Month: October 2015

I feel I need to take a moment to vent. I’m sitting here waiting for my husband to come in from Chicago. I don’t like living apart from him, but at least I have the kittens to keep me company. I also have the fucking clusters that went from episodic to chronic to intractable chronic to keep me company. I don’t like them so much. At the moment, I have a 5 threatening to go to 7. I took some Soma and a Xanax, but it doesn’t seem to be doing much. I’m tired. I’m exhausted actually. I’m tired of the clusters. I’m tired of the migraines. I’m tired of all the related crap. I’m tired of the narcolepsy. I’m tired of not being able to make/keep plans and/or appointments. I’m tired of functioning on a minimal to moderate level. I’m tired of not being able to live the life that I want to live. I don’t enjoy living my life dependent on these clusters. There are three particular times of day that determine how my day will go and that sucks and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it short of suicide, which is not an option, ever.

I’m also disillusioned. I’m disillusioned from the fact that from my adoption until I was about 15 was controlled by a monster. I could never do anything right. I did everything the hard way. I never listened. I was not loved. I was not needed. I was not wanted. I was beaten to a pulp often. My mother tried to sweep it under the rug with the ‘your father loves you. He just doesn’t know how to express his emotions.’ Well, beating me certainly helped be that message across. I got everything from a hand wooden spoon, belt/belt buckle, a switch that I had to pick myself and hot wheels racetracks. It was wondrous. Any little thing would set him off too. I looked at him wrong. I didn’t put the milk on the table quickly enough. It didn’t matter. Nothing was ever good enough. Then we’d go to church on Sunday, he was an elder or deacon, and he’d play the consummate Christian. Beyond that, I learned ‘It’s none of my business.’ I was forced to suck one of my classmate’s dick in the locked room while the rest watched in glee. The PE teacher knew what was going on and did not intervene. She also saw the welts on my legs often and didn’t intervene. Even our preacher knew what was happening and failed to intervene. I learned hypocrisy. I learned that I was basically alone in a hostile world.

There was only one thing I was looking for from my father. The only thing I ever wanted to hear him say was ‘I love you and I’m proud of you.’ He finally said it after I returned from my Jr. year in college that I spent in Barcelona. I just looked at him and said that it was too little and too late. He still tries to get aggressive with me to this day. I just tell him to hit me. The next thing he’ll see will be the police taking him away for domestic battery. I just don’t care enough to even hit him back.

I am absolutely sure that I made many mistakes though out my teens and early 20s in college. That’s when you’re supposed to make mistakes. I will completely own up to most of them. Some of them were from external causes where once again control was taken away from me. I would say that my biggest regret (not really a regret, but something I would like to have changed) is not being able to come out sooner. Since I lived in rural America it was never safe to come out, especially in 1987 or earlier. What would the neighbors think? Conversion therapy didn’t sound very fun either. So, I grew up with various views of myself. I was going to Hell bc I was a dirty abomination to god-a homosexual. That was a one-way ticket to Hell. I prayed and prayed and prayed for god to make me straight/normal. Again, the prayers, like the ones when I was little, fell on deaf ears. Once I got to college, I people like me. I thought I was the only one that existed. It was great. I had my first one-night stand and started making healthy-ish relationships. It didn’t all end up as roses and candy though. One night I was raped by a guy that I had begged my friend not to leave me alone with. Again, the loss of control. The second, I don’t remember much other than he was a football player at the college I attended. The first time, he used the date rape drug, but after that, he would just come to my room when I was alone and overpower me. That was the 1990-92 era. You didn’t report things like that to the police. They would just laugh at you. That was also when I was outed. An ex decided I didn’t spend enough time with him, we had remained friends, and he decided to call my mom and tell her that I was gay, on drugs and liked young boys. The only true part was being gay. That started a jihad in my family that lasted 8 long years. I still have an uncle who won’t talk to my or my husband. The third time was in Spain. I had missed the last train and a member of my theatre group told me that I could sleep at his place. Once I entered the house, I knew something was wrong. There were no doorknobs to the exterior doors or windows. They all worked with keys. It was basically put out if you want to get out. He wasn’t even attractive.

