Goddammit I hate memory sometimes.
And everything it leads to. Nostalgia. Reminiscence. A concrete sense of Self. Rambling, confessional blog posts about supposed childhood sexual traumas. And so forth.
After all that, after my whole humiliating confessional frenzy here in my last few posts (holy crap, was that all the way back in February??), I have to admit now that I'm not entirely sure my memory of these early experiences is even correct. And I've wanted to write and post this explanation for a good while now, because those posts are still sitting there on the front page, like a severed head at a dinner party; but I've been alternately too busy, or, mostly, too embarrassed by the whole ordeal to want to return to it. But I can't just leave that shit up there for anyone to read without any context or resolution. I have to put this to bed.
So here's how it all started. I was driving to work that February morning, and there was a discussion on the radio of how children respond to parental abuse. I don't remember what it was exactly, but something they said reminded me of this childhood friend (I'm going to start calling him "Bill" just so that I have a name to refer to him by). I hadn't thought about Bill in many, many years. I remembered some of our experiences together, and I remembered his big, angry father. And that's when I suddenly made the connection and realized, "Oh! Bill was abused by his father!" And everything else just followed from that.
I still believe that to be true; I believe Bill was abused (at least mentally and emotionally, if not physically or sexually) by his father. But the rest of it, I must admit now, I am significantly less sure about. I know that Bill and I "played doctor," but I don't remember all that we did. I don't actually remember how far our sexual play went. And, I am forced to admit to myself and all of you now, I don't actually remember who suggested what. I thought I did at the time, but I've since realized that's not true. It was just too long ago now for me to remember it clearly. It was so long ago that even the things I do remember clearly are suspect. And through my research I discovered that I would be forced to admit something else, something much worse: it is entirely possible that I am the one who abused him.
Reading through literature on the subject, I was surprised to find out that one of the more common, and yet least often discussed, forms of childhood sexual abuse is to simply educate a child about sex too much at too early an age. (It had never even occurred to me before my research that this could possibly be considered a form of abuse.) Sex is one of the most complicated and complex of all human interactions, and a 4 or 5 year-old child is simply too underdeveloped to be able to fully understand it (hell, a lot of adults are too underdeveloped to be able to fully understand it, for that matter); and so therefore giving a child that age too much information on the subject can often lead them to act out behaviors that they are not able to fully understand, process, or deal with in a meaningful way. That's the basic idea.
My mother's policy was that if I was old enough to ask the question, then I was old enough to hear the answer. And she was always very quick to let me know that if I ever had any questions at all, she would do her best to try to answer them truthfully and completely. And she lived by that statement. And I was a very curious boy. I had a lot of questions. And she answered every one she could. So I remember that throughout my childhood, basically until high school, I always knew more about sex (among many other things) than any of my friends or classmates seemed to. I was proud of that, actually. It made me feel grown-up. It made me feel strong. And superior. (Realizing now, as I type this, that this may have something to do with why I value intelligence so highly, in both myself and others.)
But in terms of my memories of my experiences with Bill, that throws everything into a new light. I only actually remember one thing we did that was definitely Bill's idea, and while that was a little dirty, it also wasn't exactly sexual, either (we were naked, but there was no touching); it would fall squarely in the category of "normative childhood sexual play." I don't actually remember what else we may have done, or who might've suggested any of it. But I know that in my memories of all the other boys (and some girls) who came after Bill, I was definitely the aggressor.
The hard part to admit, is that when I suddenly realized that morning that Bill had been abused by his father, I didn't then "realize" that he had actually been acting out his abuse on me, as I originally wrote. No, the truth was that I actually just assumed that was the case, and didn't recognize that I was making an assumption. "OMG, Bill was abused by his father! What do abused children do? They act out that same abuse on others. He must've been doing that to me when we played doctor! So that's why I then went on to do it others; I was acting out his abuse on me! That's where it all started! It makes perfect sense." And it does make perfect sense. But that doesn't automatically make it true, either.
I still don't know what happened back then, and I probably never will. But I have to admit that the much more likely scenario seems to be that I was actually a victim of childhood sexual abuse, but the abuser was my mother, not Bill. And it seems much more likely that I was acting out my abuse on him (and all the other boys and girls that came after him) rather than the other way around.
Bill moved away before we even hit puberty. I haven't seen or heard from him since I was a child. I have no idea what his life has been like.
If you're still out there, "Bill," I hope you're okay. And if you're not... all I can say is, I'm so, so sorry.
It wasn't my fault. I was only a child.
Showing posts with label answers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label answers. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Apparent Exaggerations...
Still need more time to write out the full story/explanation, but I did learn something that requires an immediate update.
