I married my sorority sister

Added: Lucius Alberto - Date: 11.03.2022 10:09 - Views: 44360 - Clicks: 1952

But generally I feel a kind of skittish distrust and discomfort when dealing with most women, particularly women in packs. Recently I was forced to confront the genesis of my distrust when I found myself face to face with a certain someone from my past, a past I thought I had filed away long ago, or, more precisely, buried on the ocean floor in a padlocked steamer trunk wrapped in layers of industrial-strength chain. It was Sunday. I had wandered into a Bay Area Gymboree with my 7-year-old daughters and then loitered in the aisles for what proved to be two minutes too long.

A jarring parrotlike voice assaulted me from the racks of leggings. I figured I could plausibly ignore the summons. But the woman persisted, waving her arms as if aling a cab in a hailstorm. Kelly Dick! It was my twins who ultimately exposed me.

That lady right there. I knew it was you. But I could so tell it was you. Remember me? Oh, my God. How are you? She had been my sorority sister, and not just any sorority sister, but one who had played a leading role in the unraveling of my young life. And it was this woman and her friends who taught me the hard way that once a girl is made to feel dirty, it becomes I married my sorority sister lot, in perpetuity, like an invisible scarlet letter.

But I thought a sorority might bestow upon me a supportive, manageable community among the 40, students I would be ing 1, miles from home. So I pledged. I felt sophisticated and savvy going in, but quickly discovered I was out of my league among the Rolex-clad Texas debutantes and new-moneyed California beauties. Yet I reveled in the acceptance and status my sorority instantly conferred. The attendant freedoms and social opportunities overwhelmed my tender brain.

I indulged, partied hard and, a scant two months into the semester, lost my virginity. It happened after a fraternity barn dance. All I knew about my date was that he was festively inclined and physically stunning. My sisters considered him a catch. I felt lucky. After the usual alcoholic overindulgence, I followed him upstairs, where I soon passed out on his sofa. Unlike typical fraternity houses, these were contemporary buildings with plate glass windows and wide ledges that formed perfect viewing platforms.

I suspect mine was one of the duller productions, but, alas, I remember none of it. I learned later that some sympathetic brothers had objected to the spectacle and pulled me from the wreckage, which, to me, was remarkable. But my date had crossed a line: Apparently the fraternal code of ethics only approved of the performances when the girls were conscious albeit still unaware they were being watched. And I felt my own heavy burden of responsibility for getting drunk and losing control. I thought the whole sordid episode would be a lesson learned about both college and men.

Little did I know that the more searing lesson would be about women. Among my sorority sisters, the fallout began as whispered gossip. Then, after momentum of my condemnation built to a crescendo, they confronted me directly, en masse, like I married my sorority sister torch-wielding mob. Branding the incident my fault, they said I deserved my fate and further complained that I had brought shame upon them all. They laughed at me, gossiped some more, then distanced themselves. I was dirty to them — and dirtier to myself.

My sisters, of course, were hardly model citizens, either. Indeed, some boasted a sexual prowess that still makes me blush. They had sex in our chapter room, in hot tubs, behind rocks. They participated in communal bulimic binges and coordinated the termination of unwanted pregnancies. Many, naturally, had been victimized by ledge parties as well but had somehow managed to keep it quiet. They found my choice of repertory inappropriate, the proverbial last straw, and called a meeting to assess my transgressions. I remember watching television alone in my room while they met about me in the chapter room.

Soon I heard the clicking of heels, then a strident knock upon my door.

online dating service for nerds

When it opened, there she was, my future Gymboree assailant, flanked by a cadre of perfumed compatriots. Sporting cold self-righteous expressions, they explained that the sisterhood had decided I was not sorority material. I would need to contact university housing and move out. I hid under my Sony Walkman, hit the books and donned a defensive armor of sarcasm and cynicism.

And I gave up on female camaraderie. I graduated, went to law school and jumped fast into courtship and marriage. Still haunted by my college experience, I hoped that marriage and parenthood would legitimize my life, loosen the barnacles of shame and allow me to find closure. And until my Gymboree encounter, I believed I had.

I had heard little about this particular sister over the years, only that she had wed her college sweetheart and settled in a wealthy California enclave. That this shrieking Bulgari-adorned stranger now accorded me long-lost-friend status was at once surreal and unsurprising. I smiled through clenched teeth, but my flushed chest and forehead betrayed my inner turbulence. But I guess we can laugh now. I heard you went to law school, right? She began reciting the misfortunes she had faced, her marital separation and other ordeals, all of which she delivered with an upbeat spin.

In hearing of her failures, I yearned to feel redeemed, even superior, but no. She held the same eerie power over me.

dating coach tucson

All I could think was that to her, I was still Kelly Dick, the drunken slut who had disgraced the sisterhood. Standing before her, I felt raw, exposed, dirty again. I cut her off and bid her farewell. It was all I could manage.

best dating app in chiang mai

BUT I could not shake the encounter. A morbid funk descended that day and held fast. No longer could I deny the havoc that that night had wrought on my self-image and relationships. At 18, I had bought into the talk of sisterly solidarity. I adhered to their customs and mores, relied on them for nurturing and intimacy, trusted them. And they not only failed to support me in crisis, they collectively kicked me as I lay in the gutter, judged me from under a veil of hypocrisy, then cast me out, leper-style.

Their betrayal cut so deep that it has left me anxious and cowering to this day. But to my enduring wonder, I have never felt the same anxiety about men.

dating someone with anxiety meme

To be sure, their violence and misogynistic rituals stole my innocence and triggered the demons of shame and repression that shackle me still. Yet their actions, however crude and criminal, ultimately hurt me far less than the judgments, connivance and betrayal of women. The men in my drama acknowledged wrongdoing, apologized, showed remorse. Punishment, however minor, was meted out. We women swim in shark-infested waters of our own de. I want to remain optimistic. After all, here I am with three daughters.

What am I to teach them? But how do we help our girls navigate the duplicitous female maze? How do we ensure that they behave authentically, respect humanity over fleeting alliances, and squash the nasty tribal instincts that can inflict lifelong distress? Fashion My Sorority Pledge? I Swore Off Sisterhood. Is that you? I braced myself. But not in the traditional way.

I married my sorority sister

email: [email protected] - phone:(444) 897-4951 x 4324

46 Things That Happen When Your Sister Gets Married