Pamela Taeuffer's Blog - Posts Tagged "intimacy"
Finding Intimacy
Married twenty-seven years, my husband and I had retreated to the darkest recesses of our caves, ignoring each other, sitting separately, often going to bed hours after the other, and barely kissing good-bye or saying “I love you” during the day.
I’d had the crap knocked out of me that year, by employees who’d gathered together and decided to bring false claims against me, all the while trying to steal clients and business away.
Is it my fault for trusting too much or becoming too relaxed? Yeah, I’ll admit that. But I’m also a romantic. I tend to dream and see the flowers along the path, while ignoring the slugs.
I can’t pinpoint the day when I began to see a brass ring shining again, but I presume it was one night while I sat up writing sometime between three and four in the morning. It had become a habit for me, staying up late, not having to go to bed and touch my husband or hear him snore, or feel the separateness of being together.
Does that make sense?
Even as we lay next to each other, we were both very lonely. We’d gone to therapy, we’d tried the dance of talking it through, but we always retreated after a few weak attempts at working it our.
The oddest part of it all, is that it wasn’t over money, or sex, or children. There wasn’t anything wrong in those areas. What it was, was that we’d become only friends, and I began to resent it. And I REALLY started to resent it when I started my books, The Broken Bottles Series, so named after my father’s alcoholism.
I waned to tell more than that. Sure, I went through what thousands and thousands of others have, a child of trauma, mental and physical abuse from the alcoholic or addicted parent, but what was it from all of those shadows that made me afraid to walk up to my husband and ask for intimacy and love?
Why were the words so hard? I only had to say, “Honey, I want more. I want your lips on mine, and your arms around my body.”
You’d think after that many years it would be easy.
But it wasn’t.
I began to examine why not. As I peeled back my layers, I began to understand what being a child of alcoholism does: it shuts you down, closes your heart, and makes you afraid — it made me very afraid. I knew I’d be abandoned because I wasn’t even the first choice of my father. He chose his bottle over me. How could I ever hope anyone would love me?
And also, why do so many couples end up as friends as they transition into their fifties (or even younger)?
What is it that fades away? Why can’t we each ask for what we want and find our voice with each other?
And that, my friends, is the crux of Shadow Heart, Fire Heart, and the novels to come in the Broken Bottles Series. I have three missions:
1. I want to show what the effects are from growing up in a family battling addiction. It’s not only the fears of mental or physical abuse, it’s the every day choices we make — the way we dress, comb our hair, socialize, participate — they’re all because of how we grew up.
2. I want to take the dirty our of sex. It’s healthy, it opens the heart, and keeps us talking, communication, and asking for what we want.
3. I want to encourage people, wherever they are in their lives to openly ask for what they really want from each other.
We can’t read minds, and we can’t guess. Say it!
DISCUSSION: What is the first step (baby steps) you could do to ask for what you want? Do you even know how? Don’t feel bad, I didn’t!
I’d had the crap knocked out of me that year, by employees who’d gathered together and decided to bring false claims against me, all the while trying to steal clients and business away.
Is it my fault for trusting too much or becoming too relaxed? Yeah, I’ll admit that. But I’m also a romantic. I tend to dream and see the flowers along the path, while ignoring the slugs.
I can’t pinpoint the day when I began to see a brass ring shining again, but I presume it was one night while I sat up writing sometime between three and four in the morning. It had become a habit for me, staying up late, not having to go to bed and touch my husband or hear him snore, or feel the separateness of being together.
Does that make sense?
Even as we lay next to each other, we were both very lonely. We’d gone to therapy, we’d tried the dance of talking it through, but we always retreated after a few weak attempts at working it our.
The oddest part of it all, is that it wasn’t over money, or sex, or children. There wasn’t anything wrong in those areas. What it was, was that we’d become only friends, and I began to resent it. And I REALLY started to resent it when I started my books, The Broken Bottles Series, so named after my father’s alcoholism.
I waned to tell more than that. Sure, I went through what thousands and thousands of others have, a child of trauma, mental and physical abuse from the alcoholic or addicted parent, but what was it from all of those shadows that made me afraid to walk up to my husband and ask for intimacy and love?
Why were the words so hard? I only had to say, “Honey, I want more. I want your lips on mine, and your arms around my body.”
You’d think after that many years it would be easy.
But it wasn’t.
I began to examine why not. As I peeled back my layers, I began to understand what being a child of alcoholism does: it shuts you down, closes your heart, and makes you afraid — it made me very afraid. I knew I’d be abandoned because I wasn’t even the first choice of my father. He chose his bottle over me. How could I ever hope anyone would love me?
And also, why do so many couples end up as friends as they transition into their fifties (or even younger)?
What is it that fades away? Why can’t we each ask for what we want and find our voice with each other?
And that, my friends, is the crux of Shadow Heart, Fire Heart, and the novels to come in the Broken Bottles Series. I have three missions:
1. I want to show what the effects are from growing up in a family battling addiction. It’s not only the fears of mental or physical abuse, it’s the every day choices we make — the way we dress, comb our hair, socialize, participate — they’re all because of how we grew up.
2. I want to take the dirty our of sex. It’s healthy, it opens the heart, and keeps us talking, communication, and asking for what we want.
3. I want to encourage people, wherever they are in their lives to openly ask for what they really want from each other.
We can’t read minds, and we can’t guess. Say it!
DISCUSSION: What is the first step (baby steps) you could do to ask for what you want? Do you even know how? Don’t feel bad, I didn’t!
Finding Intimacy - A Little Girl's Voice Begins to Form
Shadow Heart Jenise and I make faces when our dad opens a can of creamed corn to serve us for dinner. He doesn’t care that this is the one food my sister and I hate more than anything.
I can see leftovers in the refrigerator and other cans of food stacked in the cupboard we like, but it doesn’t matter. It feels like we could’ve been given garbage to eat if that was the nearest and easiest thing for him to grab.
As the opener tears at the metal of the can, grinding jaggedly and twisting it a circle, we sit and wait, and quietly understand: we’re going to bed hungry.