I knew that the language I used yesterday didn't feel quite right. It seemed inflammatory, and loaded with a ton of connotations that were not actually part of the experience I was trying to communicate. But what other language was I supposed to use? How else was I supposed to describe it?
Well, finally getting around last night to doing some very preliminary research into the topic of child-on-child sexual abuse, revealed the rather obvious fact that I'm not the only person in the world who has ever had experiences like these, and that as such, there is already a whole lexicon available to me to describe it, if I had only bothered to look.
I learned right off the bat that I was not, in fact, molested. I was not abused. What happened to me would be characterized as "Normative Childhood Sexual Play," even if it was a little more advanced than most. The difference being, I was never coerced, or threatened, or manipulated, or made to do anything I didn't want to do. All this friend of mine did was suggest the ideas; I went along with them willingly, even excitedly. And I enjoyed them completely, to the point that I then went on to suggest them to all my other friends for the next 20 years.
What I went through was a normal part of growing up that pretty much everyone goes through at some point. The big difference for me, was that it happened to me about 10 years earlier than the average. I was regularly having sex in elementary school, and I was having the kind of sex that most other people don't even know about, much less start trying to engage in, until middle school or high school. (Oddly, I steadfastly maintained my virginity, however technical, until I was much older; I think having so much sex as a child made my virginity seem more precious to me somehow, and I was determined to save it until I found someone I really loved.)
I still think my friend was abused, though. It's the only explanation I have right now for how he could be so sexually aggressive, and adventurous, and knowledgeable, at such a young age. And so it's still possible that, from his point of view, he was acting out from his history of abuse. But whether he was attempting to abuse me or not (who knows how he would've responded if I'd said no), I wasn't abused. I went willingly, and loved every minute of it.
And while I feel a lot better now, knowing that I don't actually have to wear the "childhood sexual abuse victim" label for the rest of my life, there's still a lot left here that I need to unpack. I'm still not sure what all this means, or what I'm supposed to do with this new information.
I knew that the language I used yesterday didn't feel quite right. It seemed inflammatory, and loaded with a ton of connotations that were not actually part of the experience I was trying to communicate. But what other language was I supposed to use? How else was I supposed to describe it?
Well, finally getting around last night to doing some very preliminary research into the topic of child-on-child sexual abuse, revealed the rather obvious fact that I'm not the only person in the world who has ever had experiences like these, and that as such, there is already a whole lexicon available to me to describe it, if I had only bothered to look.
I learned right off the bat that I was not, in fact, molested. I was not abused. What happened to me would be characterized as "Normative Childhood Sexual Play," even if it was a little more advanced than most. The difference being, I was never coerced, or threatened, or manipulated, or made to do anything I didn't want to do. All this friend of mine did was suggest the ideas; I went along with them willingly, even excitedly. And I enjoyed them completely, to the point that I then went on to suggest them to all my other friends for the next 20 years.
What I went through was a normal part of growing up that pretty much everyone goes through at some point. The big difference for me, was that it happened to me about 10 years earlier than the average. I was regularly having sex in elementary school, and I was having the kind of sex that most other people don't even know about, much less start trying to engage in, until middle school or high school. (Oddly, I steadfastly maintained my virginity, however technical, until I was much older; I think having so much sex as a child made my virginity seem more precious to me somehow, and I was determined to save it until I found someone I really loved.)
I still think my friend was abused, though. It's the only explanation I have right now for how he could be so sexually aggressive, and adventurous, and knowledgeable, at such a young age. And so it's still possible that, from his point of view, he was acting out from his history of abuse. But whether he was attempting to abuse me or not (who knows how he would've responded if I'd said no), I wasn't abused. I went willingly, and loved every minute of it.
And while I feel a lot better now, knowing that I don't actually have to wear the "childhood sexual abuse victim" label for the rest of my life, there's still a lot left here that I need to unpack. I'm still not sure what all this means, or what I'm supposed to do with this new information.
Monday, February 9, 2015
We Are What We Remember We Are...
I realized this morning, that I was - rather technically, I must caveat - molested by one of my very first childhood friends. And that this series of events was directly responsible for shaping a very large portion of my personality; of who I still am today.
I'm honestly not sure how I feel about this. There's way too much story there to be able to tell it all right now. But I had to at least get this much, the realization of it, the acknowledgment of it, out of me and into existence, before I forgot it again, or subsumed it in some other way.
I feel like I'm supposed to be upset about this. But I don't think I feel particularly upset about it, at least not yet. (There is a small part of me, however, that is upset at myself for not being upset about it, for whatever that's worth.) I'd always remembered - and still remember - our "playing doctor" as being entirely consensual. (As much as it could be, at least. We were about the same age at the time, so technically, legally, neither of us could consent; but we were also the only ones involved. So how does that work?) So, I've never felt - and still don't feel - victimized in any way. I feel no enmity or ill-will towards this individual, and never have. And the parts of my Self that I can now suddenly attribute to my early friendship with this person (at least, the ones I know about) are not things that I've ever felt particularly bad about or wished to be different. Nor have I ever felt a need to investigate their root, or determine their origin.
