Since my last post, I’ve kind of found myself in an almost funk, if that’s the right way to say it. I’ve always known the story but have always set it up as just an incident in my life that really didn’t matter. Something like a schoolyard fight that would be forgotten or placed so far back in my memories that I’d only cruise by it in my thoughts every once in a while.
I’m not sure what, in the last few months, has brought it back into the forefront of my thoughts. Sometime before Christmas I started hearing his voice. I’ve heard it a number of times over the years but this was different. It was much louder, much closer and much more consistent. I started waking up in the morning hearing it. I’d hear it throughout the day. I was always able to shove it aside in the past but this time, I just couldn’t shake it. I knew that he couldn’t harm me, or anyone else for that matter, yet still felt a fear. I keep finding myself right back where I was all those years ago.
Writing about it had to happen. It’s how I deal with everything in my life and this was quickly becoming something major. I’ve talked to a few people about the feelings that enveloped me while writing it and how I was able to finally admit to myself how much of an impact on my life this incident had. This is the first time I can remember placing blame on someone else for something so wrong with me. What I’m finding a bit difficult is that I actually find myself feeling guilty about pushing the blame onto someone else. Questioning how I’ve been unable to “get over” something that took place almost four decades ago. I know that there are so many others that have been through much worse and I truly marvel at their abilities to have gotten past it. They are much stronger than I, that’s for sure.
The problem I’m having now is the fight within myself over whether I was right in bringing it up at all. Since bringing it out into the open, I’m finding myself much closer to it than I’ve been in years. It’s a major topic of conversation in my head. I’m finding the smallest things in my everyday life have a way of reminding me of it. I just hear the voice on a regular basis lately. I know I’ll be seeing someone to talk to about it soon, my benefits just came through from work, and hopefully that’ll help me keep things in perspective. Until then though, all I can do is do all I can, if you know what I mean.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
I Was 12
A 12 year old boy is put on a Greyhound bus to go visit a relative less than 100 miles away. While on this bus, events happen that, looking back some 38 years, seem to have had a major influence on this boys life. What happened on that bus has happened to thousands upon thousands of kids throughout time. The issue with this particular time is that this boy is me.
To say a sexual molestation took place would, to most people, be an untruth. To a 12-year-old child, it certainly wasn’t something he’d admit to even if it were. To a 50-year-old adult, looking back over all that time, I still have trouble figuring out how to label it. Nothing physically happened, aside from a hand consistently being placed on my knee. It was the words being spoken that still echo inside my head to this very day. If there’s such a thing as verbal molestation, well, I guess this might be the definition.
Being asked if I’d like this done to me, or how about that? Me, in a voice weakened by fear and drowning in tears, saying no to each query. “You’re so beautiful,” he’d say, over and over again. “Why don’t you let me just…?” Me, again unable to get the words out, for a complete lack of air in my lungs. I was 12 years old, you Bastard, 12 years old.
Over the years I’ve told a few people this story and I’m always reassured that it wasn’t my fault. Logically I know that. I also know that I didn’t have to sit in the window seat on a nearly empty bus, but that’s what 12 year olds do. I could have screamed and yelled. Maybe not. I don’t think my voice could have been heard by anyone, outside of my head.
I remember his face. I remember every line, every bump. I remember how his mustache had a bit more color on one side than the other. I remember how one eyelid was a little more closed than the other. I remember his dirty fingernails as his hand kept finding my knee as the verbal assault went on for what seemed like months to a 12 year old child.
I was chatting with a friend the other day about this and she asked if I still look for him. I couldn’t really answer. I’m absolutely convinced, even after all these years, that I’d recognize him. I’d like to think that I’d find him and hurt him somehow but we all know that I wouldn’t confront him in any way. He scared me like nothing has ever scared me before or since. After 38 years, he still has a hold on me on some level. He won. I fear intimacy. Every Shrink I’ve talked to about this has put a direct link to the two. Is it any wonder that holding hands is probably my favorite thing in the world? That’s what 12 year olds do. I was 12 years old once and because of this man, in many parts of my life, I still am. I was only 12 years old.