But we also know tomorrow our mom will reward us with presents for being good girls. It might be a new doll, or maybe she’ll treat us to a movie, or her favorite . . . bringing home a supply of sugary snacks.
I can already taste my favorite candy bar—milk chocolate covering caramel and a cookie. But if she brings me a quart of chocolate chip ice cream, that’s just as nice.
“Yuck,” I say to myself as I take a spoonful of the cold, canned corn, forcing it down so I can please dad and get out of the kitchen as fast as I can.
We swallowed everything that way—one spoonful at a time to survive.
Jenise isn’t eating. “Jenise,” I whisper. “Eat.”
Why won’t she eat? She will not give in. No, my sister isn’t that kind of peacemaker. She doesn’t seem to hear his feet pounding the kitchen floor, waiting, angry, as he counts down the minutes to send us to our baths and then to bed.
I watch in dread, afraid for what’s coming as her little body becomes rigid, bracing for what even she knows will be a storm.
She’s daring him! Oh no, don’t!
She plants her feet firmly on the black and white squares of linoleum and refuses every kernel.
“We don’t like creamed corn,” my sister says stubbornly.
This night, there’s no protection from the explosion lying just under his surface. It’s ready to boil, ready to burst, ready to—punish.
“Eat it now,” my father warns. His voice is detached and cold.
But my sister, my hero, she will not back down, and now my father’s face is a brilliant red, and his demons, the ones I’ve seen before, take him over.
Perhaps my father’s anger came from the disappointment of failing as a good parent. Maybe somewhere deep inside he was hiding, protecting his vulnerability, still the nine-year-old boy who couldn’t be soothed when his own father died.
Maybe it was the guilt that consumed him when he looked in the mirror and saw a young man who refused to stay home and take care of his mother as she sought relief from her addiction to prescription pills. Instead of facing that, he had joined the U.S. Army.
Did that tear his heart into pieces? She ended up such a delicate and frail woman. Did he feel guilty about leaving her? Or worse, did he feel by leaving, he made her that way?
Whatever the reason, tonight, his spark ignites. I watch in horror as his flushed face knots up in hatred because we stand between him and his liquid candy.
* HOW DID YOUR VOICE BEGIN TO FORM?
* WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST MEMORY OF SOMETHING BEING A LITTLE OFF IN YOUR FAMILY?
I can see leftovers in the refrigerator and other cans of food stacked in the cupboard we like, but it doesn’t matter. It feels like we could’ve been given garbage to eat if that was the nearest and easiest thing for him to grab.
As the opener tears at the metal of the can, grinding jaggedly and twisting it a circle, we sit and wait, and quietly understand: we’re going to bed hungry.
But we also know tomorrow our mom will reward us with presents for being good girls. It might be a new doll, or maybe she’ll treat us to a movie, or her favorite . . . bringing home a supply of sugary snacks.
I can already taste my favorite candy bar—milk chocolate covering caramel and a cookie. But if she brings me a quart of chocolate chip ice cream, that’s just as nice.
“Yuck,” I say to myself as I take a spoonful of the cold, canned corn, forcing it down so I can please dad and get out of the kitchen as fast as I can.
We swallowed everything that way—one spoonful at a time to survive.
Jenise isn’t eating. “Jenise,” I whisper. “Eat.”
Why won’t she eat? She will not give in. No, my sister isn’t that kind of peacemaker. She doesn’t seem to hear his feet pounding the kitchen floor, waiting, angry, as he counts down the minutes to send us to our baths and then to bed.
I watch in dread, afraid for what’s coming as her little body becomes rigid, bracing for what even she knows will be a storm.
She’s daring him! Oh no, don’t!
She plants her feet firmly on the black and white squares of linoleum and refuses every kernel.
“We don’t like creamed corn,” my sister says stubbornly.
This night, there’s no protection from the explosion lying just under his surface. It’s ready to boil, ready to burst, ready to—punish.
“Eat it now,” my father warns. His voice is detached and cold.
But my sister, my hero, she will not back down, and now my father’s face is a brilliant red, and his demons, the ones I’ve seen before, take him over.
Perhaps my father’s anger came from the disappointment of failing as a good parent. Maybe somewhere deep inside he was hiding, protecting his vulnerability, still the nine-year-old boy who couldn’t be soothed when his own father died.
Maybe it was the guilt that consumed him when he looked in the mirror and saw a young man who refused to stay home and take care of his mother as she sought relief from her addiction to prescription pills. Instead of facing that, he had joined the U.S. Army.
Did that tear his heart into pieces? She ended up such a delicate and frail woman. Did he feel guilty about leaving her? Or worse, did he feel by leaving, he made her that way?
Whatever the reason, tonight, his spark ignites. I watch in horror as his flushed face knots up in hatred because we stand between him and his liquid candy.
* HOW DID YOUR VOICE BEGIN TO FORM?
* WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST MEMORY OF SOMETHING BEING A LITTLE OFF IN YOUR FAMILY?
Shutting Our Hearts Down, Views from Childhood
Keeping my screams pressed down, I hold my hand over my mouth and watch when he takes the back of Jenise's head and shoves her face hard into the bowl of creamed corn.
She lifts her head slowly and turns to the side after he takes his hand away. I'm frozen as I watch her look at me, her shock mixed with the corn that drips off her nose, hidden in her burning eyes as she wipes them, and within her lungs as she gasps for air.
As soon as it happens, my defenses click in and I detach. My father's demon swirls around us, come to possess every breath we take. I don't look at the monster in our kitchen; I'm terrified he's going to hurt us—badly.
My dreams begin, and more than the physical act of violence itself, I notice the smaller details around me like the colors in our kitchen.
I see the pale yellow of the corn as it drips down Jenise's face. It matches the paint on the walls. I see the white of the porcelain bowl as it rocks back and forth from the shock of her face smashed down in it.
I hear the sound of dullness made by the spoon that once rested by the bowl of corn, now fallen to the floor, and I see the beautiful color of my sister's hazel eyes as they squint and blink.