Which I guess is part of why it feels so strange to suddenly know where they all come from. I received an answer to an absolutely massive question, before I had ever even asked it in the first place. There's an almost vertigo to it; the sensation of it makes you dizzy. A memory you've had for almost 40 years, and suddenly, from out of nowhere and apropos of nothing, one tiny little detail you'd left behind somewhere along the way comes back into focus; and it fits like a keystone into place with all the other memories it connects to: that time, that place, those people; filling in a hole you never knew was there; and now you see it all so clearly, understanding it all for the very first time, after 40 years; and that realization leads to another, which leads to another, cascading down through your history like a line of dominoes, until suddenly four decades of Self have been re-written. You understand yourself now in a new, better, more complete way, a more whole way, than you ever have before. But you also know now, that you're not who you thought you were; and you never have been. So, then, who are you?
That's kind of a lot to handle when it all hits you in a matter of seconds while you're driving down the highway late to work on a Monday morning.
So, yeah. This one's gonna take a while to unpack, I guess.
I'm honestly not sure how I feel about this. There's way too much story there to be able to tell it all right now. But I had to at least get this much, the realization of it, the acknowledgment of it, out of me and into existence, before I forgot it again, or subsumed it in some other way.
I feel like I'm supposed to be upset about this. But I don't think I feel particularly upset about it, at least not yet. (There is a small part of me, however, that is upset at myself for not being upset about it, for whatever that's worth.) I'd always remembered - and still remember - our "playing doctor" as being entirely consensual. (As much as it could be, at least. We were about the same age at the time, so technically, legally, neither of us could consent; but we were also the only ones involved. So how does that work?) So, I've never felt - and still don't feel - victimized in any way. I feel no enmity or ill-will towards this individual, and never have. And the parts of my Self that I can now suddenly attribute to my early friendship with this person (at least, the ones I know about) are not things that I've ever felt particularly bad about or wished to be different. Nor have I ever felt a need to investigate their root, or determine their origin.
Which I guess is part of why it feels so strange to suddenly know where they all come from. I received an answer to an absolutely massive question, before I had ever even asked it in the first place. There's an almost vertigo to it; the sensation of it makes you dizzy. A memory you've had for almost 40 years, and suddenly, from out of nowhere and apropos of nothing, one tiny little detail you'd left behind somewhere along the way comes back into focus; and it fits like a keystone into place with all the other memories it connects to: that time, that place, those people; filling in a hole you never knew was there; and now you see it all so clearly, understanding it all for the very first time, after 40 years; and that realization leads to another, which leads to another, cascading down through your history like a line of dominoes, until suddenly four decades of Self have been re-written. You understand yourself now in a new, better, more complete way, a more whole way, than you ever have before. But you also know now, that you're not who you thought you were; and you never have been. So, then, who are you?
That's kind of a lot to handle when it all hits you in a matter of seconds while you're driving down the highway late to work on a Monday morning.
So, yeah. This one's gonna take a while to unpack, I guess.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Kicking Against The Muse...
Blah blah blah... what to write, what to write?
Kickball double-header in the July heat coming up in about an hour. Not really looking forward to it much.
Still haven't gotten my computer(s) back. Still no idea when I will.
Really looking forward to getting back into Mass Effect this weekend.
...
This isn't really writing. There's nothing creative or interesting or worthwhile about simply cataloging the most boring minutiae of your daily life.
But I'm stuck in the office, bored-to-death by a mile-high stack of pointless busy-work that I've been groaning through for almost two weeks now, and I've got about twenty minutes to post something before I have to get ready to go to a company fucking kickball game, of all fucking things. What am I supposed to do? Make art?
...
...
...
Yes.
Yes, that's exactly what you should fucking do. Make some fucking art.
If it isn't worth doing, then don't fucking bother. You're just wasting time.
But I'm not an artist. I'm just an approaching-middle-age-teenager; a pseudo-hipster dipshit. A corporate wage-slave. And a wannabe addict/mystic.
Everyone's an artist. Most people just don't bother, is all. All you have to do is make the effort. It will touch someone, somewhere, in some way.
Express, motherfucker!
Um, ok, uh, here goes:
There, that wasn't so hard now, was it?
No, I guess not. It wasn't any good, either.
You're still missing the point. It's not about "Good" or "Bad." "Bad" is inevitable, and "Good" is something that will come with time, or it won't, and there's very little you can do about that, so there's no point in worrying about it.
