Of tragedy, princesses, and butterfly tattoos

Warning – crappy post ahead. I have other things on my mind today, so I wonder how this post will turn out.

I have read a lot of tragic blogging posts over the past two weeks, yet I have failed to comment on any of it. My posts have been light, fluffy – and well, there was the start of an erotic post that turned into a tease. Perhaps I am bitch Leesa and the other Leesa is sweet Leesa after all. Or does it make a difference anyway.

A few of the bloggers talked about abuse – probably many of them did, but I read a few. The blog entries were touching, scary, and maddening. But, for me, they were foreign. I have never been in a relationship that involves physical violence. The closest I ever got was with a boyfriend who had a short fuse – made for some wonderful arguments, and passionate make-up sex, but I ended the relationship because of a feeling, not any violence. Let me explain.

I forget the argument we had, but we were both pissed at each other, both brewing, and I am sure we both thought we were right. Since this is my story, I am going to assume I was right – funny thing is that I don't remember any of the arguments anymore. Not one of them. But here we were, moving around the apartment like two caged animals. Wanting to be somewhere else, wanting to fight, but in a sense, wanting the fight to be over. And we were passing each other in the hall, and my boyfriend bumped my shoulder with his. I did not fly into a wall, but it was a bump, an angry bump. It did not hurt me physically – and my hubbie, when clumsy, has done much worse (not mean-spirited, but let's say, he has a knack for stepping on toes).

That little bump scared me. It was not hard, but it was angry. Now I don't know if most women have "danger radar"; I suspect we do. And my radar was screaming, "Get the f--- out of the apartment now." I stopped seeing him after that.

And I see myself many years later with hubbie, and I have never been scared to go to sleep next to him. I have always felt safe with him. My father, when I was growing up, would tell my dates, "You are in charge if my daughter's safety for the next 3/4/5 hours. I expect you do to anything in your powers to keep her safe." Okay, Daddy scared off a few boyfriends. But can you imagine being a 16-year-old slacker, not responsible for anything in your life, suddenly have this thrust upon you. Scary.

Now that I am older, and somewhat wiser, I think Daddy was giving his little lectures for my benefit over my date's benefit. He wanted to signal to me that I was valuable, important, needing to be cherished. And when I finally went down the isle, I bet if you had a questionnaire that included, "Is the bride a virgin?", Daddy would have been the only person to answer "Yes." He believes more in me than I do in myself. I am still his little girl, and I am worthy of the most life has to offer.

I read about other people's lives and I wonder how their daddies are. Okay, I read about other women's lives and wonder this. For the men, I wonder how their parents' marriages are (or were). I had a heck of an advantage because of the faith, love and respect my father gives me. I wish this on every girl, every woman. We should all feel like princesses, with little pink bows in our hair – or tattoos of butterflies above our butt. All princesses in different packages.