cazandoconejos

It’s taken me a little time to get around to writing this one. Monday, we picked back up on the general topic, my abusive father. Dr. Dragonfly asked me about the Carrie 2/Firestarter visual and how it felt and how my body felt about it. Almost out of shame, I said that it felt wonderful (because I had power) but that I shouldn’t feel that way because of how destructive it was. She redirected me to the fact that it was imagination, an image of power for your mind, body and nervous system(s). It was then time to move away from the mummy and frankenstein and go on to the next memory.

Tell me about the time when you had the nosebleed. (Ugh, I thought.) It was a Monday night (MASH was on and it came on Monday). I constantly had nosebleeds as a child. I had them so often that I didn’t even feel them when they came on. So, I’m sitting there on the floor watching the program when BAM! All of a sudden my dad’s right on top of me, beating the shit out of me with his fists. I’m squarely under him and I’m having a lot of trouble squirming out. I had absolutely no idea what had just happened. I was watching a TV show and now I’m a punching bag. My 8 year old brain is trying to make some sense of it. Finally, “You’re bleeding all over your mother’s goddamned pillow. You’re nose is bleeding and you’re bleeding all over the pillow. Don’t you even have enough sense to go to the bathroom and get some toilet paper or kleenex to get rid of the nosebleed. See, you’ve ruined her pillow because you’re too damned stupid to get up and take care of it yourself.” I’m still trying to squirm out from under him. “Jim, leave him be. It’s just a pillow. I can throw it in the wash. Stop hitting him. You’re hurting him.” (More squirming-almost free) “There you go again. Making excuses for them. They’ll never learn anything with you around.” And with that little distraction, I was free. (Mind you, this little incident went on for about a 1/2 hour) I ran upstairs to my bedroom. Closed the door. Grabbed some tissues and a blanket and scooted under the bed rolled up in a little ball, sobbing heavily. Eventually, I fell asleep. I don’t remember whether or not I woke up on or under my bed the next morning.

‘How did that make you feel?’ Powerless and helpless, again. There was no way out. ‘If you could’ve done anything to him that you wanted to get him off of you and away from you to where he couldn’t harm you again, what would you do?’ This one took a little more thought. [I really don’t like these ‘power machinations.’ They’re kind of fun and disturbing at the same time]. After a couple of minutes I said that I’d push him onto the ceiling fan where he’d do a few rotations and then launch him through the bay window. He’d fly to the apple trees. An apple tree would catch him and slowly suck him into its roots. He would go from root to root until he went from apple tree to corn field to the huge old oak tree at the corner. Once he was in the oak tree, it would regurgitate him up through its systems until he was tangled in the tallest branches never to be released again. ‘Wow! That’s a pretty powerful image. How does it make you feel?’ Relieved.

‘Now, we know that you’re not safe at home. You’re not safe at school and you’re not safe at church. Looking at the home and school part, especially in this last encounter, where was your mom?’ I’m sorry. I don’t understand the question. We know that your dad is a monster who basically hurts you for fun or pleasure or some other equally disgusting purpose. Since you can remember, which would be this 5-8/9 y/o time period, where was your mother? ‘Oh.’ Curveball.

My mother was yelling at my father not to beat me. Then I’d get beaten even harder. He’d tell her “Woman, stay out of this. I’ll discipline the child. [My brother went largely ignored at great cost to them later.]” Or alternately, he’d beat my mother and then return to me. Either way I was fucked and I guess I’d rather he beat me than my mother. She’d sit there and scream at him. He’d scream at her and pummel me on autopilot until I was able to get away.

Looking back, at times she would take her frustrations with my father out on me too, but to a much lesser extent. She would beat me for a little while and realize what was happening. A guilty, remorseful, frightened look would come over her face and she would blame it on my father. She was taking out her frustrations on me. My mother wasn’t anywhere. I was completely unprotected and defenseless unless my grandparents (on my father’s side) were around. They didn’t let anything happen to me.