So, all of these experiences have made me into the person I am today. Oddly enough, I trust people until they prove me otherwise, but I don’t make friends easily because I don’t want to be let down. I have trouble expressing certain emotions because I can’t control them, such as rage and anger. I don’t feel guilt. Experience has taught me to be a realist, but I’m also jaded. I’m not bitter, just jaded. Through out all of this mess, I’ve been able to keep my sense of humor. It’s the only thing that hasn’t been taken away from me. I trust kids (high school) more than I trust adults and I’d rather be around them. Some see me as aloof. Other see me as pompous. I’ve been called cold, unapproachable, sarcastic, whatever. Those are parts of my personality that don’t go anywhere. I have to keep most people at an arm’s length. I really don’t want to get hurt. It’s happened too many times and if I can avoid it, I will.

Finally, that stupid expression, ‘god won’t give you any more than you can handle.’ Is a crock of shit. I’ve lost people I know to this disease because they just couldn’t deal with the constant pain anymore. If your god were to exist, I think I would have to have a rather stern talk with it. It owes a lot of people a lot of explanations. A kind and loving god would not subject its followers to this kind of constant misery with glimmers of the good days that were. A kind and loving god would not have allowed me to go through what I have endured personally. It has made me strong, but at a huge cost. Don’t give me the ‘free will’ crap or the ‘predestination’ garbage. Fuck off! Should your benevolent god exist I have lots of questions in store for it. Unfortunately, I don’t see the work of your god in anything; well, anything good, so I would end with ‘your god is dead and no one cares. and if there’s a Hell, I’ll see you there.’

Dr. Dragonfly, as always, asked me if there was anything that popped up during the week about our last session. I told her that nothing had changed. The resentment, anger and hate hadn’t come back. The pity, ‘desgracia’ and constant disappointment were still there. It was almost to the point where I was starting to feel nothing towards my father.

Dr. Dragonfly then suggested that we go back to that 5-6 year old self and work on another memory from that time period. (There are many.) She asked me to choose one that was particularly traumatic. This particular memory not only affected me at home, but it also had grave consequences for me at school. So, here we go.

It was 4/July/1973. We were headed into town to see the parade and later go to see the fireworks. We took dad’s truck. My brother, cousin, two other kids and I were in the bed of the truck. It was parked all the way back by the machine shed. We were all sitting down. I was sitting over one of the tires. Dad and mom got into the truck and off we went. Our driveway, well, we’ll just say it was like any road in Chicago during the winter and dad was driving way too fast. He hit one of the big potholes and I, weighing nothing soaking wet, went flying out of the bed of the truck. I hit a large branch of the maple tree and it knocked me out, more or less. I fell back down because gravity works and hit the rusty 3-point hitch on the back of the truck. My memories fail me here because I was going in and out of consciousness.

I remember the truck stopping very quickly. I remember my mom being beyond worried and my dad saying that this wouldn’t have happened had I not been standing up. (I wasn’t. He was driving too fast. Again, everything is my fault.) He didn’t think the situation was as serious as it was and though a trip to Doc Thomas would be fine. Doc Thomas was the town quack. Mom insisted that we go to the ER. I remember having towels or shirts around my head to try to stop the bleeding. I remember getting to the ER and mom speaking frantically with the doctor. I remember getting a tetanus shot because of the rusty 3-point hitch. I’m still going in and out of consciousness and remember my dad saying, “See Susie. It wasn’t that bad.” Mom said, “Jim, he could’ve lost an eye had he hit just a little over.” Then they were gone. I saw the guy in the white coat for only a second.

