Chapter 2 Whole Again
A SLOW AWAKENING
40 years, was a long time to be lost in the shadows of time, adrift in a world of half-truths, wishful thinking, and denial. Always struggling to be the person you want to be, mirrored by the truth that never stops reminding you of the person you are. It is a long time to carry the burdens of abuse, even a longer time to delay true awareness and recovery.
I came to realize, I no longer could run from the lie, which was my life; the time came to stop, turn, and face the hairy monster of my childhood dreams. Monsters or demons, the labels don’t matter, they have been my constant pursuers, always steering the compass of my life off course. They were the Ox yoke, and the taskmaster’s whip, who never relented in their pursuit of total dominance. Their tally was the sum of the damage done to so many others and me. The realization I had been badly damaged emotional allowed me to see the lie of my life for it was, and what it has done to me.
It was a funny thing, this revelation and how it evolved. At first, a month or two prior, it was an overwhelming sense of truth which I finally had emotionally connected to. It was also a feeling of sadness fueled by my new truth. It was as if a light had been turned on and everything I knew that was lurking in the dark was finally fully lit and in full view exposed by the brilliant light of truth. I was reminded of my parents’ words as a child. “There is nothing in the dark that isn’t there when the light is on.” Oh how true this is. And in this sense I found profound sadness looking me in the eye, fortified by anger, hurt, betrayal, resentment and hate of myself for letting it happen. It was a lot to deal with and I had to learn to connect with each of these emotions and wounds if I was going to heal. I knew from my own talks with people I cared about; I would have to embrace each one rather than fight them. I had fought them my entire life and in the end, I only delayed the enviable confrontation all victims must face. There are many ways to die but being alive and dead on the inside is the worst of the worst. Only by embracing my demons could I learn to heal from their pain. It was no different than treating a physical wound. It would take the same sensitivity and empathy needed to treat the wound of a child. And it is a wounded child I was dealing with.
The sadness I feel when I realize the harm done to me, or anyone who has been sexually abused, is overwhelming. I carried these burdens so long that they became part of me, and I became part of them. It is difficult for me fathom the number of years that could have been so different if I had a normal childhood or if I could have sought help sooner. How many more things could I have done or achieved if I was not so wrapped up in this stuff? How many dreams did I lose? It is so sad to feel the loss of so much of myself, and for what? Moreover, how many people are out there right now, suffering and waiting for a lifeline to be thrown by anyone? Waiting for anyone to have the courage to help; waiting for anyone to believe them and do the right thing? How many kids are being abused as I write these words? How many kids are watching a caretaker or friend transform before their eyes into the monsters chasing them in their dreams? This is the saddest of all of it, the kids and adults who are still trapped and there is not a damned thing I can do for them. Sadder yet, are the many kids who did not have to be abused: abused because people choose to turn a blind eye.
Since my fateful day in the cemetery, this is how I have been feeling. I can see my life with perfect clarity, all the good, and all the bad. Whatever happened to me it has left me with a keen awareness about my life with a sense of relief and sadness, in ways I have never experienced before. I believe this is what they call the" Awareness" stage of Recovery. I may not like what I am learning, but there was a reassuring feeling this is all right. But forty years! It is mind-boggling. What was more amazing is I had no sense of needing to hide or sugarcoat my past, since the cemetery. I had a different sense of the shame I carried for so long.
Although I had not formally started my recovery as planned, I felt I was making real progress.
I am not sure why, but I felt I was in a good place, even if it did not feel very good. It is not all bad because I had new hope to live a happy and full life. I had a sense it was no longer a dream or a goal, it is simply something that was going to happen because I had finally put this burden to rest. While my mood and attitude were somewhat somber, I had a solid level of optimism. Something I was used to.
