A little about me and my dumpster fire
htsba78
Registrant
Hey guys, since I’m challenging myself to nurture more of a connection in the MS community, I want to tackle one of the two parts I’m most apprehensive about — the intro and my story.
I grew up an ‘80s kid, fabricating a sitcom-esque childhood with my Big Wheel, bottle rockets, Atari games, a loving family, and the belief that I was a happy boy. I’m gay, an unintentional social chameleon, have been a carpenter, a comedian, been committed, a college guest lecturer, been homeless, but I have no clue who I am without someone else’s expectations to create a reflection from.
I’ve been in trauma therapy for about six years. I think I’ve benefited from it, but part of me regrets ever doing it. I remembered about 5% of the abuse before therapy, so the ghosts in the machine were wreaking havoc, and now, I think I’ve recalled/uncovered about 50% of the story — clear memories of hundreds of specific incidents — and identified the locations where most of them took place.
Therapy has helped me understand and better accept why I have such a dark sense of humor; why I struggle with body dysmorphia while I see beauty in everyone else’s shape; why I could watch a flower pot and a whale fall from the sky, obliterate my home, and respond with, “That was weird but shit happens,” whereas spilled coffee or a failed two-step authentication to get into my Home Depot account can put me in the fetal position, questioning why I don’t just unsubscribe from life because “I just can’t even!”
So helpful in that regard, but along the way, I realized that my parents were psychopaths who were raped as children, that I was intentionally bred to be abused (my CSA and trafficking through multiple military bases started at four days old and went until a few days before I turned 13… which was going to be the day they snuffed my life {it was left up to me to pick who would pull the trigger though, so, that was… something} after a rape-athon in a forest in South Dakota), and that now, closer to 50 than 40, I don’t know how to feel pleasure — but I refuse to let that be the end of the story… one more exercise of the same defiance we’ve all exhibited in not allowing “that fuckin’ thing” to be the thing that beats us.
I grew up an ‘80s kid, fabricating a sitcom-esque childhood with my Big Wheel, bottle rockets, Atari games, a loving family, and the belief that I was a happy boy. I’m gay, an unintentional social chameleon, have been a carpenter, a comedian, been committed, a college guest lecturer, been homeless, but I have no clue who I am without someone else’s expectations to create a reflection from.
I’ve been in trauma therapy for about six years. I think I’ve benefited from it, but part of me regrets ever doing it. I remembered about 5% of the abuse before therapy, so the ghosts in the machine were wreaking havoc, and now, I think I’ve recalled/uncovered about 50% of the story — clear memories of hundreds of specific incidents — and identified the locations where most of them took place.
Therapy has helped me understand and better accept why I have such a dark sense of humor; why I struggle with body dysmorphia while I see beauty in everyone else’s shape; why I could watch a flower pot and a whale fall from the sky, obliterate my home, and respond with, “That was weird but shit happens,” whereas spilled coffee or a failed two-step authentication to get into my Home Depot account can put me in the fetal position, questioning why I don’t just unsubscribe from life because “I just can’t even!”
So helpful in that regard, but along the way, I realized that my parents were psychopaths who were raped as children, that I was intentionally bred to be abused (my CSA and trafficking through multiple military bases started at four days old and went until a few days before I turned 13… which was going to be the day they snuffed my life {it was left up to me to pick who would pull the trigger though, so, that was… something} after a rape-athon in a forest in South Dakota), and that now, closer to 50 than 40, I don’t know how to feel pleasure — but I refuse to let that be the end of the story… one more exercise of the same defiance we’ve all exhibited in not allowing “that fuckin’ thing” to be the thing that beats us.
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