I was, and still am, absolutely unprepared to deal with this new reality. I always say my mother as a protector role. I understood that she excused my father’s behaviors from time to time with platitudes and bullshit, but she did try to protect me. As the boxes open, the body is able to feel each situation and release its energy. The mind also clues into what the body feels and is able to grasp the driving emotions from so many years ago. It is hard to deal with. These two particular events alone speak volumes.

For the mummy/frankenstein, Mrs. Reed came to the house. She gave me my classmates cards and told me that everyone hoped I’d be back soon because they missed me. She sat in the kitchen my mom and dad and talked about whatever was going to happen when I returned. I was not part of that conversation. My return was eventually a nightmare. I said something to dad, I got beaten because I wasn’t tough enough. I said something to mom and I got, ‘it’s ok honey. They’ll get used to it.’ They have to get used to me? I’m the injured party through no fault of my own. It wasn’t even really an accident. It was dad’s stupidity, but they have to get used to me? I’m supposed to tolerate the offensive things the do and say, that Mrs. Reed now sweeps under the rug, until they get used to me? Fuck you! It was a horrible experience. The least you could’ve done was go to school and talked to Mrs. Reed about what was going on. I know life isn’t fair, but it’s not a lesson that I needed to internalize at 6. Someone comes in with a cast and everyone thinks it’s cool and wants to sign it. I come in with a serious, life threatening accident and I’m a social pariah. Fuck you! You knew then what kind of a “man” dad was. Why didn’t you divorce his ass? I know…to keep the good “xtian family appearance and people just didn’t do that back then.” Both are lovely excuses that express you lack of willpower. I’m fairly certain it’s just going to get worse from here. I can’t wait until my brother is mixed into the equation.

Fuck you, Jesus Christ and the Horse you rode in on!

 

 

When I write these, understand that I typically leave off the ‘follow the lights with your eyes and check in with your body. How does it feel? Where does it feel the sensation?

This week at Dr. Dragonfly’s, we went back to our normal topic. The session before I went back to Chicago was really a waste. I went back to the little six year old boy that had been bounced out of the back of his father’s truck because he was driving too fast, but it was my fault bc I was standing up. (I wasn’t-I just didn’t weigh anything.) This time, though, it centered on going back to school.

If I remember right, Mrs. Reed, my first grade teacher, came over to the house and gave me all of the nice cards my classmates were forced to write. While I was reading them, she talked to my parents about my return to the classroom. I was not part of this conversation and had no idea what they were talking about. I was busy reading the cards.

The next day, I went to school. I was greeted with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity in equal measures. Mrs. Reed did reintroduce me so that the class would settle down a little bit. She told them what had happened and that I was in bandages because of an unfortunate accident. That kind of calmed the situation a little bit, but you know how elementary kids are, they’re cruel. They just stared at me. By recess, I was ‘the mummy.’ Mrs. Reed tried to redirect them, but being different in elementary school is absolutely not a good thing.

I was ‘the mummy’ for a good week or two. The other kids were content with that. I didn’t much like it, but if it kept the peace…Eventually, a shift occurred. Someone got it into their tiny brain that they could catch whatever I had, so they spread a rumor and all of a sudden 3/4th of the class didn’t want to be anywhere around me. Mind you, we’re talking about 22 kids. Mrs. Reed tried to tell them, but it didn’t work. Elementary kids are cruel.

That lasted for a couple of weeks. I’d go home crying every day. It was a horrible experience and all I wanted was for my mom to say that it would be ok and that she’d go talk to the teacher. All I ever got was the it will be ok and don’t let the other kids get to you so much. I’m six and can count the number of people who want to be around me on one hand. I wanted to be protected. My dad was even better. Are you crying again because kids don’t like you  at school? You’re there to learn, not make friends. Stop crying before I beat you with my belt. That was helpful too. I’m not protected at home and I’m not protected at school. I’m six; I’m on my own; I’m absolutely powerless.