THIS SCENE TAKES PLACE WHEN NICKY AND JENISE'S FATHER RAGES, WANTING DESPERATELY FOR HIS DAUGHTERS TO GET OUT OF THE WAY SO HE CAN DRINK. THEIR FATHER HAS JUST SHOVED NICKY'S SISTER'S FACE INTO A BOWL OF CREAMED CORN BECAUSE SHE'S CHALLENGED HIM.
THE POINT OF VIEW IS FROM NICKY AT 8 YRS. OLD.
I watch her mouth open as she tries to regain her breath and her white shirt becomes blotched with stains the color of butter. My eyes see the sky blue of the vinyl booth I sit in and the white rope of the leather ribbing that seams it.
A few years earlier I'd taken a knife and sliced it, making neat and orderly cuts about an inch apart, beginning at my father's seat and ending to my left at my sister's spot.
It was as if I tried to cut myself away from the yelling, terror, and disgust, perhaps even to cut myself out of my family. Anywhere seemed better than being at the dinner table with them.
Everything moves in slow motion, except when my father takes his belt from the loops in his pants; that move was so quick it seems blurred to my eyes.
One half of my mind knows my body is present within the trauma and craziness, and the other half is somewhere in the shadows, observing.
WHAT WAS THE FIRST MOMENT YOU FELT SOMETHING OFF? NOT NECESSARILY IN CHILDHOOD, BUT ALSO GROWING UP? HOW DID YOU FIND YOUR VOICE?
WHEN DID YOU LET YOUR HEART OPEN FOR DEEPER INTIMACY, NO LONGER AFRAID?
She lifts her head slowly and turns to the side after he takes his hand away. I'm frozen as I watch her look at me, her shock mixed with the corn that drips off her nose, hidden in her burning eyes as she wipes them, and within her lungs as she gasps for air.
As soon as it happens, my defenses click in and I detach. My father's demon swirls around us, come to possess every breath we take. I don't look at the monster in our kitchen; I'm terrified he's going to hurt us—badly.
My dreams begin, and more than the physical act of violence itself, I notice the smaller details around me like the colors in our kitchen.
I see the pale yellow of the corn as it drips down Jenise's face. It matches the paint on the walls. I see the white of the porcelain bowl as it rocks back and forth from the shock of her face smashed down in it.
I hear the sound of dullness made by the spoon that once rested by the bowl of corn, now fallen to the floor, and I see the beautiful color of my sister's hazel eyes as they squint and blink.
THIS SCENE TAKES PLACE WHEN NICKY AND JENISE'S FATHER RAGES, WANTING DESPERATELY FOR HIS DAUGHTERS TO GET OUT OF THE WAY SO HE CAN DRINK. THEIR FATHER HAS JUST SHOVED NICKY'S SISTER'S FACE INTO A BOWL OF CREAMED CORN BECAUSE SHE'S CHALLENGED HIM.
THE POINT OF VIEW IS FROM NICKY AT 8 YRS. OLD.
I watch her mouth open as she tries to regain her breath and her white shirt becomes blotched with stains the color of butter. My eyes see the sky blue of the vinyl booth I sit in and the white rope of the leather ribbing that seams it.
A few years earlier I'd taken a knife and sliced it, making neat and orderly cuts about an inch apart, beginning at my father's seat and ending to my left at my sister's spot.
It was as if I tried to cut myself away from the yelling, terror, and disgust, perhaps even to cut myself out of my family. Anywhere seemed better than being at the dinner table with them.
Everything moves in slow motion, except when my father takes his belt from the loops in his pants; that move was so quick it seems blurred to my eyes.
One half of my mind knows my body is present within the trauma and craziness, and the other half is somewhere in the shadows, observing.
WHAT WAS THE FIRST MOMENT YOU FELT SOMETHING OFF? NOT NECESSARILY IN CHILDHOOD, BUT ALSO GROWING UP? HOW DID YOU FIND YOUR VOICE?
WHEN DID YOU LET YOUR HEART OPEN FOR DEEPER INTIMACY, NO LONGER AFRAID?
A Romance Novel, Coming of Age, Intimacy, Addiction, Family
So to recap Chapter 1 of Shadow Heart, the first novel in the Broken Bottles Series.
What are the challenges of our heroine, Nicky Young?
The story opens up as we hear her voice, at some age, talking about a time when she was eight years old and witnessed her father's rage toward Jenise, her sister, just because they wouldn't eat the cold creamed corn their father served them.
We also hear Nicky open her story by talking about her little prayer, the way most little girls and boys pray, "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . . and please make my father quit drinking."
In fact I prayed this way every night growing up, because you see, Nicky in many ways is me.
No amount of prayer changed my father. Sometimes he paused for a week, a month, a day . . . one time he was sober for eight months. What a joy it was to have my dad back. But you know what? It also heightened my anxiety.
Why?
Because a new edge was sharpened on my survival "knife." Now each day I waited, dreading the man who was bound to fall off the wagon, once again red faced, seeking sloppy love when all we wanted to do was push him away.
Have you felt like that?
Growing up under any trauma makes us not only survivors, but keen observers, adept at analysis, and listeners like no other, but we need to weave and dodge through the bullets of dysfunction.
So what do we know by knowing Nicky in chapter 1? She prays, which means she must have had some exposure to religion of some sort.
She talks about the things she knows:
1. Something bad is coming; it always does.
2. I can't ask for help; I'm too ashamed.
3. I can't talk about our secrets; no one else understands.
4. I can't trust anyone; they always leave.
Children of addiction/trauma learn by being abandoned. We are promised, day after day that this will be the holiday, birthday, school even, that our parent or loved one will be sober. But of course they choose the bottle or drug of choice over us.
We're sure no other family is going through it, and we know we have to keep secrets.
What else do we know?
Nicky's mother has gone through the same thing. She screams out loud in the Arizona desert in the summer monsoons to have the floods take her away from her home.
What does Nicky know now after watching her sister's punishment?
She's not safe.
Her mother can't protect her.
Her father is no longer who he once was.
She knows, it's all up to her, and she'd better pave her own road because no one is there to help her.
