Back in therapy for a bit

As soon as I hit publish on this blog post, I’m heading to the airport to pick up Bubs from his surf trip with his friend Tyler. I’ve missed him terribly, and as it turns out, it probably wasn’t the best week for him to be gone — but that’s not his fault. Sometimes the past comes back to bite us in ways we don’t expect and at the most inconvenient times.

Last Sunday, I was talking with my sisters — just normal Sunday gossip like we’ve done thousands of times. The only difference was that they were in Texas prepping to have people over for football, and I was in Arizona. FaceTime is amazing for keeping us connected, but there are always things you miss when you’re not physically there.

I didn’t quite hear how the topic came up, but I did catch Jess saying, “…yeah, like that time Dani almost got molested by Pastor Mark.”

The comment itself wasn’t meant to be mean or vindictive. I’ve made similar off-color remarks about my sisters hundreds of times. We love each other fiercely, but we can absolutely be bitches to each other. Maybe it was because I didn’t know the context of how the comment came up. Maybe I was missing them and already feeling tender. Maybe because I hadn’t thought about it in years. Maybe because I’ve now had an experience of inappropriate sexual contact, and comments like that will probably always throw me into fight-or-flight.

Now — I was not molested by Pastor Mark, and truth be told, I don’t even know what his intentions were. What I do know is that when I was 17, my mom took a comment he made to me very seriously, and soon after, there was no more Pastor Mark at our church.

I imagine almost all women and girls end up in a situation like mine — where you’re too naïve at the time to see what’s going on, but if you’re lucky, someone who loves you sees what you can’t. I feel terrible for the girls who don’t have that person.

The situation was this: when I was 17, the beloved priest who had been with our church forever started talking about retiring. So the diocese sent in a bunch of visiting priests to see if any would be a good fit for our congregation. I believe Pastor Mark was the first. It was clear from the start he wasn’t a good fit. He was much more “modern-minded” and didn’t integrate well into our community. (The fact that he wanted to be called “Pastor” instead of “Father” made my dad’s eye twitch.) I still think Mark realized he’d only be there a few weeks, learn what he could, and then move on.

One of the things he wanted to do was take a group of older teens to a congregation in Dallas for an overnight trip and then stay for their Sunday service. I eagerly signed up — it just sounded fun. I think five of us originally signed up. I don’t know why three dropped out immediately, but soon it was just me and a 16-year-old boy. Then, on the Friday before the trip, he dropped out too.

I thought nothing of it at the time. But late Friday night, I got a text from Pastor Mark saying, “Dani! Brandon just dropped out of the trip! So it’ll just be me and you! Please don’t flake out on me! I’ll make it really worth your while if you go!”

I hadn’t even planned on telling my mom. I remember being in my flannel pajama pants, flopping on her bed while she was getting ready for sleep, and casually saying, “Oh, Brandon dropped out of the trip — Pastor Mark said he still really wants me to go tomorrow.” She asked, “Well, who else is going?” I shrugged: “Just me and Pastor Mark.” Then she asked how I found out Brandon wasn’t going, and I said, “Pastor Mark just texted me.”
“Honey… please go get me your phone,” she said, calm as ever.

I don’t remember drama or panic. But I do know she took my phone, made a call (probably to our actual priest), and came back to tell me, “Honey, I’m so sorry, but the trip has been cancelled. I’ll take you and your sisters to the Rivercenter on Sunday to make up for it.”

I don’t remember anyone making a big deal of Pastor Mark not being at church that Sunday. And if I recall, the next week’s bulletin had a small note that he’d taken a job within the diocese in another state.

Looking back, I still have no idea what his intentions were. Through my 17-year-old eyes, I didn’t see anything wrong. Through my 33-year-old mom-of-daughters eyes, I can see exactly why my mom reacted.

Jess’s comment on Sunday, as innocent as it might have been, brought up a flood of emotions — mainly how stupid, helpless, and naïve I can feel when left to my own devices. If I hadn’t told my mom, at minimum I would’ve been alone with a much older man on a 10-hour round-trip drive… plus a hotel stay, dinner, all of it.

It brought up all the same emotions I had after Mexico. Is there something about me predatory men can spot? Is there an eagerness to please written across my forehead in neon lights? Am I too flirty? Too trusting? Too willing to believe people even when ulterior motives should be blaring like a klaxon alarm?

I had a horrible, sleepless night on Sunday going through those questions. Playing out all the possibilities of what could have happened on that Dallas trip. Where I’d be now if something terrible had occurred. And maybe most of all — why the fuck didn’t I think about the Pastor Mark situation when the guy in Mexico invited me into his room? Are the neurons in my brain really that poorly connected?

I texted my SA therapist’s scheduling service in the middle of the night asking if I could get in sometime this week. Since appointments are virtual, she usually fits me in easily. She got back to me and set me up for Tuesday.

I love her to death — truly — but the appointment basically amounted to, “Dani, it’s not your fault. Your brain is wired the way it’s wired. Nothing happened with Pastor Mark, so stop treating it like some roadmap for the rest of your life.” It was good to hear, but I didn’t leave feeling great. She suggested another appointment later in the week since Bubs was out of town. I agreed. She gave me homework: “Think of at least one situation where your instincts kept you out of trouble. There will be more than you think.”

To prove she’s amazing, it didn’t take long. I remembered being at a huge gymnastics meet in San Antonio. There was an older guy in the stands who seemed out of place. I spotted him first and told my dad. There’s nothing illegal about a single older man at a girls’ gymnastics meet, but… the optics. I got too wrapped up in the meet to watch what happened, but my dad and some of the other dads went to sit by him. Sure enough, he had a massive camera with a telephoto lens he tried to shove into a bag when they approached. After the meet, my dad was proud I told him something felt off. He even cracked one of the few jokes I remember from him as we got on the highway: “That creep said he was Kaylee’s uncle! At a gymnastics meet in Texas there are going to be two dozen Kaylees — and he couldn’t tell us which one!”

So I reported back to my therapist on Thursday, and apparently the homework did exactly what it was meant to do — remind me I am not a forever victim. I do have instincts. They do kick on at the right times. I’m not afraid to call out nonsense when I see it. The trick is getting those instincts to kick on when it really matters. She said she’d bet I have more stories like that gymnastics one than I realize — and only two where I was a victim or potential victim. Sure, zero would be ideal, but she’s right: those are pretty good odds.

I don’t really have a perfect bow to tie this with, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe the point isn’t to wrap it up neatly — maybe it’s just to say it out loud, to look at the past honestly without letting it dictate the future.

I’m picking up my husband tonight, and I think I’ll hug him a little tighter. Not because I’m fragile, but because I’m learning I’ve always been stronger than I give myself credit for — even when 17-year-old me didn’t know it yet.