A couple of months, or so, later, the gauze had to come off. Once the gauze came off, you could see all 276 stitches. We had to put an antibiotic ointment on them two times a day. It made them nice, shiny and visible from the ISS. I went from being ‘the mummy’ to ‘frankenstein.’ I had to admit, I liked the mummy better. That was really horrible. There were all sorts of nasty jokes and comments outside the teacher’s hearing. No one, even my friends, wanted to be around me then. It was grotesque. Even after the stitches were out, I still had to put the ointment on for a few weeks to allow the sites to heal. It was just a horrific experience for me all the way around with no help, guidance or just anyone, other than Mrs. Reed to say that it would be ok. The other problem with that too was that since no one would interact with me, the only other person left was Mrs. Reed, so not only was I a mummy and frankenstein, but I was also teacher’s pet. (As if I had a choice)

Dr. Dragonfly asks me, “What do you want to do to them. If you had the power, what would you want to do to them to make the fucking suffer like they have you?” (I love her. She swears with me.) I’m six! I don’t have any power. She said remember what you did with your dad when you kicked him through the window/wall and all the way into the fresh cow poo pasture with the crazy bull? Imagine what you want to do to all of these people who at the age of six have already impacted your life. It has to come from inside you. You have to take the power. It can’t come from me.”

This one didn’t take me a lot of though. After watching the little lights go back and forth and feeling the vibrations in my hands, I looked at her with that cold, evil laugh I sometime get and said, I know exactly what I want to do to them.

You know the movie ‘Carrie,’ right? I’m going for ‘Carrie 2.’ CD are much more lethal that LPs and 45s. Every year Kindergarten and 6th Grade graduation are held in the gym. All students have to attend and most of their parents do as well. There wouldn’t be any blood on me, but I’d make sure that there were more than enough CDs to fill half of the stage. During the middle of the ceremony, once the 6th graders have all sat down, I’d force the doors closed to the entire gym and stage entrances. Then I’d walk to the center of the stupid gopher in the middle of the gym and yell ‘Fuck all of you!” in a voice that would be similar to a stun grenade. I would raise my arms and CDs would go flying everywhere. (There would be shields around the 4 or so kids I liked.) I would them release a second volley of CDs. I’d look up at the lights, break the bulbs and turn them into flamethrowers as I exited the gym.

Once I exited the gym, I’d walk about 3 blocks up to main street and obliterate the three churches that exist. As I passed the intersection, the gas station would blow. Once I got to the blinky light, the other two gas stations would blow. I would then magically transport myself to the other town in the district. All of the high school doors would also be locked. The florescent lights would be set to bake. The gas station, of course, would blow. Two of the three churches would go. The last is my home church. It’s congregants and preacher would be magically transported to the site, but unable to do anything as they watched their precious church very slowly turn to ash.

Excellent! She said.

 

So, I haven’t babbled much bc I was in Chicago in the hospital dealing with the clusters and everything. I believe I posted at least one incident from my stay. Later, we had our last Thanksgiving in our house since Brian and I will be officially moving to Phoenix next year (unless, of course they all decide to come to Phoenix, but I don’t see that happening either.) The next two days were me wishing for Saturday to come. Saturday came and I packed up the cats and some warmer clothes and made my way back to Phoenix (home). I was so happy to see the sun. I only saw the sun twice while I was in Chicago. It was so gloomy and grey and dark. I really saw why I hated being there in fall and winter. It’s completely dark by 16:00h. It’s depressing. Now the children and I are back and we’re happy to be home, even if it is a little smaller.

I have to have the worst nurse on the floor. She may be my worst nurse ever. I saw her pop in during shift change and we explained what needs to happen so that my clusters are controlled and so that I don’t have the medication desert in the middle of the day that happened yesterday. Unfortunately, that wasn’t her plan. I didn’t get my daytime meds until 10:30. She gave me Norflex at 9:30 when I didn’t ask for it because I was going to use it during the drought. It’s every 12 hours, so I can’t have it again until tonight at 21:00. The Thorazine was supposed to be used around 23:00 and the Benadryl around 00:00. Thorazine and Benadryl work together to put my fat ass to sleep (and they do). Sometimes, I wake up and I’m in bed fully clothed and have no idea how or why.

