A Marriage in the Context of Rape.

As an American girl in the late 80s, I wore a suit and heels as armor. My Wonder Woman tights were panty hose. I carried a briefcase. A smile was my sharpest tool, cutting me on the inside.

I’ve told the story of my first marriage dozens of times.

I was a 23-year-old salesperson burning to tackle the world. I was a runner—in every sense of the word. Usually I got away, with my autumn-green eyes sparkling and my long blonde hair flying.

My husband was a 29-year old farmer who looked like Ron Howard and reminded me of Opie, with his boyish hopes. He played volleyball. He owned four apartment buildings. He wore a toolbelt when he climbed down from a roof and introduced himself to me and my girlfriends. We were in Champaign, IL for a summer sales job with Southwestern Publishing.

I tell about leaving him after one short year of marriage and running back to the southwest. I freely paint myself as hurtful.

I add in the part about the therapist, who told me: “Look, you’re going to leave or you’re not. If you leave, you’ll break your husband’s heart and it will be up to him how he deals with it. Or, you’ll stay and dull your dreams and you’ll have to live with that.”

I immediately booked a U-Haul and convinced some “It can’t be done” guy to install a tow bar on my Honda CRX so I could move to Arizona.

As I packed, Ron Howard played Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” on the stereo. He said he’d help me do anything, but he wouldn’t help me leave him.

Fair enough. I was so giddy for my freedom, I’d carry my own damn boxes!

Actually, my friend Kevin Lentz came and helped me load the heavy stuff. Whatever I owned then filled a 5 x 8 U-Haul.

I fled the Illinois winter, oblivious to the treachery, wide-eyed and white-knuckling black ice across Oklahoma.

I was free!

That’s my story. There’s not much to a one year of marriage to a good man by a rebellious, ambitious, independent runner.

I was 24 when I married grown-up Opie. I’m now 54. I no longer call myself a runner.

I’ve invested countless hours and dollars in therapy. I paid for perspective. Looking back, I see the broader landscape.

I recognize my MeToo experience shattered something inside me. My boss raped me and that night I returned home to a man who knew only good.

I buried the secret I didn’t think he could handle, which made me feel I no longer belonged there. I didn’t belong with him.

In survival mode with the adrenaline of youth and the denial of the intimate violence against my young body, mind, and soul, I turned off feelings and ignited will power.

Now, in the context of the MeToo Movement, I see being raped as the internal landscape from which I functioned, and the elephant in the room I never mentioned—to anyone.

Keeping secrets is hard. When the truth is unbearable, we can even keep it from ourselves.

We can get up in the morning, make coffee, shower, dress, strengthen ourselves, strut into our boss’ office—the same one in which we were raped the night before—and declare ourselves invincible, to our rapist.

It’s like I took a magic eraser to his “error” of raping me. I soldiered on.

Isn’t that what guys do after their injuries?

I’m an American girl and I wanted to be the hero of my own story. I didn’t want to be the victim.

I wasn’t ready to be vulnerable, even though vulnerability proved mine when I was physically overpowered by a man I trusted.

In the face of my rape, I refused to give up my identity as strong, independent, unbreakable.

I was my mother’s daughter and she was a warrior.

Looking back, I’d been skipping on love’s path with my soon-to-be husband when I met a sales manager who would intrigue, irritate, befriend, teach, mentor, manipulate, and rape me.

That’s not how we think of our rapists. They’re not kind, helpful, smart, successful, family men. They don’t smile like our friends.

He did. No wonder I walked into the situation blindly. I’d been groomed.

I chose to walk out of the white picket fence life I briefly entertained because the truth would’ve made a worse mess than the divorce, which I came out of quick and clean.

I’m sorry for the pain I caused my first husband. I honestly believe leaving him hurt less than learning I’d been raped would’ve.

Men like to be heroes and fix things. Too late. There’s not a fix for being raped any more than for a loved one’s death. There’s only navigation.

On the night I was raped, a schism shook me into full protection mode.

As an American girl in the late 80s, I wore a suit and heels as armor. My Wonder Woman tights were panty hose. I carried a briefcase. A smile was my sharpest tool, cutting me on the inside.

How much does being raped impact a woman? Each is different, but every rape is like a head-on collision. The damage varies in degree, sometimes irreparable and not always visible.

When we see cars on the street, we have no idea how much work has been done on them. The same is true of women. And marriages.

See, it’s not just the women affected by rape; it’s also the men who love them.

Why The Tough Girl is Tough.