The point, is to do it.
That's all.
Kickball double-header in the July heat coming up in about an hour. Not really looking forward to it much.
Still haven't gotten my computer(s) back. Still no idea when I will.
Really looking forward to getting back into Mass Effect this weekend.
...
This isn't really writing. There's nothing creative or interesting or worthwhile about simply cataloging the most boring minutiae of your daily life.
But I'm stuck in the office, bored-to-death by a mile-high stack of pointless busy-work that I've been groaning through for almost two weeks now, and I've got about twenty minutes to post something before I have to get ready to go to a company fucking kickball game, of all fucking things. What am I supposed to do? Make art?
...
...
...
Yes.
Yes, that's exactly what you should fucking do. Make some fucking art.
If it isn't worth doing, then don't fucking bother. You're just wasting time.
But I'm not an artist. I'm just an approaching-middle-age-teenager; a pseudo-hipster dipshit. A corporate wage-slave. And a wannabe addict/mystic.
Everyone's an artist. Most people just don't bother, is all. All you have to do is make the effort. It will touch someone, somewhere, in some way.
Express, motherfucker!
Um, ok, uh, here goes:
*cough*
I don't know which upsets me more
That I am saddened by my Self
And my life
Or the Guilt
Stemming from the Knowledge
That I have no Right
Nor Reason
To feel this way at all
I'm a King
dressed as a Beggar
Who will give me Alms?
There, that wasn't so hard now, was it?
No, I guess not. It wasn't any good, either.
You're still missing the point. It's not about "Good" or "Bad." "Bad" is inevitable, and "Good" is something that will come with time, or it won't, and there's very little you can do about that, so there's no point in worrying about it.
The point, is to do it.
That's all.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Confounding Conundrum Countered, Conclusively...
Regarding the question, "if I'm still getting high, but just in healthier ways, am I really changing? am I really getting better?" - a question I have been asking myself here repeatedly for some time now - I think I finally have an answer.
My counselor read my blog entry yesterday regarding the SMART meeting (I sometimes send him pertinent entries to keep him updated between sessions, and he is gracious enough to read them), and he sent me this reply:
Short answer: getting high is just a part of who we are, and we wouldn't be here without it; so, healthy methods are okay, but everything in moderation, always.
It seems so obvious now. And in hindsight, I feel like I already knew it. I just couldn't find my own way there, for some reason. I was over-analyzing the situation again, I think. Missing the forest for the trees. I'm glad I had someone there who could explain it to me in a way that I could understand, and use. Thanks, Doc.
I enjoyed my workout-induced endorphin high this morning, guilt-free.
PS - I kind of want to talk about this at my next SMART meeting, but I don't know if that's because I want to update them on my progress, or if I just want to start a confrontation with the panicky facilitator and prove him wrong in front of the rest of the group. Can't deny that'd be fun. But definitely a dick-move, too. We'll see how I feel next week, I guess.
My counselor read my blog entry yesterday regarding the SMART meeting (I sometimes send him pertinent entries to keep him updated between sessions, and he is gracious enough to read them), and he sent me this reply:
A desire to want to get high and/or altering our mind/mood state is part of our genetic, biological, and chemical make-up as Humans. It is an underlying instinctual desire that we all have. That's why we have serotonin, dopamine, endorphins, adrenaline, and various other chemical neurotransmitters in the first place. These chemicals are a vital part of our survival mechanism, that's why sex, eating, and exercise can feel ssoooooo gooood! These chemicals are a part of [our] neuro-chemical make up to ensure pleasure when we engage in these activities. These activities are necessary for the healthy survival of any species. A desire to feel good or even feel high or to alter our mental status is very much a part of who we are as humans. This is why every civilization known to Man has developed some sort of mind altering practices or substances. The harm is when we lose the capacity to regulate the chemical process either internally or externally. Excess is what changes the dynamic from healthy to unhealthy and triggers addictive behaviors.
Short answer: getting high is just a part of who we are, and we wouldn't be here without it; so, healthy methods are okay, but everything in moderation, always.
It seems so obvious now. And in hindsight, I feel like I already knew it. I just couldn't find my own way there, for some reason. I was over-analyzing the situation again, I think. Missing the forest for the trees. I'm glad I had someone there who could explain it to me in a way that I could understand, and use. Thanks, Doc.
I enjoyed my workout-induced endorphin high this morning, guilt-free.
PS - I kind of want to talk about this at my next SMART meeting, but I don't know if that's because I want to update them on my progress, or if I just want to start a confrontation with the panicky facilitator and prove him wrong in front of the rest of the group. Can't deny that'd be fun. But definitely a dick-move, too. We'll see how I feel next week, I guess.
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