The rest of the summer of ‘96 was a blur of coaching basketball camps in the day, nights bussing tables, drinking alcohol and coca-cola and smoking camels with my girlfriends in the hours in-between. As a result of what happened the night of the house party with high school “friends,” deep shame and confusion began to settle into my bones. After returning to Bozeman in August, to my weed-dealing boyfriend and continued studies in the art department, I tried a therapist at the college and got agitated so I didn’t go back. After sex my boyfriend would ask, “Now what are you crying about?” I resolved that he blamed me for the rape. I shoved down those feelings with more weed, cigarettes, and always alcohol.
The next few years went by. I stayed with the boyfriend for too long, and paid the consequences. Looking back I can see clearly I just couldn’t be alone. I believed I was too worthless by myself. On the outside, I appeared unscathed. On the inside I was distraught, restless, uncomfortable in my skin and continuously seeking comfort. Most reliable was alcohol and men. Good grades in school helped too. I excelled in my graphic design class, even though I compared myself with my peers relentlessly. Studio classes were my favorite: Painting, drawing, ceramics. Any time I was working with my hands…I felt relief.
Where does yoga come in here? I don’t know. As mentioned in the first part of this story, I do not remember how many more classes I attended at the athletic club there in town. Although I do remember that stationary bike…Riding nowhere to make caloric room for booze. I suppose this was the most shadowy phase of my life, a time of gathering turmoil and trauma. I was still in my adolescence, and ignorantly messing with my brain development by relying on drugs and alcohol to manage my increasing spritual emptiness. That reliance led me into blackout after blackout with unintended consequences – repetitive disloyalty to partners, shocking mornings with horrific hangovers and people I didn’t remember meeting the night before. And so it went, this cycle of drinking, poor behavior, bad decisions (many unconscious, some not), and always following…remorse, shame, and ultimately a cover-up of all it by me telling me, “Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen, again.” Yet I couldn’t even hear myself saying this.
Would I do it differently if I could? I love my life today, and could it be this life without that darkness?
I really don’t think so.