“Alchemize the pain and it becomes something else.” ~ Sarah Entrup


Pushed out into the world too young, forced to fly,
you said f*ck that and crashed on purpose.

You lied: It’s not hard. I’ve got it handled.

I get the yeah, I meant to do that attitude,
That FU!, I don’t need anyone!
You’ll see! You can’t stop me!

We scream, “I’ll never be like you!” when
We’re trying to figure out who to be.

We swear we don’t need anyone.
We don’t even like people.
They’ve all let us down.

Especially that one in the mirror.

In the process of maturing, we can succumb to a sickness of the soul.

Those who hurt us live inside our hearts and minds.

We’d die to be rid of the pain. We’d steal to get attention.

We’ll do anything to prove we’re wild and unworthy.

Because that’s what they told us, if
They showed us any attention at all.

We’ll fight because we had to.

We’ll manipulate because it’s been our survival strategy.

What looks like anger is a cry for love.

Yeah, tough girls, they can’t see it either.

How Women are Reshaping Society.

“Each of us has a unique part to play in the healing of the world.” ~ Marianne Williamson

Women are taught to be kind. I was taught to be nonjudgmental.

That’s hard. Judgments pop like synapses in my brain. I don’t discriminate and I’m likely hardest on myself.

Still, we’re implored to “Smile!” as if it’s our badge to walk free in society.

Otherwise, we’re called out as bitches, even angry bitches.

Nevertheless, we persist as individual women who often smile instinctively, sometimes don’t mind if you wink at me, but get damn tired of being treated as objects or told we shouldn’t feel as we do.

In the 1970’s Women’s Movement, women stopped smiling, and wearing bras. They traded for emotional armor, determined to succeed in a man’s world.

In the 80’s, as I embarked on my career, my mom and I might as well have worn matching suits and carried matching briefcases.

We cheered in 1992 when Hillary Clinton said, “I suppose I could’ve stayed home and baked cookies and had teas, but what I decided to do was to fulfill my profession which I entered before my husband was in public life.”

My mom and I bantered feminist sayings like tetherballs:

A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. (popularized by Gloria Steinem)
Anything a man can do a woman can do… better.
Don’t send a boy to do a man’s job; Send a woman.

That wave of feminism paved the way for my professional sales career working among men, proving myself.

Women established our ability to work in a man’s world. But, when you borrow someone else’s pants, even if they’re the right size, they still don’t quite fit.

The way men built foundations, set boundaries (which they may freely bulldoze), and invited us begrudgingly—and sometimes eagerly—serves them and their agenda, even if only through subconscious bias.

We made it in a man’s world. Sure, there’s a glass ceiling and sexual harassment is rampant, but as Donald Trump inferred, harassment in the military is to be expected. His son Trump Jr. clarified that women who can’t handle harassment in the workplace should teach kindergarten.

Trickle-down bullsh*t.

Just as women made comfortable, although not equal, strides in careers and corporations, the guys we believed to be rare and living under rocks revealed themselves in the #MeToo chapter of the Women’s Movement.

“Yeah, I grabbed her by the pus…” Yeah, those guys. The bratty boys with names like Brett who threaten not to let us in the club again.

Guess what? This is a new movement of women.

We’re moving with love, yoga, hot tea, and Kundalini. We’re meeting under full moons and awakening. We’re creating a new world for women, children, and men.

We’re focusing on inclusion, understanding, showing up, and speaking truth—direct, soft, and strong, like a mother who’s had creation born through her.

We wanted in the boys’ clubhouse when we were girls. Then, we grew up and found out what’s in there. It stinks!

We’re building more than clubhouses. Women are creating families, businesses, and communities. We’re shaping societies.

Like the alt-right silently, and sometimes violently, infiltrated our institutions, women are waging a revolution. A revolution of love.

We’re burning sage and taking to the page. We’re purging toxins and cleansing chakras. We speak feminine languages. The witches are back.

We chant with our sisters and our ancestors, who stand with us as we create the new ways—devoid of glass ceilings and golden handcuffs.

Human progress. There’s no going back. Only sitting it out or showing up.

Women are showing up united, ignited, empowered, and determined. We’re here for the future of our children, country, and society.

We might even do a little house cleaning!

How to Welcome Change.

“There’s little more satisfying than the feeling that at last you’ve taken ownership of yourself.” ~ Marianne Williamson

There comes a time.

You set yesterday aside,
Softly.

The thing you held;
Coveted.

Soft addictions cling like
Teddy Bears carried
Into adulthood.

Until you leave them.
Without tears.
Or fanfare.

There comes a time.