WHEN DID YOU REALIZE IT WAS ALL UP TO YOU?
WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ROMANCE?
AAAHHH! JUST WAIT…IT'S COMING! DEEP, SENSUAL INTIMACY…WILL NICKY LEARN HOW TO GET IT?Shadow Heart
What are the challenges of our heroine, Nicky Young?
The story opens up as we hear her voice, at some age, talking about a time when she was eight years old and witnessed her father's rage toward Jenise, her sister, just because they wouldn't eat the cold creamed corn their father served them.
We also hear Nicky open her story by talking about her little prayer, the way most little girls and boys pray, "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . . and please make my father quit drinking."
In fact I prayed this way every night growing up, because you see, Nicky in many ways is me.
No amount of prayer changed my father. Sometimes he paused for a week, a month, a day . . . one time he was sober for eight months. What a joy it was to have my dad back. But you know what? It also heightened my anxiety.
Why?
Because a new edge was sharpened on my survival "knife." Now each day I waited, dreading the man who was bound to fall off the wagon, once again red faced, seeking sloppy love when all we wanted to do was push him away.
Have you felt like that?
Growing up under any trauma makes us not only survivors, but keen observers, adept at analysis, and listeners like no other, but we need to weave and dodge through the bullets of dysfunction.
So what do we know by knowing Nicky in chapter 1? She prays, which means she must have had some exposure to religion of some sort.
She talks about the things she knows:
1. Something bad is coming; it always does.
2. I can't ask for help; I'm too ashamed.
3. I can't talk about our secrets; no one else understands.
4. I can't trust anyone; they always leave.
Children of addiction/trauma learn by being abandoned. We are promised, day after day that this will be the holiday, birthday, school even, that our parent or loved one will be sober. But of course they choose the bottle or drug of choice over us.
We're sure no other family is going through it, and we know we have to keep secrets.
What else do we know?
Nicky's mother has gone through the same thing. She screams out loud in the Arizona desert in the summer monsoons to have the floods take her away from her home.
What does Nicky know now after watching her sister's punishment?
She's not safe.
Her mother can't protect her.
Her father is no longer who he once was.
She knows, it's all up to her, and she'd better pave her own road because no one is there to help her.
WHEN DID YOU REALIZE IT WAS ALL UP TO YOU?
WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ROMANCE?
AAAHHH! JUST WAIT…IT'S COMING! DEEP, SENSUAL INTIMACY…WILL NICKY LEARN HOW TO GET IT?Shadow Heart
Why Am I Afraid of Sex and Intimacy
IN THIS SCENE NICKY YOUNG, OUR YOUNG WOMAN COMING OF AGE, SITS WITH HER NEW WOMEN FRIENDS AND MENTORS, TARA SUMMERS AND ALEXANDRA FLOWERS, WIFE AND FIANCE TO MATT AND DARRELL SWEET, PROFESSIONAL PITCHERS ON THE SAN FRANCISCO GOLIATHS BASEBALL TEAM.
NIKCY HAS JUST SHARED WITH ALEX THAT HER FATHER IS AN ALCOHOLIC, AND BEGINS TO REFLECT INWARD ON HER PROBLEMS OF MAKING NEW RELATIONSHIPS AND HER CHALLENGES ABOUT HAVING SEX.
To finally share the information with someone I trusted, who was another adult, was such a relief, and in doing so, I cemented the relationship with my two new women friends.
"This is an escape as much as a hope that Stanford will acknowledge me," I said. "My dad and sister argue and fight all the time, and my mom is just, somewhere else. I wanna get out of there."
"What about you?" Alex asked. "What's your relationship like with your Dad?"
"I love him, but he's made me . . ." I stumbled to find the word.
"Numb?" she asked knowingly.
"Yeah," I said.
"I know, Sweetheart," she said patting my back, "I know."
How do you know?
When Tara joined us, Alex excused herself to check on my teammates.
"What's your routine like tonight?" Tara asked. Both she and Alex were yell leaders in high school and working with cheer routines was second nature for them.
As I stood up, waving my hands in the air to demonstrate, the Goliaths were on the field taking batting practice, shagging balls, and doing their sprints and stretches.
"Looks like you guys have it down," Tara said. "I'll be watching to make sure I don't see anything you need to work out. If I do, you can all come over to my house and we'll review it."
When I sat down, I noticed Ryan Tilton, who was a pitcher, the game closer, for the Goliaths, looking at me as he ran to catch fly balls and then throw them back to the infield.
Ryan's six-foot, two-inch frame, athletic body, blue eyes, and golden brown hair were like a beacon, and I'd already noticed in just a few weeks, how people were naturally drawn to him.
The women were endless, dressed to attract a single man, but there was also a parade of others hoping for a piece of the good looking, professional athlete he was.
"Yeah, okay," I said. "Hey, what's Ryan Tilton staring at anyway? He's been looking over here off and on for the last half hour."
"Don't mess with that one," Tara said. "He's a wild boy."
"Yeah, I gathered as much," I said. "You know, almost everyone has come out to introduce themselves to us, but he's among only a few that hasn't."
"He's got a reputation along with his friend, Kevin Reynolds," she said. "I think Ryan has a steady. At least there's a blonde woman named Jesse who hangs around him, but 'steady' is relative when it comes to that boy. You shouldn't even think about a ball player."
"No chance of that. I don't even date," I said laughing.
I entered into my adult life innocent and extremely naïve about sex and boys. I was shut down and closed off, and afraid that having a boyfriend meant I'd get distracted and my grades would suffer.
Ultimately I interpreted a boyfriend as a roadblock to Stanford and much too risky. Ever since I was a young girl I had marked the beginning of college on my calendar with a red pen and circled each day that passed in yellow.
I was stubborn and frustratingly slow to open up and let anyone inside my personal fortress.
All my friends were sexually active, but I just wasn't ready. Sex was a strange concept for me. I couldn't understand my friends having it at fifteen and sixteen. Stay away from boys as long as possible was what I believed, especially since my sister had been raped at fourteen.
The day my sister's life changed forever, I came home from school at the usual time.