To say a sexual molestation took place would, to most people, be an untruth. To a 12-year-old child, it certainly wasn’t something he’d admit to even if it were. To a 50-year-old adult, looking back over all that time, I still have trouble figuring out how to label it. Nothing physically happened, aside from a hand consistently being placed on my knee. It was the words being spoken that still echo inside my head to this very day. If there’s such a thing as verbal molestation, well, I guess this might be the definition.
Being asked if I’d like this done to me, or how about that? Me, in a voice weakened by fear and drowning in tears, saying no to each query. “You’re so beautiful,” he’d say, over and over again. “Why don’t you let me just…?” Me, again unable to get the words out, for a complete lack of air in my lungs. I was 12 years old, you Bastard, 12 years old.
Over the years I’ve told a few people this story and I’m always reassured that it wasn’t my fault. Logically I know that. I also know that I didn’t have to sit in the window seat on a nearly empty bus, but that’s what 12 year olds do. I could have screamed and yelled. Maybe not. I don’t think my voice could have been heard by anyone, outside of my head.
I remember his face. I remember every line, every bump. I remember how his mustache had a bit more color on one side than the other. I remember how one eyelid was a little more closed than the other. I remember his dirty fingernails as his hand kept finding my knee as the verbal assault went on for what seemed like months to a 12 year old child.
I was chatting with a friend the other day about this and she asked if I still look for him. I couldn’t really answer. I’m absolutely convinced, even after all these years, that I’d recognize him. I’d like to think that I’d find him and hurt him somehow but we all know that I wouldn’t confront him in any way. He scared me like nothing has ever scared me before or since. After 38 years, he still has a hold on me on some level. He won. I fear intimacy. Every Shrink I’ve talked to about this has put a direct link to the two. Is it any wonder that holding hands is probably my favorite thing in the world? That’s what 12 year olds do. I was 12 years old once and because of this man, in many parts of my life, I still am. I was only 12 years old.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
I Get Letters
Doing this writing thing has, to say the least, allowed both friends and total strangers to see a part of me that they would never show others. In writing I’m not afraid to show the face we all hide from others. It also helps me while out in public. I can be alone in my thoughts and most people know that I’m fine. In most instances folks are concerned when someone is very quiet or detached in a group. There was a time in my life when I was always being asked if I was “ok” or if everything was alright. If there was something wrong, those that knew me best would know what was going on and I always found that remarkably comforting.
Another positive side of my writing is the allowance of trust that friends along with total strangers have bestowed upon me. This side effect is probably the one thing I’m most proud of when it comes to this. I couldn’t even count the number of emails I receive, mostly from people I don’t know, telling me their deepest, darkest secrets mostly relating to whatever my latest post was. I sometimes feel as though my email box has become some type of a confessional to many. I almost feel like a voyeur while reading these notes admitting the darkest secrets of ones life.
The subject matter ranges from petty crimes to things much more serious. I’ve had notes telling me of a transgression against a sibling over 30 years in the past. Most of these are just a way for the writer to get something off their chest. I never respond to these notes, I have no intention of becoming a “Dear Abby” or anything like that. I have, in some instances, sent a note asking if I could include their tale in a blog and if they agree, I sometimes have.
I will say this though: I have never written anything about anyone’s issues told to me in confidence. I think most of the writers of these notes understand that and that’s a good feeling to have. It’s one thing to be believed in by those that know me, and I value that dearly. It’s something totally different to have that same trust placed by total strangers. Total strangers to me at least. I sometimes get the feeling that these strangers know me a little better than I’m willing to admit.