You pick up new habits
The way you used to
Lovers in bars.

It’s a new day.
You delight in what’s
Sweet, soulful, and true.

Your radiance.
In the mirror.

How to Release Resistance.

“Resistance, you and I must never forget, is constant and unrelenting. It fights us in every phrase and every sentence. It always wants us to settle for the easy, the shallow, the first level.” ~ Steven Pressfield

Dear Resistance,

Just because we’ve been together for a while, don’t think we’re partnering for life. When Grief showed up, I let you come along for the ride.

Now, you think you can stop me, roadblock me from my magnificence?

You have no idea who I am. I’m Alice Lundy and I own this life.

There’s no way I’m letting you and your fear mongers pose as my friends. You think I’ll stick with you?

I promise, I will not be in this position one year from now. I can’t tell you exactly where I’ll be, but I’m taking daily action.

Not always as I imagine, but I’m in the resistance against you, Resistance!

I’m procrastinating on procrastinating. I’m practicing being perfectly imperfect and trusting in the magic.

I’m showing up and taking my swings.

Now, you want to whisper about some bullsh*t mediocrity or mistakes I made yesterday? Baby, that’s just proof of how strong I am and how many steps I’ve taken.

Besides, haven’t you noticed? Doors swing wide for me.

I walk with a sway because I’ve got a way of arriving right on time, even when I’m late.

Yeah, Resistance, tell me how I landed on my *ss 726 times and I’ll remind you I stood 727. I rise—every time.

You fooled me into complacency and encouraged me on roundabouts too many times to count, but I repeatedly turn my back on you and reset my course toward my soul’s passion.

You can’t get the same reaction out of me as you did in my youth.

I’m not in the fight; I’m in the flow.

Resistance, I once loved you—as I once loved my ex-husband. Like him, I see you in a different light now. You’re not evil. You may even mean well.

But, without you, I’ve travelled to places you tried to talk me out of and experienced highs you can’t offer.

You and your friends Procrastination, Fantasy, and Time Suck wouldn’t understand.

Without you, I’ve savored sacred love and let Kundalini tap the depths of me.

I’ve changed, Resistance. Like the song, you and I are never, ever getting back together.

I’m no fool, baby. I know you won’t let me go that easy. You’ll try your seduction lines and offer me cheap shots of comfort, but a quick fling is no longer my thing.

I’m self-fulfilling my own destiny. I’m doing the work with a gang of angels at my back and a thousand sisters at my side.

We rise out of our own petty personal resistance to resist the big sh*t. We step into our divine destinies, individually and collectively.

We dive deep and come up with treasures to share. We’re mermaids and fairies, writers, artists, witches, and yogis. We’re businesswomen and politicians, wives and mothers.

We’re relying on higher truths and solid facts. We see behind the veil and don’t waste time explaining what you can’t imagine. We push through.

We are queens.

We’re entertained as you try to restrain us with outdated paradigms.

You’re like the high school boyfriend we once adored and now thank God we didn’t end up with.

Resistance, sorry babe, you’re so yesterday.

I don’t mean to be a bitch, but I’m not so concerned about it, either.

Seriously, Resistance, you’re going to have to step aside or I’ll plow right through you.

Please, get out of my way. I have a date with Kundalini.

Oh yeah, I’m emitting some pretty sexy energy.

Things got a little hot in the Costa Rica jungle…and that’s after some women’s shirts came off in Sonoma.

Yeah baby, this is me—in sacred love with my life.

Sorry, Resistance. You’re off the guest list. Yes, I realize your friends will sneak you in.

Just don’t expect to be served. You may not even get greeted.

Me? Sweetheart, I’ll be on the dance floor. Sh*t, I’ll probably be doing the worm by the time I see you again.

Hasta la vista, Resistance! Andele, Pura Vida!

How to Say Hello to Your New Shine #bloglikecrazy

Alice in Authorland

If you’ve immersed yourself into a world that’s not your own and tried to fit into places you don’t belong (because you so want to belong)…

If you find yourself defending yourself, your attitudes and ideas to people who portray themselves as friends (but they’re not)…

If your true self seems a misfit in your daily life…

Realize the value of changing direction.

Begin again. Take a fresh start.

What? You think it’s too late?

What’s the appropriate age to make life changes?

Twenty-eight and you find yourself two decades late?

Well, my dear, what happens if you decide not to give a damn about all the consequences you’ve been so concerned about?

You think you’ll wait and when you meet the maker of this mess called your life, you’ll take her down?

A better idea might be to take her by the hand and say, Baby, I’m sorry we…

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