Once I came to, I was in a hospital bed and I didn’t know what had happened or what was going on. My mom and dad were there with me. There were machines and whatever hooked up to me and I was afraid. My mom tried to comfort me as best she could. The doc came in and said, “Well, young man. I believe you’ve set a new record. You have 276 stitches in your little head, but you’ll be fine. We’re going to keep you here for a couple of day because you have a concussion/contusion (Of course the 5-6 y/o me didn’t know that language yet.) He checked me over and left.

“We wouldn’t be here if you had been sitting down. I don’t know why you can’t do what I tell you to.” Dad growled.

“Jim, he was sitting down. You were driving too fast.”

“You’re always making excuses for him, aren’t you.”

“This whole thing is his fault.”

I was probably crying at this point. It probably didn’t help my head at all and probably sent at least one of the monitors sky high bc a nurse showed up quickly as dad was still yapping and escorted him to the waiting room until he calmed down.

Again, everything’s your fault. You cause all of the problems. You’re not wanted. You’re not needed. You’re not loved.

Then why did you adopt me?

Today as Dr. Dragonfly and I started talking, she asked me, as always, if I had given any thought to what we had talked about the week before. I actually had. Self (my little mouse) had noticed a change in his environment and decided to wander out of his little safety zone to check things out for himself. He went to the gaping chasm where resentment, rage and anger were and found that they had, for the moment, gone away. He still felt them, but they were not there. They had been replaced by pity, disgust and disgrace (desgracia-better meaning in Spanish). He knew the other three would eventually return, but he was trying to figure out why these three had come to take their places, even for a little while.

As best as he could figure, it was a direct reaction to his father personally. It was a direct reaction to how pitiful and disgusting of a man you would have to be to prove your masculinity or your manhood/control by abusing a child or a woman who were unable to defend themselves. The feeling of disgrace and disdain he must see coming from us every time he abuses us must fuel his rage. His anger, hatred, control, rage-whatever it is, must always communicated to me that you are not wanted. You were never wanted. I obviously don’t understand what’s happening, but I’m sure my expressions gave my emotions away. Disgraceful, disgusting, pitiful.

I’m sure I showed them to my mom too when she would try to console me. On one hand, in some corner of my young mind, I knew she was being abused too. I also knew she was supposed to protect me from this. She either didn’t or couldn’t or a combination of both. Either way, it too communicated the ‘you’re not wanted’ and ‘you’re not worth anything’ just as effectively. I wasn’t to be protected. I was to be blamed for everything; everything I did and everything my brother did. The only protectors I had were my grandparents. They were the only ones who could make my dad leave me alone and shame my mom for not protecting me.

In the session, we went back to one of the many beat down session from my 5-6 year old self. We had talked about an escape route, but this time, there was none. She asked what would normally happen when I made him wait too long. I told her he’d come into the closet, take all of the toys out of the little chest they were in, where I was hiding, pull me out, pull my pants down and beat my ass with either a belt or those hot wheels race tracks. She asked how my body felt. It felt as if it were straining to get away. It was trying to squirm away, push up and down away, just trying to get away. (Take a moment and notice that feeling-{helplessness/powerlessness}) What ultimately happened? She asked. Finally, I just went numb. I was tired and exhausted and I stopped fighting. I couldn’t take it anymore. And? she pressed. He started beating me harder bc I wasn’t fighting back. Eventually, he stopped, I supposed bc it wasn’t as much fun for him bc I wasn’t squirming around anymore. I knew it would happen again, so why bother. It always happened again. What did you do afterwards? she asked. I would cry myself to sleep, run downstairs and outside to hide and play for hours, hide in the big bathroom closet all the way at the back on the second shelf where he couldn’t get to me. Things like that just to stay out of his way. It didn’t really matter what I did. I could blow my nose too loudly and he’d beat the shit out of me. I was always a good kid and didn’t cause any trouble, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t understand. Everything was my fault. It was a horrible existence. You knew it was coming, you just didn’t know when or how bad it was going to be the next time.

