Play & Book Excerpts
Girl, Groomed
(She Writes Press)
© Carol Odell, LICSW
Prologue – His Story
He told a story with his whole body. As his deep voice painted the picture, his sun-soaked arms would gesture with maestro-like emphasis. His bushy eyebrows would dance little jigs during the well-timed pauses. His blue eyes would spear into our shy glances for added effect. All while we, a collection of ponytails, cut-off jeans, freckles, and bandanas, sat on hay bales or stood next to stall doors listening intently to his cadence braid boastful strands of his past into the present. He was always a mesmerizing orator.
“Ya know, I taught William Faulkner to ride,” he’d begin, then add details about how he introduced the renowned Southern writer to the world of horses. “Saved him once too.” And off he’d launch into telling us about the time Faulkner, tired of convalescing in his upstairs bedroom from a broken leg, asked our storyteller to transport him down to the main floor.
“It would’ve been no problem carrying him if the heel of my boot hadn’t caught on that there top step.” Knowing that the two of them were in danger of tumbling down the entire flight of stairs, our protagonist leapt out into open space cradling his famous passenger.
“Still had ahold of him in my arms when I landed. Missed them steps all together and got us to the bottom in one piece. Could’ve broke both our necks. That’s one of the reasons he signed that picture hangin’ in the tack room—that and for teachin’ him to ride,” he’d conclude with a puffing up of his barrel chest.
Even if I had heard a particular tale many times before, even if I outwardly rolled my eyes, inside, I was caught up in the bravado and charm he exuded in the telling.
“I’m going to write a book about you someday,” I would sometimes insert at the end of his stories, my form of applause. I often expressed this intent back when he was my childhood mentor. I imagined writing the story of growing up riding horses in Virginia for a “colorful” trainer. I would have cast him as the folklife hero of my story. I would have described the grit and tenacity that helped him learn the horse business from scratch, then to go on to buy his own stables and train riders and jumpers to compete on the show circuit against those having much more money and resources. I would have characterized this as a prevailing-against-all-odds underdog story. It would have been a book about my adoration of this man, my deep abiding love for his horses, and my gratitude for the access he bestowed on those of us who rode for him.
“Well, what are ya waitin’ for?” he’d counter with that gold-toothed grin I’d come to associate with approval and later with caution.
What was I waiting for? I didn’t realize that the wiser part of me was waiting until the full truth of my narrative could be revealed—first to myself. Back then, I wasn’t able to see the entire landscape. My vision was only set to portrait. His portrait, never mine. I surrendered myself to his view of the world, adopting an interpretation that helped me manage the situation. This is the power of conditioning and the strength of our coping strategies.
At that gangly-girl time in my life, my version minimized and downright omitted the abuse and violence that was the main staple of my diet at the stables. It redacted the trauma. But more importantly, out of my experiences I etched a story held within me that distorted reality. When I was still “one of his riders” I couldn’t possibly have known that it is a common phenomenon to admire and identify with a sexual abuser and that this misguided high regard goes hand in hand with the abuse of power. But that wasn’t the extent of the grooming. My well-intended family, the culture, and my own defenses all played a part in what I absorbed from my childhood and the narratives I internalized as a result. This was self-protective—until it wasn’t.
You see, it isn’t what happens to us that is the biggest problem. The difficulty has everything to do with how we interpret and absorb what happens to us, whatever that may be. These are the elements that go into creating the narratives that we end up digesting—and regurgitating. Through understanding how this comes about, it allows us to compassionately rewrite and “re-right” our stories. This work frees us.
I am well aware that I am not alone on this journey. As a psychotherapist, I’ve walked with many brave souls along this path toward liberation and a deeper connection with themselves and the world. I have witnessed over and over again the courage that it takes to disentangle from our adopted stories.
Now the time has come to tell my own story of continuing to understand the effects of trauma and to unravel the conditioned narratives behind it.
