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Don Greenwood
Julie

I don't know how old Julie is, she looks as if she's around 20. I know she attends a large State University in a Midwestern City. I met her at our Thursday, 12 Noon Sex, Love, and Relationship Twelve Step Meeting.

Almost every meeting she attends, she ends up crying, even sobbing. Today, she had just come from having lunch with her father, and almost got sick. He was eying a big breasted waitress, and not really connecting with his only daughter. They are meeting weekly for lunch, near the campus, to try and improve their relationship; but it's not happening. She's big breasted herself, and she wondered if he looks at her that way.

Julie cannot stay away from one-night-stands. She has to be tested for aids and other STD's on a regular basis. She cannot control the awful loneliness and emptiness which almost consumes her. She masturbates, she tells the group, until she is sore and bleeds. She has sex with men who are dangerous, and who could do her real harm. But, she can't help herself, she says. Julie is very intelligent and physically attractive. She is a full-figured and sensuous looking person, who is looking for someone to be a real father to her. This is what she told the group today, and I felt my heart skip a beat, when she said it. In my late fifties, I could be her father, but could end up being more. I certainly don't need that!

I know how to cater to her weakness, and if I spend time with her, there will be trouble. Rick, another "old-timer," in his forties, offered to take Julie home at the end of last week's meeting. I shuddered to think what would happen. Rick is ugly and lecherous. Julie hesitated a moment, before consenting. I wonder what happened.

My intuition tells me Julie's father has sexually abused her. That's why she feels sick to her stomach, and very uncomfortable in his presence. She has not reached the point where this painful memory has come to the surface of her conscious mind. It's too painful to face, so she eats lunch with Dad each week, although hating every minute of it.

I feel pity for Julie, as do most of the twelve present in the room. We watch in silence as she sobs again, as in previous weeks. I feel helpless, but know I cannot try and "rescue," her. I must offer compassion from a distance. Will one of the three other ladies in the group do something? They are considerably older than Julie, but have been through broken and unhealthy relationships with both men and women.

Some give Julie advice to stay away from her father. "Tell him you're not ready for a relationship, and don't go to lunch with him," says Gary, a middle-aged attorney, who sees himself as the sage of the group. (He relates later that today is his twentieth anniversary in recovery for addictions; for Gary, it's been alcohol, tobacco, and sex). Sarah, a humongous nurse, tells Julie about how "toxic" it is for her to be in her own mother's presence. "After forty-five minutes, I've got to get away from that bitch; maybe you need to do the same with your Dad."

As the meeting comes to an end, Julie, speaks one more time, again in tears, but this time with anger and surprising strength. "I don't like people giving me advice!" "My family is all I have. They are important to me. He's the only Dad I have!" Gary and Sarah stare straight ahead, seemingly irritated at this "little girl," "baby in recovery," who has the nerve to reject their "wisdom!"

I don't see who talks with Julie, or if she leaves with a group member. I am busy talking with two male group members, one old friend I haven't seen for awhile. As nighttime falls, though, I can't help but think of her. No, in all seriousness, it is not in a sexual way. I just feel an ache inside for her. I pray a quick prayer, that somehow her Higher Power will help her. I pray a quick prayer that someone healthy will come into her life and guide her to a more serene and fulfilling life. I pray that she will not die young, as so many sex addicts die, a wasted and tragic ending for such a gifted child. Yes, she's still a child; a child in a woman's body.

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