Wake Me at Three

By Scarlet Shea

A memoir of a free soul who grew up with the constraints of religion. Being a preachers daughter she knew very little of anything short of discipleship and the Bible. Including love. When she came out as being gay, she found herself lost. Confusion lead to a path so far away from the one she knew. Then she met a girl who change all this forever. This is a story about love. How we make it. Abuse it. Lose it. To finding it again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483633930

Scarlet Shea

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Book preview

1

I was twenty-three the night we met. The night I met the person who would change my life. Forever. I remember Her eyes. Her face. Her lip ring. She played soccer for UCF. A freshman. The light shined out of Her beautiful irises. The color blue. The color green. Long lashes. Dark eyebrows. How I thought only God knew how to compose such a DNA specimen. I wanted to be with Her soul. Her spirit. That twinkle. Her eyes twinkled when She smiled. Shined. She smiled a lot. I was mesmerized.

That night, She looked nervous. I was stunned. Fascinated. Although my heart and my loyalty were elsewhere. Maybe there’s an attraction. There’s a connection to all I’ve attracted to myself lately.

My girlfriend, my love of three years, was waiting for me to move. To join her in Portland. I was getting ready to plan my life and to follow my wife. We were married. Had two kids: Zoe and Paris. Some of the most loving cats. People saw their shine, although it was ending. We both knew it.

We were trying so hard though to keep it together. Our life. Our apartment we built and made together. In which we lived for two years. Sleeping in the same bed every night. Showering. I loved taking showers with her. Washing her skin. Kissing it as the water fell. On my lips and into my mouth with my gliding. I loved her reaction. How she made me feel. Along with her energy. Her warmth that would ooze into my existence. As we two had been made one. Although I was very sad. My life had changed.

I left the church and, six months later, met Amanda. My first girlfriend. My first marriage when I was nineteen. At Gay Days. Girls in Wonderland 2005. I showed up at a hotel with my friend. I walked in. There she was. Straightening her beautiful thick dark hair. You couldn’t tell if she was Italian or Spanish. We locked eyes. That was it. We made out all night. On the bus ride there. On the dance floor. She brought me back to her hotel room. I was ready to peace out and leave. She asked me to stay. It was a room full of people. A straight girl and a gay man. Some other lesbians. She was my first. She sat on my face, and we were together for three years after.

A phase passed. Time to move on. Talking well. I’m not stupid anymore. Like I would make myself feel. There’s no need to feel embarrassed me. I feel. From your actions. Feeling an outcast. It’s fine; it’s cool. It’s the position I need to take. I share. I help. I make myself the outcast. I choose not to speak. How come? Why? I’ve learned. Silence. If intentions are not in love. I love greatly. Freely. With all my heart. Soul. Fiber. It’s how I was raised.

Do not speak. Or ask questions. Engage in conversation. Control and manipulate the flow of conversation. Conversing. Good Christian girl. Preacher’s daughter. Got straight As. 4.1s. Structured. Structured. Then structured more. From sport to sport. Bible study. D group. Practice. School. Church. Busy. Busy. Busy.

Being twelve and going through studies. Wrote a list about all the sins I’ve done. Listed them down. Then I had to read it out to a group of people. Who then decided if I had admitted enough. At twelve, I was informed that the more tears I cried, the more convincing I was of my guilt. Put on your guilt face. I had to get past this study to move on to the others in order to be baptized. I was twelve—soon to be thirteen. I believed this was what I had to do in order to be saved. Because the moment we’re born, we’re set to a path of hell. Unless I did this. I was born into the church. I was a disciple for seven. I was a member from conception to nineteen.

I left this world when I was nineteen. No more parents. They stopped talking to me. If they did, they were sad. Or angry. We’d yell. Get upset. I’d usually end up crying, asking them to try to understand. Begging. With their rebuttal. I’ve done this to myself. The scripture backed their stance. Not accepting my lifestyle. I asked for them to understand my view on love. Talked every day. To not talking for months. All I heard was lost. We were connected. To not.

My world. Shattered. Soul. Black. Toxic. Selfish. Were their choice of words.

When I first came out, they wanted me to quit UCF and wanted to send me to Gainesville. To get help. Be de-gayed. Be saved. They wanted to send me away. I didn’t go. So instead, I moved into an apartment with five other lesbians. One in which I had an intense infatuation with. She was my inspiration to make the move toward change.

They moved away. I was being purposely rebellious just to get back at them. My parents. My gods. Daddy was a big-time preacher. I was proud. Mom was my best friend. I told her everything. I was a mommy’s girl. I was her charm. Blond athlete. I was going to play college soccer. I was good. Played club. State champion. ODP. I didn’t want to do it anymore. I lost my drive to play. It made me feel stupid. I constantly did. Even when I was little. I was convinced everyone was smarter than I was.

I was happy to be his daughter. And he, my dad. They were proud of me.

I gave my first blow job when I was nineteen. For three seconds. Then I cried. Saying it was wrong. We needed help.

Do not let people influence your mind. Humans are silly creatures. Beings with an instinct like no other. What other species kills their ken then goes partying?

I’ve gained much since my loss. Trauma. Drama. Much. Refugee in a tent I was. I floated. With a head constantly thinking. I was the poster child of shame. Mommy and Daddy were no longer around. What did I do? I acted in love. In love for myself. And hurt my family. When it really was I who was hurt. The pain was real. It was deep. My whole life, never being able to associate with others.

Being brought to believe people outside of a congregation were bad. Bad company corrupts good character was the preachers’ choice of scripture. It was an intense life. An intense, constant story