“Ya know, I taught William Faulkner to ride,” he’d begin, then add details about how he introduced the renowned Southern writer to the world of horses. “Saved him once too.” And off he’d launch into telling us about the time Faulkner, tired of convalescing in his upstairs bedroom from a broken leg, asked our storyteller to transport him down to the main floor.
“It would’ve been no problem carrying him if the heel of my boot hadn’t caught on that there top step.” Knowing that the two of them were in danger of tumbling down the entire flight of stairs, our protagonist leapt out into open space cradling his famous passenger.
“Still had ahold of him in my arms when I landed. Missed them steps all together and got us to the bottom in one piece. Could’ve broke both our necks. That’s one of the reasons he signed that picture hangin’ in the tack room—that and for teachin’ him to ride,” he’d conclude with a puffing up of his barrel chest.
Even if I had heard a particular tale many times before, even if I outwardly rolled my eyes, inside, I was caught up in the bravado and charm he exuded in the telling.
“I’m going to write a book about you someday,” I would sometimes insert at the end of his stories, my form of applause. I often expressed this intent back when he was my childhood mentor. I imagined writing the story of growing up riding horses in Virginia for a “colorful” trainer. I would have cast him as the folklife hero of my story. I would have described the grit and tenacity that helped him learn the horse business from scratch, then to go on to buy his own stables and train riders and jumpers to compete on the show circuit against those having much more money and resources. I would have characterized this as a prevailing-against-all-odds underdog story. It would have been a book about my adoration of this man, my deep abiding love for his horses, and my gratitude for the access he bestowed on those of us who rode for him.
“Well, what are ya waitin’ for?” he’d counter with that gold-toothed grin I’d come to associate with approval and later with caution.
What was I waiting for? I didn’t realize that the wiser part of me was waiting until the full truth of my narrative could be revealed—first to myself. Back then, I wasn’t able to see the entire landscape. My vision was only set to portrait. His portrait, never mine. I surrendered myself to his view of the world, adopting an interpretation that helped me manage the situation. This is the power of conditioning and the strength of our coping strategies.
At that gangly-girl time in my life, my version minimized and downright omitted the abuse and violence that was the main staple of my diet at the stables. It redacted the trauma. But more importantly, out of my experiences I etched a story held within me that distorted reality. When I was still “one of his riders” I couldn’t possibly have known that it is a common phenomenon to admire and identify with a sexual abuser and that this misguided high regard goes hand in hand with the abuse of power. But that wasn’t the extent of the grooming. My well-intended family, the culture, and my own defenses all played a part in what I absorbed from my childhood and the narratives I internalized as a result. This was self-protective—until it wasn’t.
You see, it isn’t what happens to us that is the biggest problem. The difficulty has everything to do with how we interpret and absorb what happens to us, whatever that may be. These are the elements that go into creating the narratives that we end up digesting—and regurgitating. Through understanding how this comes about, it allows us to compassionately rewrite and “re-right” our stories. This work frees us.
I am well aware that I am not alone on this journey. As a psychotherapist, I’ve walked with many brave souls along this path toward liberation and a deeper connection with themselves and the world. I have witnessed over and over again the courage that it takes to disentangle from our adopted stories.
Now the time has come to tell my own story of continuing to understand the effects of trauma and to unravel the conditioned narratives behind it.
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Carol Odell, LICSW, grew up riding horses on the show jumping circuit in Virginia. She has been a practicing psychotherapist facilitating groups and working with couples and individuals since 1984.
Married for 38 years and the mother of a grown son, her other passions include: squash, pickleball, partner dancing, mosaics, writing, hiking, traveling, and being in community with friends and family. Carol and her husband, Mark, currently split their time between Seattle and Cle Elum, Washington. "Life presents us with many challenges including relationships, work, and family. Navigating responsibly through these difficulties requires thoroughly examining our thoughts, motives, and emotions." ~ Carol Odell |
Carol Odell, LICSW
Photo Courtesy: Carol Odell |
