France, 1986. I didn’t get my miracle. No surprise there…

Upon arriving in Lourdes with all the other ladies from St. Anne’s parish – at age 15, it seemed as if everyone was in their late 60’s and 70’s, but I’m sure they were much younger.  Maybe even 50! Which is where I am now.

I bathed as often as I could in those holy water baths.  Some of the people in them were obese and sweating and smelly!  What was I thinking?  I lit more candles than I could count, and went to mass twice a day. Begging for a ‘cure’, I knelt in the grotto where ‘SHE’ had appeared to St. Bernadette. I prayed for an apparition to tell me what to do. None of it worked.

I’ve debated whether or not to write this next part, but my blog is all about #NOMOREPRETENDING, #NOMOREHIDING, and #LAUGHTER, so here goes.

I remember doing a very naughty thing in my bed for the first time. It was my first masturbation.  (I’m blushing as I write this). I didn’t even know what I was doing to be honest. There I was, in the bed beside my Nana!  In Lourdes no less!  With Holy Mary watching me.  Jesus, I was going from bad to worse.  I went there to be fixed, and it seems I just thought more and more about being with that English squash player.  I was bound to be struck down.  But that, whatever THAT was, felt SO GOOD.  Did other people do this?  Did other people know about this?  Was this ANOTHER SIN?  I. WAS. DOOMED!

God, I hope Nana is still asleep. I’ll have to give up squash.  I can’t be looking at those videos of the world championships anymore.  But what about that Wimbledon match I saw last week on BBC2?  That English player Jo Dury – I had those same feelings for her too.  What is WRONG WITH ME? I’ll have to give up sports.  I know what I’ll do. I’ll apply to be a nun, that’s what I’ll do.  That’s the only answer.  I’ll be safe inside the convent.  (WHAT WAS I THINKING???)

October, 1986, I was on the bus heading for Clontarf where Squash Ireland was located. I’d arranged a practice match with one of the girls on the Irish team.  She was three years older than me, much prettier than me, much more outgoing, and she’d invited me to her club. I was delighted.  By this point, I’d been selected on the Irish National Girls Squash team and we were heading for the World Junior Championships to be held the following year in Brighton. Listening to my Walkman, I noticed I was very early, so I got off the bus outside the church in Raheny.  With my squash bag thrown over my shoulder, I went inside to light a candle for my sins.  I knelt down and observed how quiet it was, how peaceful it seemed, how completely alone I was here, with no-one judging me except God himself.  There were two nuns sitting to my left, a few pews in front.  They seemed serene and calm.  They didn’t appear to have any restlessness about them.  Not like the discombobulation I was feeling all the time. 

I made it a point never to tell the priest in confession about my sinful thoughts.  To be honest, I didn’t trust the priests not to be talking about things amongst themselves.  I could just picture them in their sacristy every Friday evening after the entire parish had been in for their weekly visit.

Father Lloyd:  I’d a few humdingers this evening Father Philips. 

Father Philips: Aye, I’d a few of those meself, Father.

Father Lloyd:  Sheila Flaherty is up the duff, and Michael Byrne is the father.  The poor girl doesn’t know what to do, she’s only 16, and he 17.  They were only having a snog in the forest, and before they knew it, the miracle of life occurred between the two.

Father Philips: May God help them both, Father, and their families too.  But wait’ll I tell you about Orla Doherty.  That young girl who plays the organ at mass. She’s having thoughts about other women. 

Father Lloyd:  What? Oh, that’s not good Father.

Father Philips:  I know I told her as much.   I don’t think we can have her playing the organ in that frame of mind, what do you think Father?  She was at mass every morning this past lent.

I’m smiling now to be honest, and YES, I DID play the organ at mass. 

I couldn’t stand the fact that people might be talking about my indecent behaviour.  But that made me wonder should I confess to the priest, that I wasn’t giving a true confession at all? 

