Monday, February 2, 2015

The Toll of Being Super Woman

I've heard it more times than I can count, this enduring compliment. An endless string of variations on the idea that I am some kind of iconic girl-power-superhero. I've heard it from my father, my children, strangers, best friends, lovers, exes, casual aquaintences. I've heard it as a compliment, an insult, a motivation, a comfort, in awe, in disgust. "You are an inspiration." "You are so strong." "Where is that girl who can survive anything." "You can do anything you want because you are you." "You are like a superhero." "I wish I had your courage." "Don't you know everything?" "You're an intimidating woman." "Don't you always win." "You are impossible to take down"

I fell apart once in front of my father. I was an adult and I was sitting at my parent's dining table with a bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey, wildly slinging drinks straight from the bottle. My face was wet and my words were mostly just incoherent babbles in a too loud voice to myself. And my Dad walked in. I don't remember what I babbled to him and my Mom (who quickly disappeared), but I remember him looking at me with this strange mix of pity and shock. He sat down across from me and looked me in the eye and said, "Who are you and where is my daughter? My daughter doesn't do this." 

Something filled me up at that moment. I went into the telephone booth and came put with my cape on and moved forward from that "weak" moment. Because he was right, I didn't do that. I didn't give up and crawl into a bottle and allow myself to be defeated. I got up, adjusted my posture, pulled out my shield and sword and fought. For myself, for my kids, for my husbands, for what was right, for happiness, for what I wanted. I did that. I always had.

I guess I learned that way, way back. I remember as a small child , I would get so filled with emotion if I heard my parents argue. I wouldn't sit in my room and cry or go distract myself by playing with dolls like a million kids in the world do. I would go straight to the source, scream with all the might a little girl can have and tell them to "STOP! JUST STOP!"

When I was in junior high, I went through this 2 year period where I was bullied. I had C cups when I was 11. For no other reason, I became the school "slut", a "whore", I "stuffed my bra" and "gave xxx a blowjob in the bathroom." They sang songs about me and wrote about me on bathroom stalls. I had never even kissed a boy. I was bullied. That word wasn't the same as it is now. There was no coalition to stop it. I heard a lot of "You were asking for it" or "Just ignore it." Or "They are just jealous." Nobody said to me, "Don't worry. There is nothing wrong with you. They are just bullying you. I will help you make it stop. You don't deserve this." Today, I could have gotten some help with that. Back then, I had to go face it every day alone. And I did. I remember one time my mother found me crying in my closet over it and saying that I just wanted to move, to get away from everyone. She told me that she wanted to do that for me, but that she couldn't. Her heart was breaking for me. I could see it. 

But she couldn't help me. I would have to help me. Every day I walked around with my spine straight (making my C cups that much more visible), my shell hardening more by the day, my voice more and more prompted to respond as needed and my eyes ready to roll at any given moment to show how much they were not hurting me. I put on my cape every morning and then went and soaked it with tears in my closet every night. I even kicked a guy in the balls one day when he was loudly proclaiming that he knew I stuffed my bra because I let him touch my boobs and he felt the toilet paper. We were in front of the entire school, all gathered in the auditorium for some assembly (probably about sex ed.) I was 12. I got in school suspension for "beating up a boy" but the principle told my father that I had done the "right" thing and praised me to him. My father laughed and told me he was proud of me later. I had "fought for myself." I survived. And eventually everyone else grew boobs and kissed boys and had actual sex long before I did. And this "slut" stopped being a target. My spine stayed straight and my cape stayed on.  And I grew stronger.

But life just kept throwing stuff my way. The longer time went on, the more complicated the stuff got. I take responsibility for putting myself in front of the dart board. Darts sometimes flew at me when I was completely unsuspecting, like they do to anyone. That is life. But often, I put myself in front of the darts. I never did it on purpose. Every superhero has a weakness. Mine is seeing too much possibility and good in people that are too broken to find that in themselves. That is my Kryptonite. And for that, I took a lot of bulls-eyes right to the heart. I have a lot of pin hole sized scars. And a few where "they" gave up on darts and started tossing knives and axes at the board I put myself in front of.  But I had my shield, my sword, my cape. I was strong. I survived. I had courage. So far as anyone could see anyway. Because I was wearing my mask and my shiny armor and had all these gadgets hanging from my belt to help me fight and then escape. Every. Single. Battle.

But back at my lair, I had to tend to the fall out. I learned way back that there wasn't any side kick or butler or extra smart computer to help me. There wasn't a Bond team to clean up the mess. There was just me. I had to lick my own wounds and sew up my own cape. So many times I would hear congratulations and praise and even some forms of worship for my straight spine and my superhuman strength. For getting up when some Joker knocked me down or Dr. Evil tried to take over my world. I always came out in the end as the victor in my world. My newspaper headline was always about enduring and walking away like a boss. I always stood back up and lived to fight another day. I collected new tools and gadgets with each battle and I am still winning the War. Sure, the bad guys have things to say about me still. They moved on to new prey and I never destroyed any real evil. But I eradicated them from my world. Or learned how to make peace with them within my own limits. I always won the battle for myself.

But, in the lair, when the cape was off, I would cover it in tears. I would rip it up in rages. I would lay it over me and hide under it. I would try to throw it away so I didn't have to be a superhero anymore. And it would reappear again on my back telling me I was stuck with it. I never asked to be. I never asked to need to be so strong. I never asked to be bit by a damned radioactive spider and I wanted the bat signal to stop going off.

A couple of weeks ago, one of the nemeses started talking to me. He said, "I never realized you were just human. I thought you were superhuman. I thought I could do anything to you and could lay all of my problems on you and you would be able to carry all of that because you were a superhero. It didn't occur to me until a long time later that you were just a person. You had feelings and weaknesses and needed someone to carry your burdens sometimes too. I am sorry I never did that." 

Wow. No kidding, huh? I guess your arch  nemeses name just changed to Captain Obvious. Some person out there in my world finally understood. There aren't any superheroes. No one comes out unscathed. Every bit of my strength comes from a place of pain or turmoil or necessity; a place where I learned a lesson; a thing I had to "survive." He later attacked me again and I had to put my cape back on.

Right now, I'm dragging around my cape and wishing I could just throw it away. I feel old and tired and ready to retire Super Shannon. I want to find a way out of the telephone booth and just be a person. The kind that has someone else to help them carry their burdens. The kind that doesn't have to be the strong and brave and straight-spined all the time. The kind that has support and is allowed to be weak. The kind that doesn't seem like a person you can lay all your weight on and expect them to carry it. But, alas, that time has not come.

I've got to go now, the Bat Phone is ringing.

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