Rattled from last weekend’s chemistry washout between two people who had talked extensively with each other before meeting, I sent this man three additional photos of me, besides the six he had already seen.

“I’m not going through this situation again,” I told him. “Here … I think I look fat in this photo. And here … surely my Botox is wearing off in this one. Here, this photo was taken in bad light.”

Based on the same photos, meeting the same woman one week later, B smiled broadly, as I opened the door to his Mercedes 500 roadster.

This highly accomplished men looked at me and said: “Anne, I’m a simple man, so I will keep this short and sweet. Watching you walk out of your building and towards the car, I had only one word on my mind: Bingo.”

Dropping me off last night, my new friend lavished a long list of gorgeous adjectives on me. He also gave me some unsolicited but friendly advice, words echoed endlessly by my dear friend Robert, who has watched me struggle hard to unearth the Anne in me.

Once and For All, Anne

To summarize: “Stop worrying about what other people think of you. Trust yourself … you’re a magnificent woman … And for the record, this guy has his own issues. He envisioned you as a woman he can handle; he repackaged you in his mind, because he can’t handle the real deal. This is the first subject that you address in your profile. You write: I’m considered a real handful, and not because I’m so busty.”“I concur. You are a handful … but oh what a wonderful one. It’s rare to give someone such a high quality day. I can count mine in life, and this is one of them. Thank you.”

“Once and for all, Anne, stop apologizing for who you are. You’re f——— fabulous. This upstate guy ran for cover, blaming you for deceiving him; I said ‘Bingo’. This is life in the big city, Anne.”

“The guy recreated you into something manageable … or he convinced himself — like so many guys — that he was meeting Angelina Jolie. You couldn’t win with that guy. Give it up. He was bad news for you.”

Disrobing in Public

via Flickr’s WTL photosLying in bed last night, I realized that only I can remove that Scarlet letter put on me by my parish priest and parents, so many years ago. I didn’t cause my sexual attack and I didn’t lie about my photos last week.

Father Ben was wrong, and totally off base, denying me communion, while giving it to my attacker. He had no right to judge me.

And for the record, I’m not going to Hell.

In defending their actions, each of these men all decided that they knew me better than I know myself, and I let them.

Heartfelt Thanks To You

This is the end of Anne of Carversville Phase One, my dear readers. No more concerns about your deserting me, unless I write drivel, of course. Clearly I have something to offer, and goodness knows, the Planet needs our help.

(Note from Anne on July 4, 2009: BUT I CAN WRITE DRIVEL!!! LOL. )

Mother Theresa reminds us, the greatest form of global poverty is “Poverty of the Heart.” I do not suffer a lack of abundance, when it comes to having heart. Perhaps it bleeds too much at times, but my spirit is rich with love and determination to touch you.

In this respect, you have given me an enormous assist in moving forward to the next level in my own development. I’m so grateful to you for your support and interest in what I have to say … where my artistic, storytelling brain is going next.

I am a rich woman for having online friends like you, dear readers. Thank you … thank you.

Love,
Anne

FYI, my molester was eventually run out of town, when a 45-year-old woman woke up to find him fondling her breasts uninvited. My grandmother told me what happened; my parents never brought up the topic again. Unfortunately, we don’t know how many other women, of all ages, suffered until he finally died, not long ago.

Update from Anne, July 4, 2009. My goodness, I was emotional in 2008! I will let this essay stand with little rewriting, because it is all true. I feel a bit embarassed now, for being so honest and openly insecure, but I know from your private emails that some readers are highly impacted by this particular two-part journal.

Opposites

via Flickr’s Vesuviano - Nicola De Pisapia’s photostreamIn retrospect, I did use restraint with you last summer, on underscoring just how deeply I internalized the refusal of Father Ben to give me communion.

At nearly 16 years old, I was totally devastated to be judged by my priest in this way.

I lost everything that weekend: my sexual innocence, my Boogie Woogie-playing, piano-teacher best friend who was a mother figure and I LOVED her madly, and two close families, who were severed apart. I was forced to face the reality that my parents weren’t backing me (although aunts, uncle and grandmother did).

This incident hardened my sense of aloneness in my relationship with my parents. I so wanted their love, and it was never to come — ever. (There, I did it!)

Most of all, I lost my religion, a part of my life that brought me great comfort and inspiration. I definitely inherited a Scarlet Letter from being denied communion by a priest I knew well, and I wore that Scarlet Letter for decades.

Children who lack self-confidence often internalize abuse and condemnation from adults, as if they earned it. We take responsibility for events, even when we know that we didn’t actually behave inappropriately. The fault becomes ours in our own minds, long after others have forgotten the incident.

The only purpose in even writing about this event — beyond my own catharsis — is to underscore how deeply I carried this sexual guilt for years. Even though I knew that I had told the truth and in no way invited the sexual transgression, I judged myself by Father Ben denying me communion and my parents’ assertion that either the event didn’t happen, or I caused it.

Historically, when I was growing up, the Priest was God, not an agent. He was God. In my young mind, God himself denied me communion, and I would never recover from that moment. I have certainly moved on and now understand the incident for what it was worth — my young life hammered a second time, in the hands of yet another man — the good friend and drinking buddy.

When my self-photography project began not long after my 50th birthday, I was astonished to understand just how deeply I loathed myself, decades later. I never understood this fact, until I objectively looked at my own photos in the privacy of my own sanctuary — Anne and her computer. (Of course, I was Linda then.)

I felt nothing but physical disgust when I looked at myself, no matter how confident I appeared on the outside.

My healing came alone: with me, a camera and a mirror.

I’m convinced that many people feel this same sense of personal revulsion over themselves. We cannot be free to excel and advance beyond our own self-imposed limits, until we come to grips with the person in the mirror. That is my loving challenge to you — if you are at all like me then.

Only we can cure ourselves. I don’t diminish the help of a therapist I had for many years, but I accomplished far more on my own, with the camera and a dance class and the gym. With all his efforts, the therapist left me as a woman who still hated herself.

If I held back at all with you, writing these two essays last summer, it was in not stressing how deeply the self-hatred ran and how these events impacted my adult life for years. What sometimes appears as narcissism in my writing — goodness knows that I see it, so you must, too — is actually the adolescent part of me coming to grips with myself.

In pushing myself beyond my comfort zone, I sometimes make an idiot of myself with the writing, but hopefully you will get something out of my personal stories. If not — well goodness knows we have lots more for you to read on Anne of Carversville!!!

It’s also true that often it’s the hurtful moments that prompt us to action. The unrealistic, unkind words of the man who accused me of not looking like my photos prompted this writing. In a weird way, I’m glad that he was so harsh with me, because he became a catalyst.

I remain torn about posting my private photos, and could take them down now 12 months later, but I know that people relate to them as an action they can take, too — in search of their own selves. I’ve often thought of trying to create a class around the idea of self-photography, which has helped me beyond words. I continue to use the camera but not nearly as often, and the response is not as intensely self-revealing as before.

Initially, I could accept perhaps one in 100 photos of myself. Now it’s about one-third. Big change!

It seems that after writing this essay, I became less preoccupied with myself in the following months, ane much more focused on world problems. Thank goodness; this is as it should be. Enough wallowing for Anne. My vision now is all outward and focused on helping others.

Thank you again for staying with me as you have, through this digital journey. I am deeply indebted to each of you, over two years later. Anne