COLLEGE- Pete And The Peeper

“When you are willing to distinguish the doer from the deed and see that love is the core of every person, forgiveness will become so natural that it will be yours in one simple breath. The inhale will be full of forgiveness and the exhale will contain the realization that the doer is innocent, and that there is actually nothing to forgive.” 

     If you are anything like I was, this quote may not compute. You may not even want it to. The doer is “innocent?” Yeah right. It brings me back to the time when I first heard from an old boss that my father was a “gift” to me. I was thirty-four years old. A time where I was beyond angry, full of victimhood and blame for selling my soul to a man who deemed that I was never enough. Not smart enough, not savvy enough, not grateful enough, not enough. If that same person had told me that I was responsible for my anger, too, I would have wanted to deck her. But something buried inside whispered that she was onto something even though his behavior was unacceptable. In the last eight years, I have come to know that not only is my dad innocent, he was the one who helped me know what unconditional love is by being an example of what it wasn’t. Another soul, here on earth school, to make me braver and remember that he “knows not what he does.” 

     Cinnamon Lofton's quote also brings me back to a time in my twenties while attending UCSB. A time where I really could have used some assistance in dealing with Pete And The Peeper. Then there is the “what is.” 

    Like my father, Pete (my boyfriend) was athletic, fun, romantic, and street smart. Also like my father, he was extremely controlling and possessive. If I didn’t do as told, a silent treatment would ensue for an hour. “What’s wrong?” I remember asking. No answer. Being well practiced, I kissed up to him until he came around. I remember times when he would say sternly, “I told you to NOT wear your robe around my roommate, and you didn’t keep the bedroom door closed while I was gone!” It was open a crack. Pete lived off Milpas Street in Santa Barbara while attending city college. I spent many nights in his room, studying while he served burgers at Hudson’s Grill. One of his roommates attended UCSB, also. He was from my hometown, very handsome, polite, and loved to ski. The only other thing I remember about him (besides the incident) was that he seemed spoiled like me and was in some fraternity. 
     While I was up at my parent’s house on break, I received a panicked phone call from Pete. I don’t remember his exact words, but he told me that his roommate had drilled a hole through his door and had been peeping at us. What!?! It was so hard to believe. His roommate seemed like the LAST guy on earth who would do such a thing. He was clean-cut and a son of a prominent doctor. I “thought” Peeping Toms were dirty, old men. Life is often not what it seems. Yet, another lesson to be learned.
     Months prior, Pete had gotten into a fight with his other roommate, punching a hole in his bedroom door. This made it easier for the voyeur to camouflage the hole. He had carefully put styrofoam in the hole, so that we wouldn’t see the light coming through. When we were being sexually intimate, he would surreptitiously remove the foam. After Pete discovered the hole, he cornered his roommate. The Peeper denied it, saying that his gun had gone off and gone through the pinhole in the door by accident,. He then pointed to the ceiling from where the bullet had ricocheted, leaving a dent. Now, that’s a stretch. Pete found his roommate's bullets (which were much larger than the hole), proving to him otherwise. His roommate then apologized profusely, saying that he had gotten super stoned one night at the frat house and wasn’t thinking. Pete and I left it. After covering the hole with a picture from a magazine, Pete gave me strict instructions to never speak to his roommate. He told me that he may be suicidal, and I could tell that Pete was doing his best to calm his own frantic nerves about the whole incident. My boyfriend demanded that I not tell anyone. It never occurred to me that men can be just as traumatized by acts of sexual confrontation. 
     In looking back, I am surprised that I continued to spend the night at Pete’s. Just another co-dependent relationship that I was too insecure to not feed. Well, when we don’t learn our lessons, the Universe has a way of making it bigger and BIGGER. While snuggling in bed one night, Pete and I heard some creaking noise. When we looked at the door, we saw light coming through the hole. Then it would go dark. Pete ordered me to be quiet and cover my naked body. The sheets were to my nose, and I remember shaking. We could no longer deny the truth. His roommate had poked a hole through the magazine to watch us. Most likely waiting for us to have sex. Pete charged to the hole in the door and gave him the middle finger. Obviously, scared to confront the addict, my boyfriend never opened the door. 
     I only saw his roommate one time after that, briefly in the hallway. We barely squeaked out a hello. USCB’s quarter had ended, and I had been accepted into hygiene school in San Francisco. After five years, I told Pete that I wanted to date other people. He “seemed”calm, and asked me if we could go for a drive and talk. He drove me up the windy hills of Montecito, going way faster than his car could take. “SLOW DOWN, PETE!” I screamed. He sped up like a madman on speed. Around each bend, I held my breath, wondering if this was how I was going to die. Spinning out of control, the car broke down. We walked home unscathed, my lesson learned. Pete and The Peeper were NOT for me. 
     Many years later, I heard some gossip about about Pete’s old roommate. My friends had heard about the incident, wondering if he truly did “peep” on some girl in Santa Barbara. Their mouths dropped when finding out that I was that girl. Instead of facing my true feelings about the incident, I surprisingly laughed while telling them the story. I know now that the only way I could cope with the enormity of the situation was to innocently soften it, making it into something more palatable that it clearly wasn’t. An old pattern of covering my panic with laughter. I recently found out that Pete’s old roommate lives up north, married with children. My hope is that he has received some help and forgiven himself. God knows that I have.