WHAT ARE YOUR CHALLENGES WITH INTIMACY?
HOW MANY TIMES COULD YOU HAVE REACHED OUT TO A FRIEND OR CO-WORKER IN A VULNERABLE AND LOVING WAY?
WHY IS SEX CARRY SUCH A BIG STIGMA IF IT'S BETWEEN TWO CONSENTING ADULTS?
I welcome your comments and invite you to contact me on my website www.PamelaTaeuffer.com
Or e mail me: pamelataeuffer@gmail.com
I am also on Facebook: /Shadow-Heart and Pinterest: /pamelataeuffer/shadowheart
Twitter: @PTaeufferAuthor
Thank for reading!Shadow Heart
NIKCY HAS JUST SHARED WITH ALEX THAT HER FATHER IS AN ALCOHOLIC, AND BEGINS TO REFLECT INWARD ON HER PROBLEMS OF MAKING NEW RELATIONSHIPS AND HER CHALLENGES ABOUT HAVING SEX.
To finally share the information with someone I trusted, who was another adult, was such a relief, and in doing so, I cemented the relationship with my two new women friends.
"This is an escape as much as a hope that Stanford will acknowledge me," I said. "My dad and sister argue and fight all the time, and my mom is just, somewhere else. I wanna get out of there."
"What about you?" Alex asked. "What's your relationship like with your Dad?"
"I love him, but he's made me . . ." I stumbled to find the word.
"Numb?" she asked knowingly.
"Yeah," I said.
"I know, Sweetheart," she said patting my back, "I know."
How do you know?
When Tara joined us, Alex excused herself to check on my teammates.
"What's your routine like tonight?" Tara asked. Both she and Alex were yell leaders in high school and working with cheer routines was second nature for them.
As I stood up, waving my hands in the air to demonstrate, the Goliaths were on the field taking batting practice, shagging balls, and doing their sprints and stretches.
"Looks like you guys have it down," Tara said. "I'll be watching to make sure I don't see anything you need to work out. If I do, you can all come over to my house and we'll review it."
When I sat down, I noticed Ryan Tilton, who was a pitcher, the game closer, for the Goliaths, looking at me as he ran to catch fly balls and then throw them back to the infield.
Ryan's six-foot, two-inch frame, athletic body, blue eyes, and golden brown hair were like a beacon, and I'd already noticed in just a few weeks, how people were naturally drawn to him.
The women were endless, dressed to attract a single man, but there was also a parade of others hoping for a piece of the good looking, professional athlete he was.
"Yeah, okay," I said. "Hey, what's Ryan Tilton staring at anyway? He's been looking over here off and on for the last half hour."
"Don't mess with that one," Tara said. "He's a wild boy."
"Yeah, I gathered as much," I said. "You know, almost everyone has come out to introduce themselves to us, but he's among only a few that hasn't."
"He's got a reputation along with his friend, Kevin Reynolds," she said. "I think Ryan has a steady. At least there's a blonde woman named Jesse who hangs around him, but 'steady' is relative when it comes to that boy. You shouldn't even think about a ball player."
"No chance of that. I don't even date," I said laughing.
I entered into my adult life innocent and extremely naïve about sex and boys. I was shut down and closed off, and afraid that having a boyfriend meant I'd get distracted and my grades would suffer.
Ultimately I interpreted a boyfriend as a roadblock to Stanford and much too risky. Ever since I was a young girl I had marked the beginning of college on my calendar with a red pen and circled each day that passed in yellow.
I was stubborn and frustratingly slow to open up and let anyone inside my personal fortress.
All my friends were sexually active, but I just wasn't ready. Sex was a strange concept for me. I couldn't understand my friends having it at fifteen and sixteen. Stay away from boys as long as possible was what I believed, especially since my sister had been raped at fourteen.
The day my sister's life changed forever, I came home from school at the usual time.
WHAT ARE YOUR CHALLENGES WITH INTIMACY?
HOW MANY TIMES COULD YOU HAVE REACHED OUT TO A FRIEND OR CO-WORKER IN A VULNERABLE AND LOVING WAY?
WHY IS SEX CARRY SUCH A BIG STIGMA IF IT'S BETWEEN TWO CONSENTING ADULTS?
I welcome your comments and invite you to contact me on my website www.PamelaTaeuffer.com
Or e mail me: pamelataeuffer@gmail.com
I am also on Facebook: /Shadow-Heart and Pinterest: /pamelataeuffer/shadowheart
Twitter: @PTaeufferAuthor
Thank for reading!Shadow Heart
SHADOW HEART: Emotional and Physical Shock
My sister came home in shock.
She looked dead.
In some ways, emotionally, we were all dead.
My father numbed his body and mind with alcohol.
I numbed myself with staying busy.
My mom numbed herself escaping into her romance novels.
Now my sister would be numb in a different way.
“Where have you been?” My mother asked angrily. “I was so worried.” Calmly and without emotion, her body in shock, Jenise answered, “I was raped.”
I saw my mother’s face become stone, trying her best not to let the hurt inside.
“I want to take a shower,” Jenise said as if she were a zombie.
“Just stay right there. Don’t move, wash, or take anything off. Don’t even comb your hair. We need to go to the hospital first,” my mother said. She was well aware of the protocol for rape from taking care of the girls at “Juvie” who’d been attacked.
I don’t know if she wanted to take her daughter in her arms and tell her she was sorry for what happened and that she loved her, but she didn’t.
As always, she did a good job of pushing her emotions down, not losing control, or escalating an already delicate situation.
“Watch your sister,” mom said, as she rushed to her bedroom, got dressed, and then came downstairs. I heard her in the kitchen on the phone to the hospital asking for a “SANE” professional—someone trained in rape trauma—to be present with a rape kit.
After hanging up, she walked down the hallway and grabbed her purse and keys off the small table by the front door, while my sister stood motionless.
When Jenise finally lifted her head and looked at me so helplessly, her sad eyes screaming, “Why did this happen to me?” I turned away.
Her expression said it all. Her spirit was gone and I didn’t know how to process the pain I felt from seeing her that way.