Now, at 15:35, I’m eventually getting the Thorazine. That means I can’t use it again until 03:00. Hopefully, I’ll be asleep without the combo. This is the only place where I actually get some sleep.

It’s not that I haven’t said anything. I have to both her and the charge nurse. The charge nurse’s response was ‘you’ll work it out.’ We obviously haven’t bc she didn’t do what I asked in the first place and she continues not to do it. At this point, it’s nearly 16:00. Benadryl comes at 18:00. I can suffer through another hour and a half. Hell, it’s already been 2 hours. What’s another two? She hasn’t even ordered the new bag of histamine. I told her to put the Thorazine away so that I could use it tonight and to just give me a Xanax and a refill on the histamine. She doesn’t seem to have any clue as to what’s going on. I bet she comes in now and tells me that she can’t give me the Xanax because it’s too early.

My head is pushing an 8/9, up from a 5/6. I’m sure some of it is weather related, but most of it has to do with this situation. I ordered the Xanax abouI tried to avoid it, but I got fucked even harder. Of course the pharmacy was the problem (not ordering ahead of time because the pharmacy is always slow). Then someone tells her that ‘we’ have to wait an hour between bags. I told her that I don’t. I’d already wasted enough time today and could’ve gotten another bag in easy.

I’m really pissed off at the moment both at her and at the charge nurse. The charge nurse should have done something about it because this little girl doesn’t know what she’s doing other than being able to get a really, really bad blonde job. I’m off to the sunroom.

 

Today I’m angry. I’m very angry. On September 11th 2001 the twin towers in NYC fell to a terrorist attack that could have been prevented. Instead, an unelected administration used it as a prelude to war. It was a war we didn’t need to get into. On 11-M bombs ripped through the Atocha cercanías station on a busy platform during Monday’s rush hour. ETA was blamed at first, but eventually, Al-Qaeda took responsibility. Madrid isn’t in the US. Who cares? A civil war and genocide, are going on in Syria that’s displacing hundreds of thousands of people. Syrian refugees were pouring out of the country like angered ants leaving their hill. They have to be put somewhere. They overwhelmed what Europe could do very quickly in terms of humanitarian aid. The civil war may have gotten two days in the sanitized US news. It’s Syria. Who cares? There was an attack in Lebanon Thursday night that didn’t even make the news. There have been many of them.

Friday night, ISIS pulled off a coordinated terrorist attack in Paris. PARIS? A civilized city? PARIS? The FB graphics went up almost before the event was over. At first, they were supportive, but then the right wing went into full blitz mode to continue to scare the poor American mice. All of a sudden, it was no longer about shared empathy with Paris and France. There were no more well-wishers for Paris. I transmuted into this bastardized blind hatred toward a people who were fleeing a humanitarian crisis any way they could. It became, No Muslims in My Back Yard! All Muslims are Terrorists. We should screen the Muslims and only let those who are christian in. When ISIS attacks (they are already here) in the US, just like in Europe, they will be US nationals and not foreign agents/terrorists.

The right wing and conservative christians start the spin machines and it’s no longer a humanitarian cause, it’s another fucking crusade. Now we have jihadis and crusaders. No one is going to force anyone to believe in Islam. You cannot force us to believe in your faery tale either. Nor will anyone expect you to submit to Judaism. Personally, I’d rather be stoned to death as an apostate than live within the fear fence the right wing has created.

Most of the people spewing this vile swill have never met a muslim. They’ve never picked up the Quran; let alone read it. Hell, some of them haven’t even been out of their states or counties and feel that they should be allowed an opinion on what’s happening on the world stage. WTF?!! They don’t know anything about the world stage. Mexico, Canada, the Caribbean and the Bahamas don’t count as international travel.

