. I wanted those answers, but I swallowed my questions knowing all too well that I could not open a floodgate that I was not yet prepared to handle. She had dealt with his abuse over the years as well. Maybe she didn't know the answers herself. I could not handle an, "I don't know" from her right then. So, I gave her a parental pink slip, and I moved on with my life.
We finally pulled up to the front of my middle school, and I opened the door and stepped out of the car. I didn’t say goodbye to my mom. I didn’t hug her. I didn’t even turn around to look at her. I heard her mumble something about picking me up later, but I didn’t turn around. I just walked up to the front door of my childhood. I opened the door to my school. I let the door close, and I walked down the hall of shame to the gym where my very first school dance was. I felt the stares as I walked into the dance. I am sure that I looked a bit odd with my attempted comb over to hide the bald spots, the blotched red face from where I had scrubbed the perfect pink lipstick off, and the little pink stains on my dress from where the lipstick-stained water had fallen. I didn’t notice any of it. I was not feeling any of it. I was on a cloud again, not a cloud of joy, but one that was just soft enough to cushion my fall.
I walked over to the side of the dance and stood by some of the other girls. I stood there for a long time, watching the other kids dance. I stood there, looking forward, until I felt the first tear fall, and then the second and the third. I could feel them burning down my face.
That was my 7th grade dance, my very first dance. I can’t tell you what color my dress was or which shoes I wore. I can’t tell you which of my friends were there or even what music was playing.
I can tell you that I never danced, not even once.
I can tell you that there were seven perfect little pink circles on my dress from where I had washed the lipstick off of my face. I can tell you what my hairspray smelled like because I brushed so much of it out trying to hide my bald spots. If I close my eyes now, I can still smell it.
I can tell you that there were people dancing in front of me. They were shadows really because I never looked any of them in the face. I didn’t want to see their happiness. I wasn’t strong enough at that moment to be happy for them.
I can tell you what my heartbeat sounded like because it pounded in my ears as I stood there on the sidelines and watched my childhood disappear before my eyes. It beat in unison with the throbbing from the growing bump on the back of my head.
I don’t remember how long I remained there or even how I got home. All I know is that I stood there for a long time. I can tell you that I smiled just once that night. It was when I remembered that I had not let him break me. I had won that round, a bitter victory, but a victory still.
It was my first taste of success.
The day of my first dance was when I first realized that I could turn my emotions off….the day that I learned how to become numb. It was the day that I learned that if you close your heart, then nobody can hurt you. That is what my stepfather taught me that day. He did not teach me to slow dance; he taught me to go numb.
That was the day that the little girl in me went into hiding. Nobody was going to go looking for her. She was gone forever. The young woman in me emerged that day.
Yes, there are those turning points in every person’s life.
For some, a first dance is a realization of a first crush, a first love. In a strange way, I fell in love a little that day. I fell in love with the strong woman that I was becoming. I fell in love with the precious beauty that had emerged from my pain. I was flawed, but I knew after that day that I was going to be okay.
That defining moment in time is permanently etched in my memory, like a visual scrapbook. When I see the pictures of my childhood, there is a part of me that still cries. The tears are not just for me and my "lost" childhood. There are also tears for my mother, that she did not love herself or her children enough to overcome the fear of losing her husband. There are also tears for "him"…..the man that stole my joy. The tears that I have for him, misguided to some, are for the wonder of why he hated me so, why he hated himself so, and the fact that he never had the chance to say "I'm sorry". We both needed that closure.
Most of the tears though are for the realization that despite all of that, I still believe in the good in people. I still believe in forgiveness, for him, for my mother, for myself. I believe in compassion. I believe in love.
Maybe that is why I have spent the last 20+ years as a Matchmaker. I was constantly searching for the love in others. I wanted to create as many happy endings as I could. With every successful match, my faith in people and in love returned. I cast a wide net trying to capture as many wayward fish as I could….helping to pair them off and be a part in writing the next great love story.
Somehow in searching for love for others, I forgot to search for myself. I forgot to stop and look for my one great love. I had closed off my mind and my heart to receiving love. I could give love all day long, but I could not receive it. (I guess I left my catcher's mitt at home.)
More likely, I still could not believe that I was allowed to feel love.
Love was a foreign stranger to me, alluring, but best left as a vacation memory. I did not believe that I was worthy of love. As a matchmaker, I had spent most of my adult life searching for love, and then giving it away…..a lonely hearts pet rescue if you will. I had to find good homes for all of the love in the world, but I never took one home for me. I felt that I was simply unlovable, that was until I met the man who changed my life forever. He taught me how to love him, and more importantly he taught me how to love myself. However, that is a story for another day.
This is not where my story ends. To be continued…………..
All of my love,
Lisa Maria
("The Dance" is just a sample chapter from the book I am writing about my life and what I have learned along the way. Stay tuned for my memoir coming out in Spring of 2024.)