She’d been my hero.
I didn’t want to hear her talk about her violated body, the strength that was ripped out of her, or the ways in which her innocence was lost, and taken by some power-crazed, sick man.
I knew she’d never look at life the same way again.
Won't you join the discussion of family dysfunction, love, romance, and seeking emotional intimacy?
www.PamelaTaeuffer.com
Facebook: /pamela.taeuffer.9
Pinterest: /pamelataeuffer
gmail: pamelataeuffer@gmail.com
She looked dead.
In some ways, emotionally, we were all dead.
My father numbed his body and mind with alcohol.
I numbed myself with staying busy.
My mom numbed herself escaping into her romance novels.
Now my sister would be numb in a different way.
“Where have you been?” My mother asked angrily. “I was so worried.” Calmly and without emotion, her body in shock, Jenise answered, “I was raped.”
I saw my mother’s face become stone, trying her best not to let the hurt inside.
“I want to take a shower,” Jenise said as if she were a zombie.
“Just stay right there. Don’t move, wash, or take anything off. Don’t even comb your hair. We need to go to the hospital first,” my mother said. She was well aware of the protocol for rape from taking care of the girls at “Juvie” who’d been attacked.
I don’t know if she wanted to take her daughter in her arms and tell her she was sorry for what happened and that she loved her, but she didn’t.
As always, she did a good job of pushing her emotions down, not losing control, or escalating an already delicate situation.
“Watch your sister,” mom said, as she rushed to her bedroom, got dressed, and then came downstairs. I heard her in the kitchen on the phone to the hospital asking for a “SANE” professional—someone trained in rape trauma—to be present with a rape kit.
After hanging up, she walked down the hallway and grabbed her purse and keys off the small table by the front door, while my sister stood motionless.
When Jenise finally lifted her head and looked at me so helplessly, her sad eyes screaming, “Why did this happen to me?” I turned away.
Her expression said it all. Her spirit was gone and I didn’t know how to process the pain I felt from seeing her that way.
She’d been my hero.
I didn’t want to hear her talk about her violated body, the strength that was ripped out of her, or the ways in which her innocence was lost, and taken by some power-crazed, sick man.
I knew she’d never look at life the same way again.
Won't you join the discussion of family dysfunction, love, romance, and seeking emotional intimacy?
www.PamelaTaeuffer.com
Facebook: /pamela.taeuffer.9
Pinterest: /pamelataeuffer
gmail: pamelataeuffer@gmail.com
Intimacy-How can I find it?
“You don’t date?” Alex asked, once again joining Tara and me sitting in the bleachers.
“No,” I said.
“Why ever not,” she asked.
I was ridiculously naïve and socially backward in so many ways. Being raised in an alcoholic family can do that. It was better to hide away and shut down rather than feel the extreme joy or intense pain of life.
Like most of us, I had learned from what my parents taught by how they relate to one another.
How soft are they?
Do they reach for each other’s hand?
Are their kisses open and frequent?
Do they hold the door open for each other?
Are their faces or eyes soft when they look or talk to each other? What about their terms of endearment? I never heard “my love,
honey, dear, sweetie,” or any other pet name.
What I saw, was that my mother had opened her heart to a man, and
in doing so, said, “I trust you” in every way.
She believed a promise of everything better in my father, who at the time was newly returned from serving in the army and beginning his career as a streetcar driver. Mom saw a light in his eyes and was attracted to his sense of humor and carefree spirit. It was an innocence she didn’t experience as a young girl.
What were the examples of a relationship growing up?
What were the examples of a relationship growing up?
They met through a friend who introduced them when my mom had just moved to San Francisco. My father fell in love with the strong woman she seemed to be; so much so, that they committed to each other in every way—to marry, make a life, and have children.
Who knows what went wrong, but ultimately their love was crushed and their hearts were broken. Neither of them made time for each other, or remained tender. They closed their doors and windows and became hard.
A diseased man pushed her and hit her and told her by his love for the bottle, that she wasn’t good enough. Mom wasn’t even second best. His friends at the bar stood in that place.
So for me, the lesson from my parents taught me to shut down, never let anyone in, and especially when it came to a boy, keep my heart closed. Being someone’s girlfriend or wife meant abuse and being a second choice.
To make sure I didn’t have to battle those traumas, I held my sword at my side, ready to slice them from my life as soon as I felt threatened. I didn’t give anyone a chance to explain if I felt wronged.
It was all about trust—or more accurately—the lack of it, and discus- sions such as these are what brought Tara, Alex, and me close together as girlfriends.
“No,” I said.
“Why ever not,” she asked.
I was ridiculously naïve and socially backward in so many ways. Being raised in an alcoholic family can do that. It was better to hide away and shut down rather than feel the extreme joy or intense pain of life.
Like most of us, I had learned from what my parents taught by how they relate to one another.
How soft are they?
Do they reach for each other’s hand?
Are their kisses open and frequent?
Do they hold the door open for each other?
Are their faces or eyes soft when they look or talk to each other? What about their terms of endearment? I never heard “my love,
honey, dear, sweetie,” or any other pet name.
What I saw, was that my mother had opened her heart to a man, and
in doing so, said, “I trust you” in every way.
She believed a promise of everything better in my father, who at the time was newly returned from serving in the army and beginning his career as a streetcar driver. Mom saw a light in his eyes and was attracted to his sense of humor and carefree spirit. It was an innocence she didn’t experience as a young girl.
What were the examples of a relationship growing up?
What were the examples of a relationship growing up?
They met through a friend who introduced them when my mom had just moved to San Francisco. My father fell in love with the strong woman she seemed to be; so much so, that they committed to each other in every way—to marry, make a life, and have children.
Who knows what went wrong, but ultimately their love was crushed and their hearts were broken. Neither of them made time for each other, or remained tender. They closed their doors and windows and became hard.
A diseased man pushed her and hit her and told her by his love for the bottle, that she wasn’t good enough. Mom wasn’t even second best. His friends at the bar stood in that place.
So for me, the lesson from my parents taught me to shut down, never let anyone in, and especially when it came to a boy, keep my heart closed. Being someone’s girlfriend or wife meant abuse and being a second choice.