The bright spot was letting the body’s memory of the event go. In this ‘escape’ scenario, as he was beating me, my 5 year old self got up enough energy to become some sort of superhuman child and scream ‘get the fuck off of me!!!’ and with a huge monumental push, I sent him flying off of me, through the wall and window of my room, shooting out over the lawn and into the muddy and cow poo laden pasture (it had rained the night before). Not only was he out there, the force had knocked his shoes and socks off and the crazy, and I do mean crazy, bull we had at the time was in the pasture with him. He couldn’t get out and the bull just ran him around the pasture goring him at will as I watched in amusement from the hole in my wall, completely satisfied by the consequence.

It’s been a couple of days since I’ve seen Dr. Dragonfly. We did a couple of things. She had given me a book to read about how all of out parts interact with the Self. I still have a hard time talking about the Self in the 3rd person and all the different parts. It seems rather alien to me. An exercise in chapter 6 caught me eye, and I suppose my psyche, bc I started coloring it as my different parts showed themselves. It sounds really stupid, but the book would call to me after I did the initial parts of my Self and Resentment, Rage and Anger. I would be sitting playing a game or doing something else and the book would call out to me. I’d finish that part and I was done. I couldn’t go any further. It was that way until I finished the entire page. It was very odd. Dr. Dragonfly was very happy to see it and discuss it. I’m sure it will be discussed on many occasions. I told her that the only part of the book that I didn’t get through was the last part, therapy and religion. I absolutely abhor religion and consider it to be probably the biggest downfall of mankind. Had religion never been invented, especially the book religions, I think we would be far more advanced than we are today.

We wandered back onto the subject of my 5-6 year old self being abused by my father. The emotions were centered on shame, helplessness, frustration and resignation more than even anger or hate at this point. He would wait for me at the top of the steps. He knew I was hiding either in my closet or in theirs (there was a trapdoor to the attic in their closet) so there was no way to get past him. I couldn’t even run into the bathroom closet and hide bc he’d see me. Eventually, I had to go and just get it over with or he’d come find me and beat me harder just bc I made him either come find me or made him wait. I’m not sure which it was. It was both or either.

Dr. Dragonfly presented me with a second door, escape. It was a nice thought that if there had been a window in my closet I could open it, run across the roof to the garage, down the roof to the milk house and to the barn, corn crib or machine shed where I could wait him out for hours bc he’d never find me. I was little and there were lots of places to hide. I liked the option and if I remember right, I think I was able to use it a few times when I was 9 or 10 to get out of my bedroom before he could catch me. He would try to find me, but I would hide myself under the endless bales of hay or straw and there was absolutely no way he could find me. I could do the same thing in the corn crib. I could hide in the piles of corn. In the machine shed I could hide between the derelict machinery that he was always going to get around to fixing. Living on a farm, there was an infinite number of places to hide. At 5 or 6, I just wasn’t able to access them yet, nor was I able to reason enough to hide myself effectively.

It’s also taken me a couple of days to respond bc my anger seems to have dissipated for now. I’m quite sure it can be triggered fairly easily again, but for now the anger and resentment have given way. New actors have come onto the stage that Self is watching. There are two new actors, pity and another that I can’t quite name yet, but they’re not related to me. It is not forgiveness. That is never enter the stage. What he’s done is neither forgivable nor forgettable. They’re both related to him. I pity him that he had to show his manhood, strength and power by abusing a young boy (all the way into his teens) and a woman (his wife and the mother of his children). I have to wonder how horrible of a life he had to make for himself for things to turn out as they did. We were obviously innocent victims of some “bad” decision he thinks he had made at some point in time. His rage was not only directed at us, by extension. I once had rabbits, some were show and others were meat. I was too young to know the difference. While mom and I were out one day, He killed and butchered all of them and didn’t say anything. I ran into the house crying bc of my missing rabbits (pets) and got slapped around bc boys don’t cry. He was miserable so everyone had to be. I pity him. I wouldn’t walk across the street to spit on him bc he’s not worth the saliva, but I pity him and how miserable he must be. I have neither sympathy for him, nor empathy. There’s nothing, just pity and something else I can’t quite name yet.