Another positive side of my writing is the allowance of trust that friends along with total strangers have bestowed upon me. This side effect is probably the one thing I’m most proud of when it comes to this. I couldn’t even count the number of emails I receive, mostly from people I don’t know, telling me their deepest, darkest secrets mostly relating to whatever my latest post was. I sometimes feel as though my email box has become some type of a confessional to many. I almost feel like a voyeur while reading these notes admitting the darkest secrets of ones life.
The subject matter ranges from petty crimes to things much more serious. I’ve had notes telling me of a transgression against a sibling over 30 years in the past. Most of these are just a way for the writer to get something off their chest. I never respond to these notes, I have no intention of becoming a “Dear Abby” or anything like that. I have, in some instances, sent a note asking if I could include their tale in a blog and if they agree, I sometimes have.
I will say this though: I have never written anything about anyone’s issues told to me in confidence. I think most of the writers of these notes understand that and that’s a good feeling to have. It’s one thing to be believed in by those that know me, and I value that dearly. It’s something totally different to have that same trust placed by total strangers. Total strangers to me at least. I sometimes get the feeling that these strangers know me a little better than I’m willing to admit.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Hey Nineteen
I went to a local haircutting place to get the old noggin shaved. Seriously, I must be the easiest haircut they get in a day. I just walk in and ask for a number one blade all the way around. Anyway, I go in and some little Pixie that couldn’t have weighed more than 17 lbs. with 13 shades of hair has me sit in her chair and starts to wrap my neck with that tissue they use.
It’s at this point that I’m always asked if I really want to use a number one blade. They ask if I realize how tight to the scalp it’ll make my hair. Have you seen my hair? Do I look like I worry about how tight to the scalp it is?
Once the buzzing begins, for reasons I’ve never understood, whoever is doing the buzzing starts doing their “get personal with the customer” gig. I prefer the no questions cut but I understand that they want to give me that personal experience. Every once in a while there may be a decent conversation that ensues but yesterday I was in the chair while someone who may, on a good day, pass for 18 tried to converse with me.
This is the part that got to me. Truly, there was nothing that this young woman and I could have talked about, in the time allotted that would interest either of us. It occurred to me that I’m fully one generation older than this girl. Talking politics didn’t seem to be something that would get us anywhere and I didn’t care enough to ask her about who she was dating. We each made a feeble attempt at conversation as I just waited for the cut to end.
Something that I’m well conversed in is music. As I was sitting there I thought about bringing up the subject. How could this young woman know about the music I listened to? How could I know anything about the bands she enjoyed? I had to giggle inside as a song started playing in my head. “Hey Nineteen” by Steely Dan started ringing very true to me. I’m getting old.
“Hey nineteen, that’s Aretha Franklin.
She don’t remember the Queen of Soul”
Ahhh, to be young again…
It’s at this point that I’m always asked if I really want to use a number one blade. They ask if I realize how tight to the scalp it’ll make my hair. Have you seen my hair? Do I look like I worry about how tight to the scalp it is?
Once the buzzing begins, for reasons I’ve never understood, whoever is doing the buzzing starts doing their “get personal with the customer” gig. I prefer the no questions cut but I understand that they want to give me that personal experience. Every once in a while there may be a decent conversation that ensues but yesterday I was in the chair while someone who may, on a good day, pass for 18 tried to converse with me.
This is the part that got to me. Truly, there was nothing that this young woman and I could have talked about, in the time allotted that would interest either of us. It occurred to me that I’m fully one generation older than this girl. Talking politics didn’t seem to be something that would get us anywhere and I didn’t care enough to ask her about who she was dating. We each made a feeble attempt at conversation as I just waited for the cut to end.
Something that I’m well conversed in is music. As I was sitting there I thought about bringing up the subject. How could this young woman know about the music I listened to? How could I know anything about the bands she enjoyed? I had to giggle inside as a song started playing in my head. “Hey Nineteen” by Steely Dan started ringing very true to me. I’m getting old.
“Hey nineteen, that’s Aretha Franklin.
She don’t remember the Queen of Soul”
Ahhh, to be young again…
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