Queen Buttercup Speaks

  • Speak Up

    When I was 13, I had waited 18 months to testify against my first child molester.

    On the stand, I recall the defense attorney asking me if I knew for certain if the molester knew it was me he was hurting with one sex act, at that moment, or if the defendant could have thought it was his daughter.

    Even at 13, I remember being dumbfounded that the attorney thought this question made his case stronger for his client. I remember thinking that if I wondered that, I couldn’t be alone. Even then I remember thinking I was smarter than that man.

    “Why would that have been any better?” And the jury, you could hear them gasping with a few muffled cries from the same Montgomery County Court House Cosby was convinced in. I heard them from the stand.

    After I stepped down from the stand, it was before lunch the second day of the trial. I remember being dismissed for a break. We all needed one. My rayon shirt that was soft and teal, was wet from my own tears. This defense attorney apologized to my father and said, “this is the worst part of my job,” and scuffled off without an apology, though he clearly felt like a worm. He never looked at me because I guess I’d be a conflict of interest. I never knew.

    I have always questioned when things were wrong. My entire life I have asked questions if I had them and questioned those who had authority over me.

    I have to think that the 13 year old girl in me who questioned one dumb man would be proud of the woman I am 30 years later. She’s desperately trying to overcome what her first offender did, only now her questions do more than bring tears or gasps.

    I’d like to think that her questioning everything has saved her life. I’d like to think that so I think I will. This is my story, so I get to think that if I need to.

  • The white knight boyfriend …

    It was a Wednesday afternoon. My brother had a friend. He had a neighbor boy I thought was his friend, anyway. He had a crush on me. He was hideous, but nice to me. I let him kiss me and before he left, I begged him to punch me in the mouth three times.

    He refused at first, then I begged him so hard, he did it. I cried after he left. But before he left, I thanked him and he never saw me cry.

    That night, I went to youth group at church. I physically needed to feel how I felt inside. The nice boy who seemed to take care of hurt kids liked me and he drove me home.

    That’s how I found my first love of my life, before I knew what a life was. I was begging to be rescued and didn’t even know it at the time.

    Tomorrow I see this human and I’m very different now. I’ll never forget who I was when I met him, however. I can’t forget her. I’ve been rescuing her ever since.

    I failed to mention … I was 13 years old. My apologies.

    ,
    , , , , , , , , ,

  • Traditions

    I am a sentimental fool. Making memories feels like a full-time job, sometimes, for me. I treat it that way. I’m all about taking photos, videos, and stealing trinkets to remember special days. I want each moment to be remembered by a song special to me that day. Thank God Instagram can guide my song selection.

    I am this way because, as a kid, my family’s traditions meant everything to us. Growing up unsettled is tough, but tradition set a sort of rhythm. Even if life was complicated, the traditions stayed similar. As an autistic human, predictability is a gift!

    Christmas Eve is the same meal of Yorkshire pudding, prime rib, and tons of sides. It’s easily my favorite day of the year. Thanksgiving has a big bird involved, as Thanksgiving often does. I hear Thanksgiving is coming up!

    Traditions are amazing. Recipes get passed down and memories get made for new generations to become a part of. It’s magical. I teach my daughter my techniques and tricks. I feel like she will feel me in her own kitchen, someday.

    Traditions can be amazing. This year, tradition for the sake of tradition is a problem for me. This year, I am refusing to host with the rules of ghosts. The food this year may taste similarly. It won’t FEEL the same though. The spirit of the holidays in my home, it no longer includes the ghosts of holiday’s past. Those ghosts aren’t coming this year. They are not invited and the psychic mediums who voice their spooky wails aren’t invited, either.

    I’m finding that the old rules don’t apply when traditions hold us hostage to being happy. It may just be “one day a year,” but it’s a day for being thankful and grateful, too. You’re allowed to set the rules for your own life. You’re even allowed to torch tradition, if you have to.

    Ideally, I’ll find the balance between torching traditions and honoring the ones I value. This year, however, I’m giving myself permission to make utterly new memories that involve zero ghosts of holiday’s past. The future spirit is too strong within me to settle for unhappy traditions.

    You can decide who you celebrate your life with. You can decide for yourself. I promise you won’t make friends choosing happiness over tradition. I promise, you’ll sleep better dictating your own new rules and traditions. I can almost pinkie swear, even. That’s a big deal for a 90’s girl!

  • A Recipe

    A Recipe

     

    Today is just any Tuesday in November. I took care of the pets and cooked and played in my kitchen. There’s nothing terribly different about today. The only difference happened when I stupidly checked my Facebook Instant Messenger and saw your name at the top with a forward of a TikTok video about God.

