Synopsis

It all started with a twitch. A teensy little crinkle of a nose. It sent shivers up and down my spine. And then, oh and then, she flew, on a broom. Baby, it was a wrap. I was in love with your friendly, suburban witch, or rather the actress who portrayed the fetching sorceress, Elizabeth Montgomery.

Oh my goodness.

From very early on, I remember feeling, wanted to feel, connected to women. It felt warm, safe and on a very primal level, right.

Contrarily, external messages and signals dictated otherwise. What was inside me wasn't at all right. What was a little girl to do?

Later, when I was old enough to form some thought on the matter, I surmised, or rather, rationalized that it had to do with not having a sister. Sandwiched between two boys who garnered more attention, more energy and more focus from our mom left me on the outside looking elsewhere for something, anything, connection. It wasn't for me to question why I felt safer seeking or in the company of females.

A social mis-fit from the beginning, I retreated to televison, music and books; living inside myself. Elizabeth Montgomery, Billie Jean King, Janis Joplin (post-humously) and more were responsible for hours of enjoyment and pleasure on many more levels than I was fully equipped or prepared to handle.

During my pre and early teen years, this exploration was not about sex, entirely. It had to do with admiration for the accomplishments of strong women. Strong, throaty, viable women spoke to me, enlightened me, warmed me. That, was indeed, primal.

Yet, even as I was becoming more aware of my real self which included my sexual self, I became even more reticent about showing those true colors. My family's dysfunction was only partly the cause. During the entire sum of my child and early adult-hood, I felt less than. Less than pretty, less than smart, less than human. The poverty and racial disharmony that permeated my existence, forced the formation of some rather tough and thick shells. Did I really need another struggle?

I continued to minister my admirations, quietly, secretly; coveting the comfort while concurrently seeking possible remedies for the maladies of my real life. It was becoming increasingly crystal that my secret self was for real but, as that was verboten, the treasured secret persona must remain buried.

Ultimately, I became a girl who had to be about wanting a boy. I let him find me. Following some ancient script, we married and pro-created, twice.

I threw all of my energies and fortitude into making this union and the family formed, a success. Nothing was or is more important to me than the health, safety and comfort the people we brought to the show. This job was my new real self. The other, not gone, just deciding to rest comfortably, companionably, seemingly in agreement-going with the flow.

The marriage failed. I was devastated.

I found myself with two teen-aged kids, a mountain of debt, still [other] family dysfunction and entirely new esteem issues to combat. I had neither the time or tools to fully address the anger, bitterness and guilt that surfaced, threatening to swallow me whole. The shrouded, deeply buried persona remained dutifully silent as the public, viewed as normal, capable, in charge, persona, stepped to the plate, swung and advanced the game.

After 21 years of virtual ful-fillment, but real-life emptiness, 17 years of a moderately happy, failed marriage, 8 years of single-dom and celibacy; the anger, bitterness and guilt have been addressed and have subsided.

Leaving, my here-to-fore, greatest joys and proudest moments-my 100% satisfaction guaranteed-progeny, YM and YL, my heart.

And my buried treasure.

The show shall go on.