By Daisy Tart 
Posted on Monday, June 27, 2016
I grew up in a very conservative Christian household; there was no drinking (even by the adults) and there was strict discipline that was both physical and grudge holding. I can look back now as an adult and say that there were elements of both physical and verbal abuse in that upbringing. This is not a tale of my childhood, however, I do believe that today we are the sum of our yesterdays and that beginning shapes this story. I was often assumed guilty. I was called a slut by my parents, for having platonic male friends, years before I had even lost my virginity. It was assumed that I was the bad kid. If something happened I was punished, often before I was even aware of what I had been accused of.
I decided in about the 9th grade that if I was always guilty I was going to stop trying to prove otherwise, I just got great at hiding things. I believed I wasn’t smart enough (I was an honor roll student), I wasn’t pretty enough, I wasn’t likeable enough, I wasn’t focused enough. In short, the message was I wasn’t enough. I smoked pot and drank with friends who didn’t care that I wasn’t enough. I pretended with bravado that I didn’t care what anyone thought. I fell in love at 17, had a baby and got married. I thought, finally, I’m enough. I wasn’t. I got pregnant a second time and he left, two children with two children who should not have been playing house. Two broken children pretending a bravado that was merely skin deep. That is also another story in itself.
So there I was, feeling much unloved, very unlovable, with 2 children at 19. I met a guy. All the signs were there, that I was too naive to see. I saw that he paid attention to me. He wanted to take care of me and my children. All I had to do was be exactly who he wanted me to be, as his wife. I could do that, I thought, haven’t I perfected that? I married him. I didn’t believe I loved him, and I never lied and told him I did. I was slowly isolated from friends, then from family. I was about an hour away physically but a universe away in the time before cell phones and the internet we know today. Things started with little put downs, things I’d heard and believed before. I wasn’t enough, but this time there was hope! If I just did this (whatever this was this day) I could, maybe, be enough. I never did succeed, and that resulted in punishments, but I did get awfully close a few times. This is not that story either.
Husband number 2 began to convince me I was crazy, like “A Danger to Myself and Others”, “Commit Someone” crazy. I was having such a hard time with such simple rules that something had to be wrong with me. He enrolled me in therapy, so that he wouldn’t have to have me committed, so that he wouldn’t have to take my kids away, for their safety. The therapist was a friend of his. We discussed all the ways I had always failed, all the ways I wasn’t enough, had never been enough, but yes, I did want to be better! The therapist went on vacation; I didn’t realize. My husband was out of the country with work. I went to my appointment at the group practice. A lady, we’ll call her Anne, was another therapist at the same office. “I’ve noticed you,” she said.
“I’m supposed to go to therapy twice a week,” I told her, “if I don’t I’ll be in trouble.”
“Want to talk?” she asked me.
I figured as long as I went to see someone, I was still following the rules. I told her about me, my failures, my shortcomings, and my misery. She asked if she could hug me, and I let her. I felt warm, like I did when one of my kids hugged me. I saw her several times, even after the therapist came back; my husband was out of the country for 8 months. I started to realize what was going on around me.
Unfortunately I still believed I deserved no better, “As long as no one is hurting my kids, it’s not like I can do better,” I told her. She asked for clarification. I told her about how useless I was, how ugly and unlovable I was, how God was punishing me for all my sins. She said “If I can convince you that at least one of those things is absolutely false, would you consider rethinking the others?”
I laughed; “Sure, okay,” I said.
We lived in a military town; she asked, “You’ve seen all the strip clubs around town?”
“Of course,” I said, “you can’t miss them.” I’m not sure how much of my upbringing showed when I answered, but she asked if I had I ever been in one. I answered, “Of course not! I’m not that kind of girl!”
She said, “What kind of girl is that? One who knows she’s sexy? One who is in charge of how sexy she wants to be? One who demands payment for her company, because she is valuable?”
That made me shut up. She said, “I think you should try it.” Me?! No one would even hire me! Much less would anyone want to see me! “I think you are wrong,” she said. “What have you got to lose? If you can get a job and earn money stripping would you believe that you are attractive, that you are good company?”
I decided to prove her wrong. I went to a club and asked to speak to a manger. I told him that I was trying to prove to a friend that I wasn’t attractive enough to be a stripper. He laughed. He said if I wanted a job I could start training that night; I was floored. I came back and learned how to do my hair from a woman who went by the name Raven. A woman who was called Pebbles taught me how to wear makeup. A woman who named herself Bridgette took me shopping. A lady (who was the most athletic person I’ve ever known and went by the name Star) taught me to dance: on a pole, on a swing, on the floor, in a chair.
They taught me things most girls learn from their mom (not pole dancing, but the other stuff.) They taught me the rules. No real names. Invent a you for here and that bitch stays here, she doesn’t go home, she doesn’t go for drinks, she stays in your locker till you let her out. Don’t do drugs. Maintain a 6 inch distance from the customers at all times. Tip the DJ. Don’t drink at work. If someone makes you uncomfortable, or worse, tell someone; it’ll get taken care of. You are safe here. None of them questioned if I was enough, not once. They thought I was sweet, sure, like a kid sister. I was 20, but looked 16, “That’s okay,” they told me, “Everyone has a type. You are someone’s type. Better yet, you look like the girl they wished lived next door.” It became my tag line. I was the girl you wish lived next door.
Six months later, I believed it. I had proof in my pocket. I had friends again. I was safe, in a place I never thought of as a good place before; I found me again, maybe for the first time. I stayed for another year and a half. I thanked Anne before I left my husband and went back home. I supported the kids and myself for a total of 3 years stripping. I had started over again, but believed that I could do it this time. I was enough.
About the Author:
I currently work for the government (not a spy). I’m the mom of 2 girls & 2 boys. I Breastfeed, cloth diaper, grow food, bake, and make stuff. I’m pro-choice and a Christian. I’m a feminist who’s happily married. I have lived my whole life in the southern US. I like margaritas more than they like me, and I’m addicted to coffee, trashy books, and Pinterest.