Bless me father for I have sinned.  I never tell you the truth in my confession. I’m afraid God won’t understand and you’ll be telling all the flower arrangers in the parish and they’re always in the butchers gossiping and my mam might hear them and then she’ll tell me dad and he’ll kill me and my brother will have another reason to laugh at me and then the whole school will know and…and…and…

I was tormented.  I prefer to keep my blogs light, but there were many times when I did think about just jumping off the high rock in Portmarnock at high tide, and hope I’d get washed away.  

But I didn’t!  I’m here!  And that’s great news.  I’m still here.  And thriving.

Where was I?

Right.  The church in Raheny.  As I blessed myself and genuflected in front of the cross, I walked slowly, desperately trying to silence the squeak my squash bag was making every time I took a step.  I picked up a pamphlet with a picture of three smiling nuns, a statue of the virgin Mary, and a priest waving his hands about.  The pamphlet asked if “God was calling you to your vocation” and to write away to this address.

I did write away to the nuns that winter, and just before Christmas they rang me for a chat.  The woman sounded young and genuinely interested in me.  She asked me all sorts of questions about my hobbies – I told her about my squash, and piano playing (I would soon start my first job playing in the Country Club on Friday nights for £25), and about my family and that I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up.   A week later, a letter in a brown envelope arrived with MS Orla Doherty written in large, blue, cursive writing. I took it to my room, and nervously opened it, my heart pounding.  The letter, written in that same cursive writing, basically said how ‘she’ enjoyed having a chat with me, learning all about me, that I was a very special young lady.  And then came the rejection:

GOD HAS BIGGER PLANS FOR YOU.

At 50 years old, I have a lot of bad feelings towards the catholic church, but to be honest, if they got one thing right, it was this.  Fair play to that nun who had the foresight to see that me being locked away in a convent would’ve been detrimental to all the nuns!  I’d probably end up trying to sleep with all of them!

So, I dodged that bullet.  (And so did the nuns)  

Of course, at the time, it didn’t feel that way.  It felt like rejection.  My self-preservation weapon was always humour. I covered up my insecurities by being the class-clown. I had a quick tongue for innuendos and double-entendres.  I became a master of hiding my feelings, had boy-friends to try to fit in, kissed them in the woods behind the Leisure Centre in Portmarnock, and sometimes did even naughtier things that I couldn’t even tell the priest in case he’d have a heart-attack.  I became very good at lying. I was never true to myself. Despite my unfortunate buck teeth and large freckles splattered across my face, I did somehow become popular.  Maybe it was the fact that I was good at squash, maybe I really did have a terrific sense of humour, to be honest I don’t know what it was.  I was never authentic.  I admit that now.

Several years went by, I played in two World Junior Squash Championships, and continued with the façade.  But something extraordinary happened at the Irish Open in 1989.  I was 18 years old and invited to play in the Senior (meaning adults over 18) event where all the pros were playing.  Remember that English Squash Player from 1985?  Guess who drew her in the first round of the tournament?  BINGO!  ME!

(Between writing Part One and Part Two of this blog, she’s kindly given me permission to use her name. LISA OPIE) 

Now, the universe works in very strange ways.  As luck would have it, there was a man in the audience watching me play.  He was there with a group of Australian players, as their manager and I noticed him talking to my dad. I later found out, he was from England, and an air traffic controller, as was my dad. They knew each other from business conferences.  Despite being absolutely crushed by Lisa Opie (in more ways than one – I could barely hold the racquet for nerves of being in the same squash court as her!), this man saw potential in my game.  He invited me to go to Reading, in the South of England, to train with the professional players, and begin playing on the pro-tour. 

That letter from the nun was starting to make sense!  A year later, after completing a secretarial course in Portmarnock, and a short stint working for Aer Lingus, my dad agreed I could go to England and pursue squash as a career.  I couldn’t believe my luck. I was free. In another country where no-one knew me.  And this was where I had my first sexual experience with a woman, at age 19…

Stay tuned for the happy ending! PART THREE will be up in a few days.