Why Is My Intuition So Weird?

And what good did that knowing do me? If anything, it freaked me out.

Sunday evening, I had the most random thought. “I wonder what ever became of Daniel Rogers?” I even thought momentarily to Google him, thinking I’d find a mugshot. I dismissed the thought as quickly as I had it, though, because how many Daniel Rogers must there be? And, honestly, I don’t think I’d recognize him.

Daniel Rogers began stalking me in 8th grade. He sat behind me in Shop class, and poked and stared at me. Then he began cornering me in the halls and telling me things he shouldn’t know about me. I took piano lessons from my neighbor at 6:30 in the morning on Mondays, for example. I began to see him sitting outside the glass doors of the dance studio where I studied ballet. I asked my teacher to make him leave.

“Oh, stop being dramatic. He just has a crush.”

Why didn’t anyone EVER LISTEN TO ME!?!

We were in the same Stake. Mormon neighborhoods are divided into Wards. Your Ward is the congregation you worship with on Sundays. Several Wards make up a Stake, and from time to time there will be a big meeting or activity for the entire Stake. At one such youth activity, a group of kids my age was congregated, laughing. I approached to find that Daniel Rogers had written, “I love Christie [Fullname]” on the baptismal font! In permanent marker! I was horrified. I hurried away, but Daniel was there to block a quick exit.

“If you don’t… stop… leaving me alone…!!!” I stuttered, flustered.

Everyone laughed at my mistake. I ran away and cried in the restroom.

He toilet-papered our house. The next day he left a note and $20 for clean-up.

He started leaving me religious tapes. Every Tuesday, BYU has some big ecclesiastical leader give a talk. It’s called Devotional. Daniel Rogers would record those and leave them in an envelope, TAPED TO MY BEDROOM WINDOW.

By now, my parents had spoken to his Bishop. He didn’t stop.

He brought his parents to our house to sing Christmas Carols. Are they insane, too? They knew my parents had complained. Did they think we’d invite them in for warm apple cider and holiday cheer? It was frightening. Seriously, were they all sick?

By now we were in 9th grade. In the New Year, the letters took a turn. He gave me yet another Devotional tape, but this time he chastised my wickedness and described how he, Dr. Dan, would purge me of it. He detailed, minutely, my rape.

I hadn’t even had my period, had never been kissed, and this is how I meet my femininity, my worth. This is who I am, how I’m seen, the danger I’m in. This a world of men, and you’re a plaything to be laughed at and terrorized. I was never the same.

I imagine the police were involved then, because Daniel Rogers was never seen again. After a number of those letters, he disappeared, to graduate from high school in juvy (if he graduated). I put him away with all the other trauma I would “forget.”

I did run into him at Ricks College, now BYU-Idaho. My friend threw a party. I made the rounds in the kitchen, then moved to the living room, where a movie was playing. I watched for a bit, then said hello to the guy on the couch. “Hi! I’m Christie.”

“Hi,” he answered, flat and stunned. “I’m Dan.”

I nearly fainted on the spot and left the party.

****

I’ve thought of him maybe 5 times since. Why yesterday?

This morning I opened my Facebook to a friend request from Daniel Rogers!

He’s as gross as I imagined him to be, his face just as stony and socio as ever it was. I mean, my god, smile. It’s a camera. Absolutely expressionless. There’s a part of me that wishes I’d saved his profile pic before blocking him, just so you could truly appreciate how psychotic and glassy he looks. The one other pic? Abs, and a banana hammock.

SO FUCKING GROSS.

I feel like crying. I hate men. And I don’t hate men! But right now I feel so angry that women have to be frightened, all the time! Have you read that statistic, that men’s biggest fears are being cheated on and/or humiliated, any assault to their ego, while women’s biggest fear is physical harm from men, as in actual assault?

Daniel Rogers scared the shit out of me. It was so long ago that I’d forgotten it. Well, that’s not true. I blocked it, and I know it. In fact, I left him out of my history above, “How I Got Here.” If you got through that thing you know I’m not averse to a long, wordy narrative. I didn’t leave him out for the sake of brevity. I left him out because he makes me sick.

I’m not kidding about his eyes. Dead.

What did the thought of him do for me before being found on Facebook? I don’t understand the role of my intuition, or what I’m supposed to do with that. Right now, it makes me feel vulnerable that I was connected to his energy. I believe we’re all one. Energetic resonance is real. The more people who meditate and send positive thoughts out of themselves into the world, the greater the healing and comfort we send to the planet and one another. I picture the world being enveloped in a pulsing, transparent bubble of swirling colors. The more of us who send our intention and love into the bubble, the better we all are for it. Today, I feel like I shared energetic space with a person who has no right to come near me. Shouldn’t I be able to keep those kinds of psychic intrusions out?

He’s so gross. And sick. A sane person would be too embarrassed to “friend” the girl who sent him to the mental hospital. Does he actually think I’d accept? Yes! He’s crazy!

No. He doesn’t think I’d friend him. He just wanted me to see his abs. Pathetic. There is little I hate more that “that guy,” the loser who posts selfies of his body. GROSS!

I guess it’s good to know he’s not in Salt Lake. A lot of Idahoans end up here.

I’m fine. He can’t hurt me. I did consider reducing my online presence, but no one dictates my freedom. Nothing’s changed. Just a weird morning.

Why this precognition? How did that serve me? I’d appreciate your feedback. Thanks!

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Confronting My Molester

I don’t know if it was necessary. I don’t know if it did anything for me.

I’m still overwhelmed by the coincidence that brought me to the moment I felt it was time to accuse him. I felt like… well, hell, I’ve always nominated myself the one to speak for any disenfranchised “us” I’ve decided I belong to.