To make sure I didn’t have to battle those traumas, I held my sword at my side, ready to slice them from my life as soon as I felt threatened. I didn’t give anyone a chance to explain if I felt wronged.
It was all about trust—or more accurately—the lack of it, and discus- sions such as these are what brought Tara, Alex, and me close together as girlfriends.
First Stirrings - When are we Aware of Intimacy?
It's a feeling in our belly.
It's a pulse in our chest that surges down through our stomach, lower, into our pelvis, aching, longing to be relieved.
It's the slant of an eye, or a bashful look through his eyelashes.
What and who stirred feelings of sensuality for you?
We pick up Shadow Heart just after Ryan Tilton, almost 25, introduces himself to Nicky Young, seventeen. He begins a very careful, slow, sensual plan to bring her heart and mind to him and knows he needs to be careful or she'll run away. Nicky is the daughter of an alcoholic, and the way she avoids confrontation is to run away.
**************
He laughed, and his tone got my attention once again.
Wow that laugh—it’s sublime, subtle, and distinct, and something’s . . . I feel like there’s a low rumble beginning in my belly.
“I talk fast when I’m nervous, too,” he said. Again, he put his hand on my shoulder.
Wow his hands are big.
What does Nicky do with feelings of warm pulses?
What does Nicky do with feelings of warm pulses?
“Yeah, thanks but you’re, well you’re who you are,” I said.
“From what I understand you’re a genius yourself,” he leaned in close. “Your resume lists your GPA as 4.25, right?”
“I’ve never had my IQ measured to know, but I study all the time. I work very hard at it,” I said taking a breath. Keep it together. “All the time,” I repeated.
His smile was wide, but then his expression changed as he explained, “My dad was in the service too; Afghanistan. He was killed when I was
fourteen.” He looked away, seemingly trying to grasp and hold in his pain. “Oh, Mr. Tilton,” I put my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.” Damn, so
young, poor guy.
I was startled by the power underneath his skin. His muscles were hard and well-defined, and the feel of them sent a surge through my body. It was as if they were hard marbles covered by fur, and touching him brought a different feeling to me, one I’d never experienced before.
It began with a burst in my chest, like a big beat, and rolled with an ache into my stomach and then resonated down my legs.
“Ooh!” It was as if my hand burned. I lifted it off him quickly.
Oh damn! Did he feel it too? Wasn’t that a ripple that went through his arm?
“What’s the matter, Nicky?” his expression was suggestive and it made me look away.
“Nothing, Mr. Tilton,” I said playing with my hair.
“Ryan. Just call me Ryan. Thank you for your sweet thoughts,” he said. “It was a tough time for me, and it’s why I feel so deeply for those wounded vets in Yountville. If it’s all right with you, I’ll clear it with management to make sure they know I’m, uh, taking you out.”
He smiled at me with a look that made me question . . . things.
* What kinds of feelings is Nicky Battling?
* Why would she feel safe when her own father had let her go?
* How can Nicky bring someone close?
Won't you join the conversation and visit us at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com?
Shadow Heart will be given away as a kindle book 4/26-4/27 on Amazon.com. I'd love for you to download it and let me know your thoughts.
http://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Heart-Co...
It's a pulse in our chest that surges down through our stomach, lower, into our pelvis, aching, longing to be relieved.
It's the slant of an eye, or a bashful look through his eyelashes.
What and who stirred feelings of sensuality for you?
We pick up Shadow Heart just after Ryan Tilton, almost 25, introduces himself to Nicky Young, seventeen. He begins a very careful, slow, sensual plan to bring her heart and mind to him and knows he needs to be careful or she'll run away. Nicky is the daughter of an alcoholic, and the way she avoids confrontation is to run away.
**************
He laughed, and his tone got my attention once again.
Wow that laugh—it’s sublime, subtle, and distinct, and something’s . . . I feel like there’s a low rumble beginning in my belly.
“I talk fast when I’m nervous, too,” he said. Again, he put his hand on my shoulder.
Wow his hands are big.
What does Nicky do with feelings of warm pulses?
What does Nicky do with feelings of warm pulses?
“Yeah, thanks but you’re, well you’re who you are,” I said.
“From what I understand you’re a genius yourself,” he leaned in close. “Your resume lists your GPA as 4.25, right?”
“I’ve never had my IQ measured to know, but I study all the time. I work very hard at it,” I said taking a breath. Keep it together. “All the time,” I repeated.
His smile was wide, but then his expression changed as he explained, “My dad was in the service too; Afghanistan. He was killed when I was
fourteen.” He looked away, seemingly trying to grasp and hold in his pain. “Oh, Mr. Tilton,” I put my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.” Damn, so
young, poor guy.
I was startled by the power underneath his skin. His muscles were hard and well-defined, and the feel of them sent a surge through my body. It was as if they were hard marbles covered by fur, and touching him brought a different feeling to me, one I’d never experienced before.
It began with a burst in my chest, like a big beat, and rolled with an ache into my stomach and then resonated down my legs.
“Ooh!” It was as if my hand burned. I lifted it off him quickly.
Oh damn! Did he feel it too? Wasn’t that a ripple that went through his arm?
“What’s the matter, Nicky?” his expression was suggestive and it made me look away.
“Nothing, Mr. Tilton,” I said playing with my hair.
“Ryan. Just call me Ryan. Thank you for your sweet thoughts,” he said. “It was a tough time for me, and it’s why I feel so deeply for those wounded vets in Yountville. If it’s all right with you, I’ll clear it with management to make sure they know I’m, uh, taking you out.”
He smiled at me with a look that made me question . . . things.
* What kinds of feelings is Nicky Battling?
* Why would she feel safe when her own father had let her go?
* How can Nicky bring someone close?
Won't you join the conversation and visit us at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com?
Shadow Heart will be given away as a kindle book 4/26-4/27 on Amazon.com. I'd love for you to download it and let me know your thoughts.
http://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Heart-Co...