     

    I didn’t click on your message to find out what the video said. I just blocked you, albeit belatedly. I thought I had removed your back-alley chat method five months ago when I said, “Don’t speak to me again, unless it is in the form of an apology.” I remember screaming, “Go fuck yourself!” at the top of my lungs while I defiled the sanctity of the haven I created for myself on my deck. I remember saying those words that mild Monday in June.

    I assume you also remember hearing those painfully screamed three words.

    You complain of “senior moments,” but that should stick out for, even you. Credit to you, those moments occur less often than another “senior scrapbook arsonist” that I know.

     

    Today I made a loaded potato soup with potato wedges, on the side. The ingredients were about to spoil, and I never waste food. I think you’d have liked the recipe. I wanted to send it to you in the state that almost died without you, if the state reads me, someday.

    I want to send you most of my good recipes. This one used Velveeta, which I shamefully have used in macaroni and cheese, over the past few months. I can’t believe I now use Velveeta! It really melts easier, in case you end up with frequently dry macaroni and cheese.

    Do you make macaroni and cheese? I really don’t remember, anymore.

     

    Today, I shared a soup recipe I created with around nine thousand followers on Twitter. I’d have preferred to share it with you, I promise. I’d have told you that if the consistency of your potato soup was too thin, one can simply add dried potato flakes to bulk up the soup. It’s quite easy when you figure out the science of cooking.

     

    Speaking to a friend today, he commented, “You must be an amazing chef.” I can now safely say that I am a very decent chef. I speak about food like it is royalty invited to my home for dinner. I’m insanely passionate about all aspects of cooking, I hope you’d see.

     

    Some of my favorite dishes remind me of you. Usually, I’ll be making a roast or something that happens in a crockpot and it makes me remember what Sunday afternoons used to smell like.

    Some of those dishes are my favorite ones. Most of my family, now, does not like pot roast, but I adore it and it feels especially wrong without tapioca pearls because that’s what I was taught.

     

    I remember being in my first kitchen at age 21. I suddenly realized I had no idea how to cook for my husband. I didn’t know how to cook and it was my job to do that, now.

    Thank God the internet existed in 2000, because I had no skill set to guide me. Thank goodness for YouTube videos and printed recipes I could study. I studied recipes; I didn’t READ recipes. I learned technique. I learned fundamentals. I became quite talented.

    I make my own cooking videos for strangers, these days. I found perfect strangers to guide me so I like to pay it forward where I can. I don’t have many followers, but I know you’re not one of them. I haven’t made one for the soup recipe. Your spontaneous TikTok video derailed my afternoon plans.

     

    The passion I have for food, Mom, I only really felt that passion these past several months. I’ve been self-isolating from the other kids you and Dad made. When I told you five months ago that you were dead to me until you apologized, I had to separate myself from my siblings, too. Do you know how lonely Maryland feels when only an hour away, I could physically touch my brother and sister? Do you know how alone I am, Mom?

     

    I could not sort out which family members are safe and which are hurtful. I still don’t know if needing to be apart from my siblings is permanent. They could just be collateral damage from having to walk away from you. I have all the time in the world, but I still haven’t figured out if they’re safe or not.

     

    Mom, I have more time than I ever intended to have when I was a nurse. My days aren’t like they used to be. The energy I gave to my patients, I now give to my life and it shows up most flavorful in my kitchen. I wish I could cook for you in my new kitchen. I never got to even show you my new kitchen, Mom.

     

    Time has given me a lot of gifts over the past 15 months. I wasted my time before then. I remember being taught about being a good steward. I was a good manager of many things, but I was letting my life slip away. The reason my food is so much better now, Mom, is because I learned how to be a good steward of my time and my energy.

     

    Mom, I think I turned the food in my home into a hyperfocus of mine. My therapist tells me that many humans on the autism spectrum become very talented in their passions because they hyperfocus on their passions and master them. I don’t know the correct way to tell a mother their youngest daughter has autism, but I only learned I have it last week so I haven’t decided if you even get to know, yet. I am autistic as hell, Mom. I learned how to mask, mimic, and assimilate from you. My ability to mask and cover-up is exceptionally high. I should thank you someday, I suppose.

     

    I’m almost 44 and my ability to master food makes perfect sense. A lot of things make sense now that I’ve had enough time to stop and smell what was cooking in the kitchen. I do hope that you try to make the loaded potato soup recipe sometime though, Mom. It is really a nice recipe.

    , , , , , , , , , , , ,