I started dating a guy a month ago who immediately read my blog. He got to the part where I mentioned having been molested by the neighbor, and knew him by name! I got sick. I haven’t said that name in 30 years. “How do you know?!” I learned that I had not been a fluke, as I believed. I thought that I just happened to get caught up in it because, as the best friend of the sister he was sexually abusing, I was in the home.

No. He targeted the entire neighborhood. In fact, he raped some of the young girls, including the ex-wife of this guy. She had been a childhood playmate of mine.

I was outraged. The first thing I did was call my sister and make sure she had not been victimized, as well. No, thank God, but not for lack of trying.

Then I wondered, why have I never sought him out? Everyone’s on Facebook. Sure enough, there he was, with his schmuck smiling face, boasting of his son’s military service. I typed a rapid-fire message and sent it before I could chicken out. Normally, I try to withhold words at a time of intense emotion, but he deserves no such sparing and I deserve to accuse my attacker. Panicked at the moment I hit “Enter,” I scrolled back to read what I could not suck back from the ether… to learn that he had contacted me 4 years earlier in a breezy message that went to a junk inbox I never noticed. He was casually wondering if I could put him in touch with my brother, as though nothing ever happened! I FLIPPED and wrote again, then blocked him.

I don’t feel any different. Was it necessary? It feels so strange to come from the trauma with Christine in Spain, wrestling with why I didn’t leave sooner and grieving because I know the answer: I was perfectly groomed not to. I went into a place of survival, where the little girl in precisely that circumstance couldn’t leave. I feel as though I’m recovering from my childhood all over again.

And now here’s my molester. I can’t face it all at once! How do other people process their foundational injuries and move on, meaningfully and successfully? I try so hard. I mean to rise above it every goddamn day. I just keep falling back into it, as though it’s happening now. If others are visited from time to time by the shaky beginning that formed them, it’s the exception in functional, happy lives. For me, it’s the exception to be well. It never lasts.

I’m so tired. I’m so confused. I want so desperately to believe that this confluence of early-life traumas is a poetic, timely event designed to help me at last to put my past to bed. I’m sad to know that it’s really all just random. It happened. It’s done.

And then Sunday came. I’m reeling anew.

Since Jeffrey’s death in 2011 I’ve been wrestling with shame and guilt for verbally abusing him during the lowest days of the heroin addiction that killed him. We were roommates. It was awful. I’ve made peace with the fact that I was fully triggered, and even a healthy person might lose it. Not at the level I did.

Words are weapons, and he got my worst. I abused his parents, too. They came into my home, in what felt very much like an ambush, to accuse me of stealing from Jeff through the utilities. (How do you figure? Half is half.) It’s amazing how addicts can convince themselves of anything to get the money they need for a fix. It was more amazing, and beyond insulting, that his parents believed him and challenged me to prove my innocence, which I refused to do (though I kept meticulous records and made copies for Jeffrey that I explained, and he agreed to, EVERY MONTH). Basically, I told them to go to hell. Actually, I told them they were enabling him to death.

And then he died.

Sunday, his brother and I were headed to the drum circle when his folks pulled up to deliver fresh garden veggies. I haven’t seen them since that day 4 years ago. They couldn’t see me in the car, but I was moved to act and terrified to do so. I had to apologize. I knew through the grapevine that his mother had forgiven me. I’m not surprised. Jeffrey was the most forgiving person I’ve ever known; it came from someplace. But I needed to ask for it, and simply to tell her how very sorry I am for contributing to his suffering and theirs. So I did.

She hugged me. I … feel terrible.

Why EVERYTHING? Why all at once? I suppose I will put this behind me. Even if we don’t consciously put the past behind us, that’s where it goes. But I feel like I’m drowning in regret and failure, while yet knowing I’m doing better than I ever have before. Why don’t I feel good about it?

I’ve had a headache for weeks. I’m exhausted, though neither sleep-deprived nor sleeping too much. I can’t sit with a book. My food addiction is out of control. My eyelashes are getting more and more sparse. (How can it be psychological when they hurt?) I’m irritable and weepy. I’m not coping well.

Thank god for drumming. It’s my happy place right now. Thank you, angels.

***

TO THE SEXUAL PREDATOR OF MY YOUTH:

July 14, 2014

“I just found out I’m not the only girl in the neighborhood you molested. You made the rounds victimizing everyone! You are a sick, violent pervert who traumatized precious young girls. You fundamentally changed us. You robbed us of our innocence. You raped us. All my life, I thought it was a fluke, that you got out of control with your sister and I just happened to be injured because she was my best friend and I was in your house. But you sought us out. You went out of your way to pursue us, to degrade and mock us, and force us to gratify your twisted sexual appetites. In truth, you know as well as I do that the rage it took to perpetrate your crimes was born of your own impotence and weakness. You’re a disgusting loser who has to act out on children in order to feel empowered. That hasn’t changed. Til you die, you’ll be a child molester and rapist. I don’t know how you live with yourself, and I don’t care. I’ve long-since been rid of you, but I found out just hours ago that I wasn’t the only one. You can never make up for what you did to us. You can never restore what you took. I finally decided to reach out and identify you to your face. I see you. I know who you are. You’re a fraud and a liar. You’re a rapist and pedophile. When you take the Sacrament, you are spitting in the face of God, who made me and all of your victims. Shame on you.”

and then…

“oh my god! are you insane? i just saw that you contacted me years ago asking after my brother, as though nothing ever happened! how are you not HUMILIATED? how do you look in the mirror? how do you not kill yourself? i couldn’t live with the burden of being the monster you are. you’re sick. don’t contact me again. I have the right to speak. you do not.”

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” – William Faulkner

I’m working through it, presently.