A Child of Alcoholism - Abandoned Things
Nicky Young is a child of alcoholism who doesn’t know how to have deep relationships. She has friends, she’s paved her way to college, and will escape her nightmare soon, but opening herself to be vulnerable and truly feel and reach for intimacy . . . she has no clue. She often uses her journals to write poetry. This is one of her poems.will escape her nightmare soon, but opening herself to be vulnerable and truly feel and reach for intimacy . . . she has no clue. She often uses her journals to write poetry. This is one of her poems.
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
ABANDONED THINGS
stability—i crave it
control—i need it
intimacy—i desperately want it
i look okay but i am not
i may be successful in public, but in private, i am struggling
you see me as an adult, but inside i am a little girl or little boy, still afraid
i have lost my childhood
please look at me even as i push you away
find me
the fences are high to protect my heart
help me tear them down
i am deathly afraid to take a risk, even though everything could open up and i might come out of the shadows
love me like i want to love you
1. What chords, if any, does this poem strike for you?
2. Why do you think she’s written a poem like this?
3. What could she do to to deepen her relationships, especially with her friends?
Won’t you join the conversation at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com and sign up for our newsletter for private announcements, pre-sales, free chapters and cut scenes?
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
ABANDONED THINGS
stability—i crave it
control—i need it
intimacy—i desperately want it
i look okay but i am not
i may be successful in public, but in private, i am struggling
you see me as an adult, but inside i am a little girl or little boy, still afraid
i have lost my childhood
please look at me even as i push you away
find me
the fences are high to protect my heart
help me tear them down
i am deathly afraid to take a risk, even though everything could open up and i might come out of the shadows
love me like i want to love you
1. What chords, if any, does this poem strike for you?
2. Why do you think she’s written a poem like this?
3. What could she do to to deepen her relationships, especially with her friends?
Won’t you join the conversation at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com and sign up for our newsletter for private announcements, pre-sales, free chapters and cut scenes?
Releasing, Editing, Responding, Analyzing
When you work on a project as I have for four years (a drop in the bucket compared to other authors), you carefully release your first baby.
I am taking a different approach to writing about growing in a family that tried to survive the best we could, an alcoholic father, husband, who sometimes raged, and for many years, all I could remember of him was passed out in his chair or in bed (after the screaming and yelling and sometimes worse subsided).
There are so many books out there about this topic. Just as there are so many love stories offered.
In combing the two, I'm trying to show how love, growing up, relationships, choices of clothes, conversations, who I took as friends -- every day choices -- were affected because of having an abusive alcoholic parent.
Ultimately, it affects the way we trust, the way we participate in having a boyfriend/girlfriend, our marriage, the way we open or stay closed to our children -- all of the intimacy of our lives is difficult.
So that's the story, now here's the issue.
I gave into some bad editing advice with book 1, Shadow Heart. I'm so unhappy with it, that I am rereleasing, and a different ending, the one I wanted to begin with, will be part of book 1.
Like it or not, spelling errors, or not, it will stand. This is the final. Spelling errors are a part of most books these days, especially self-published. I can tell you I've spent many thousands of dollars and had five editors look at the project and each one catches different things and have different opinions.
It's not as easy as it sounds. But with careful diligence and a steady, loving, and hopeful heart, I hope I've resolved most of the book's issues.
It was be offered as an e book free in the next couple of weeks, and Fire Heart will be out with it.
There will be steep cliffhangers in each book because that's what life is when growing up with an alcoholic - nothing but steep cliffs.
We never knew what we were getting ourselves into when we came home or he came home.
Apologies? To those of you who were upset with the first ending, I'm sorry. It's different now, but may not be any more satisfying, but to me, it is.
I have reacted to what the public has consistently told me, and cannot obviously satisfy everyone, but I am finally at peace with the way the series is progressing.
And being at peace with it, hopefully means my heart is flying and will bring you a story you're sometimes angry, sad, and in love with.
For those who couldn't get into it? Sorry, life is like that. Sometimes it clicks, sometimes it doesn't.
I can tell you that I've appreciated everyone's input and everyone who read the book.
And now, the release, coming soon.
I am taking a different approach to writing about growing in a family that tried to survive the best we could, an alcoholic father, husband, who sometimes raged, and for many years, all I could remember of him was passed out in his chair or in bed (after the screaming and yelling and sometimes worse subsided).
There are so many books out there about this topic. Just as there are so many love stories offered.
In combing the two, I'm trying to show how love, growing up, relationships, choices of clothes, conversations, who I took as friends -- every day choices -- were affected because of having an abusive alcoholic parent.
Ultimately, it affects the way we trust, the way we participate in having a boyfriend/girlfriend, our marriage, the way we open or stay closed to our children -- all of the intimacy of our lives is difficult.
So that's the story, now here's the issue.
I gave into some bad editing advice with book 1, Shadow Heart. I'm so unhappy with it, that I am rereleasing, and a different ending, the one I wanted to begin with, will be part of book 1.
Like it or not, spelling errors, or not, it will stand. This is the final. Spelling errors are a part of most books these days, especially self-published. I can tell you I've spent many thousands of dollars and had five editors look at the project and each one catches different things and have different opinions.
It's not as easy as it sounds. But with careful diligence and a steady, loving, and hopeful heart, I hope I've resolved most of the book's issues.
It was be offered as an e book free in the next couple of weeks, and Fire Heart will be out with it.
There will be steep cliffhangers in each book because that's what life is when growing up with an alcoholic - nothing but steep cliffs.
We never knew what we were getting ourselves into when we came home or he came home.
Apologies? To those of you who were upset with the first ending, I'm sorry. It's different now, but may not be any more satisfying, but to me, it is.
I have reacted to what the public has consistently told me, and cannot obviously satisfy everyone, but I am finally at peace with the way the series is progressing.
And being at peace with it, hopefully means my heart is flying and will bring you a story you're sometimes angry, sad, and in love with.
For those who couldn't get into it? Sorry, life is like that. Sometimes it clicks, sometimes it doesn't.
I can tell you that I've appreciated everyone's input and everyone who read the book.
And now, the release, coming soon.
