ElleSpeak

I tore apart one of the large cardboard moving boxes left over from our recent move to our new house, and using a black marker I printed my name, age, and phone number on it in large black letters that couldn’t be missed. The sign read: “My name is Eleanor. I am thirteen years old and I live at 13 Alsace Drive. My phone number is XXX-XXXX. Please call me any time.” I stuck it in the middle of the front yard and felt a little better than I had in weeks.

I had just turned 13 and it had only been a couple of months since the traumatic end to my parents’ unhappy marriage. Mom had remained in Florida and my Dad, my two brothers, and I were back home in Indiana, trying to put together a new life without her.

Age 13 is a time in life when many young girls confide in their mothers about changes in their bodies, and look to them for answers; but since my parents’ divorce, I was the only female in our family and much too shy and embarrassed to share such personal details with my Dad or…God forbid…my brothers!

The body I had always taken for granted was beginning to change in ways I was unprepared for, didn’t understand, and didn’t want. I had always relished competition with my brothers. I loved climbing trees, wrestling, having kick fights, and playing cowboys and Indians. Anything they could do I could do better! My Mom sewed beautiful dresses for me and I enjoyed wearing them, but my favorite clothes were hand-me-down jeans and plaid shirts from my older brother.

I was happy and comfortable in my tomboy body and in our house on Chester Street where I had grown up the first 12 years of my life; but my body was betraying my trust, and the house on Chester Street had been sold. My 13th year was one of the longest years of my life, and even though I was living with three other people I often felt totally and completely alone.

That evening when my Dad got home from work and saw the sign in the front yard, he slammed on the brakes, got out of the car, grabbed the sign, and tore it into pieces. I was watching from the window and figured out he was pretty mad about it, but I really didn’t understand why, and in the days since we had left Mom in Florida I had seen his temper flare at the slightest provocation. My Dad had never hit me, but because I worshipped and adored him above all others, if he was angry or disappointed with me I hated myself for upsetting him. I wanted to be his perfect little girl, and it seemed that today I had somehow failed at that.

He came inside looking for me, and found me standing in a corner of the kitchen, body pressed tightly against the wall, eyes closed, praying for a miracle that would let me disappear into another world, any world, except this one where my Dad was upset with me.

Grabbing my arm and pulling me out of the corner, he sat me down hard on a kitchen chair, took a deep breath, and while struggling, unsuccessfully, to compose himself, yelled at me, “What the hell were you thinking? You know better than to do something this stupid! Don’t you know there are men who would enjoy doing awful things to you? For all we know one of those men might live right next door; we don’t know anything about our neighbors! What the hell were you thinking?”

He stopped yelling and just looked at me, shaking his head back and forth, over and over again, with exasperated sighs of disbelief that pierced my young heart. I raised my head from its resting place on my chest and looking at him through eyes shining with tears of misery, confusion, and embarrassment, I told him, “I don’t know what I was thinking”, and I was telling him the complete truth.

I couldn’t come up with a good reason why I had done something this stupid! I was desperately unhappy, but I didn’t have enough self-awareness yet to understand why. How could I tell him about something I didn’t fully understand myself?

What I did know was that my life had changed quickly and dramatically with a new home, a new neighborhood, a new school, a changing body, an entirely new rhythm of life…and I wasn’t happy about any of it.

In a calmer voice he said to me, “Eleanor, you know I have to work to support us. I can’t be here every minute of the day. I don’t have a choice, but I don’t want anything to happen to you, so you have to use your common sense and try to be more careful! Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands I whispered, “Yes, Daddy, I understand. I’ll try to be more careful. I promise. I’m sorry!”

I didn’t consciously know then why I’d made the sign or what I hoped it would bring to me, but a deeper part of me knew there was something missing from my life, and the sign was the only resource available to my young self to try and find it.

My Dad was working hard to give our family food, clothes, and a roof over our heads, while also dealing with the practical and emotional elements of a divorce. When he was home he was exhausted, and had very little energy to deal with the spiritual and emotional needs of three children going through puberty. As a result, those areas of our lives fell into benign neglect. I believe he was doing the best he could do under the circumstances, but that meant I was left to figure things out all by myself, and that obviously wasn’t working very well.

Of course, what was really missing in my life, and what I needed most, was the love, the warmth, and the guidance of a woman. A woman who would care deeply about this 13 year old girl, and who would do her best to help this young person navigate the difficult path to becoming a woman . I was missing my Mom, and would continue to miss her in many ways…for many years.

Fortunately, for me, there would be strong, kind, loving women who would shine their light on me and on my path as I made my way to womanhood. I am grateful every day for their presence in my life. They were my angels and my bodhisattvas.