Why does this piss me off so much? I hate ignorance and stupidity. I’ve been to Paris many times. It’s not my favorite city, but she didn’t deserve what happened to her. I know and have visited some of the bombed venues. I’ve been to Madrid. I’ve used the Atocha station. I have friends that live there who could’ve been on that train that day if they had been on time. I’ve been to North Africa and met some of the nicest people I’ve ever know and yes, they were muslim and they didn’t care that I was gay. I was another person. I’ve been all over Europe and Central and South America. They all have one thing in common; they understand that terrorist attacks could happen anywhere at any time, but they refuse to live in fear. In the US, our politicians, censors and handlers make sure that we live in a constant state of fear just like the towns and cities under ISIS’s control.

Fuck you! Stop praying to a dead god as if it ever existed and had ‘plans’ for you. A god having plans for each and every individual on this planet and countless more that can harbor life is absurd. Open your eyes to the world around you. Read the press from the actual country. In this case, I was reading ‘Le Monde’ because some moron was quoting Fox. Luckily, I can read French and correct his misinformation.

Do something to help the world around you. Do something to aid humanity rather than scurrying down into your little xenophobic holes. Donate to UN programs or other NGOs. Help resettle your new neighbors and welcome them into your communities. By isolating them, they are far more likely to turn against us than they are to become one of us. If you’re a church-based organization, send your missionaries to the site to help, not to preach. The typical quid pro quo is unacceptable. I’m going to give you this water but you have to come to our church services is a travesty and simply plays on the weak and the innocent.

Finally, he three signs of a nation or civilization in decline are xenophobia, extreme nationalism and religious zealotry. Unless things change quickly, we will have all three in spades. It won’t be pretty.

So, I clearly had the timeframe wrong from the accident, but that’s what happens when you deal with memories from 40 years ago. The accident probably happened in October because school was in session by then and I have no idea where we were going. We were just all in the bed of the truck and dad was driving way too fast for our pock marked driveway. You know the rest of that story.

Recovery wasn’t any easier than injury. I went back to school eventually and after the initial ‘wow, look at that thing’ it all of a sudden turned into an ‘I don’t want to get near it’ thing. This is a small town. There are 500 kids K-12. (PreK hadn’t been invented yet.) Now, I have a classroom of kids I’ve know my whole life who won’t even get near me because I look like a mummy and I’m going to die. They don’t want me to make them sick. The teacher tried to calm them down and tell them that nothing would happen to them and that I was just injured and the bandages and gauze were there so I could heal and to protect the wound. Things got even worse as the gauze came off little by little. Then they could see the stitches. The stitches came out and they could see the scars. Once they could see the scars, even though this was no fault of my own, even my two closest friends abandoned me for a time.

The only person who interacted with me on a positive level was my teacher. So on top of all of the other shit, I was now teacher’s pet, by their own doing. Different is not something you want to be in elementary school. Elementary school kids are all conformists and any difference is dissected, examined and ruled as unacceptable regardless of circumstance. They will pick up on that one little difference and chew on it like a pack of hyena. You are permanently ostracized.

These are the same kids who wrote me the kind letters while I was out right after the accident happened. I was looking forward to being with them again because I liked school and I was kind of lonely and bored at home. Unfortunately, once I returned to school, I got exactly the opposite response. I was now different, strange, marginalized. This was the one singular event that drove the rest of my school experience through the next 11 grades. I was unwanted, unpopular and an outcast. I was disillusioned, angry and incredulous. I would tell my mom and she would just say that they just have to get used to it and once they do everything will be fine. My dad would just growl because I was crying and weak. (This was his fault anyway. I’m not sure why he even got to have an opinion.) Of course I cried at school from time to time when the kids would be especially mean. I didn’t know or understand what was going on.

This particular memory opened another strand of zip line of memories stretching from 1st grade through 12th grade. It was not a strand that I wanted opened yet.

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.