It's not always about knitting...

right now it's the reason behind the knitting that needs expression. My profile reads, flippantly, that I'm knitting myself back together. I hate to take myself, my story, my perspective too seriously. But we all have a story, right?

Sometimes I can't think straight. Bending yarn in to stitches, combining stitches in to rows, and rows in to whatever-the-hell, it helps clear the mind. The cacophony of life fades to a distant mumble. Calm settles like a blanket over me, and for as long as I knit, I'm serenely engaged.

I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out what is wrong with me, only to find that I'm not unlike everyone else - living a lie based on assumptions made about myself, other people, the way of the world. Through therapy and spiritual work I've examined these assumptions, how they began and their impact on my present level of function.

Good to know. But, what I'm faced with now is a re-shuffling of the deck. Things aren't where I want them. An inordinate amount of time has been squandered searching for meaningful employment in all the wrong places. I'm adrift in a sea of possibilities without a compass.

The misogyny of Trump ignited in me a deeply unsettled distrust of men, patriarchy, government, and corporate motivations. Recently, mainstream news has born signs of shifting tides. Women are coming forward and telling their stories. I've been paralyzed by the thought of sharing mine, and each time I read another woman's story of sexual abuse my heart stirs, lifts, falls. The gravity of it pulls me back every time.

Until now. The details of my undoing will remain private, but at the age of 12 my innocence was preyed upon by an older boy. The age of my dis-empowerment. Like the first Domino tipped, every sexual encounter that followed bore the taint of that experience. My sexual identity was shaped by a predator and I didn't realize it until I was 53 years old.

I was 52, and feeling really fine physically, mentally, professionally. One day, out of the mist, a shark swam toward me. Not a real shark, but another sexual predator. They are wily, slippery folk with velvet tongues. They say all the sweet things in every language to get your attention. Their persistence is impressive. They look both ways before entering to assure their stealth. I would compare him to the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. The wolf paid attention to me in a way that triggered a quickening of my pulse, a flush of pheromones, and like a brainwashed operative from The Manchurian Candidate I started down a path as a different person.

The path was short, but the damage, substantial. I literally left my consciousness as I'd known it and wandered in someone else's shoes for 8 weeks. When I came back to myself I was aware of everything that had transpired and was horrified. I couldn't explain it. It wasn't me!

Therapy ensued. Lots of ground covered. Alcoholic mom issues, check. Divorced parents, check. Highly-sensitive childhood profile, check. Drug abuse, check. Low self-esteem, check.

It wasn't until I was visiting a dear girlfriend, and over a bottle of wine our conversation wound around and she told me the story of being molested as a child. It was heartbreaking. We laughed and we cried and in that moment a realization started to coalesce. That time, when I was 12. It wasn't my fault. I didn't want that experience to happen. I shared my thoughts. We discussed. She understood. We laughed and cried some more.

My lost 8 weeks were inhabited by a confused 12 year-old girl.

So, back to knitting. I'm taking yarn and making sense out of it. Sometimes it's a gnarled ugly mess, but it's my mess. I can work with it, try different things. So I knit. My knitting may be shitty, but at least it's mine.