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However, it is not just about the cemetery. After I decided that I would deal with the cancer I went to the doctor, and what a surprise. Oh, what intricate webs we weave! He did his thing with tests and as it turns out, I didn’t have cancer. I was totally floored again. It was relativity minor to correct compared with cancer. I didn’t know whether to cry for being so stupid for not having an immediate second opinion, or whether I should jump for joy because I was so stupid. It seems I had been thrown another particular twist of fate. How much longer would it have taken me to step out of denial, if this cancer scared had not happen? Would I have ever stepped out of denial? I doubt it. It is said, God works in mysterious ways. Maybe what they say is right. For the most part, I feel pretty stupid but very grateful. This new twist sure put everything in a new perspective. What a frigging ride. How ironic though, a misdiagnosed cancer revealed the real cancer.
How do I describe how it feels to live so long with blinders on? To wake up every day, knowing you have a past that never let’s go and nobody can know but everyone probably does know and you can't escape it. Knowing every time, you see them, you are not sure what they are thinking about you, if anything. Is he gay? Is he a loser, does he care, or do they even care? I knew it would only take one wrong comment to bring the house of cards tumbling down. I was always on my guard, always uncomfortable around the people I love and cared about. I was always trying to carry the shame and guilt shrouded in a fake persona of false confidence and a made-up self-image. It was painful never being able to stay at my mother’s house without feeling anxieties from the past, or sleep in her house because of memories that never go away, or the cryptic physical reaction of fear and anxiety, and always fighting an overwhelming need to run.
living with blinders is possible because I did. It took a lot kidding myself, and some very clever defense mechanisms, but nonetheless I did it. Every tactic I created was tailored to keep the truth suppressed. To keep me from seeing what I didn't want to believe. It was never a consideration to consider anything but total suppression of my past. I created a world in an emotional cocoon to keep myself from feeling or seeing the truth. It was a game, a very dangerous and damaging game.
Part of my problem was a trap I fell into when I thought I had finally dealt with my abuse and began patting myself on the back for having triumphed over my abusers. A trap I had sprung on myself in my early twenties.
It was the early eighties (I was in my mid-twenties)and I was in the middle of re-building my home destroyed by fire. I had been doing it alone and after nearly two years, I was really burned out. I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained. I had insurance so visiting doctors was easy to do. I visited my medical doctor and told him I was interested in talking to a physiatrist. I figured it was time to start dealing with my depression. I explained everything to the physiatrist and he decided to offer me a new series of antidepressants. I had no problem with trying antidepressants; also he recommended I begin visiting a therapist. I had no problem with trying anything at this point. I just wanted to feel differently. I never mentioned the abuse to either the doctor or the therapist, because in my mind it was not a problem. The abuse was just a history event and nothing more.
Things did not go well with my drugs. I was told it could take up to eight weeks to feel the benefits of the drug. In the course of the treatment, the dosages were continually adjusted up and with each increase came a new series of side effects. The doctor gave me various drugs to help with the side effects. Unfortunately, I kept getting worse until one night after I had picked up the new prescription at a higher dosage. I took one pill from the bottle; I had already not been feeling right. However, the doctor kept reassuring me it was normal and not to worry. Shortly after taking this pill, I laid down and I really began to feel bad. I was having a very hard time staying conscious or lucid. I realized I was in trouble. I didn’t have the phone hooked up and there were no cell phones. I lived on a dead end dirt road, 1500 feet off the main road and my one neighbor was not home. I was in a bad way in my mind. Therefore, I decided I had no choice but to try to get to the main road where someone could see me. I couldn’t walk, I was having a terrible reaction and felt poisoned. I crawled on my hands and knees to my car. I pulled myself into the driver's seat because I realized there was no way I was going to be able to crawl to the main road. I decided I
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was going to try to drive to the main road and I would flag someone down. This was the last thing I remembered.
The next thing I knew, it is the next day and I was waking up in the Emergency Room at the hospital. I wasn't feeling so good. I had oxygen and IVs along with heart monitors hooked to me. The doc came over to talk with and asked what I had taken. I told him I didn’t know what he meant. He said I had an overdose. And I asked him, "Of what?"
He said he was hoping l could tell him what it was. I told him the meds I was taking and said they found my prescription on me and that he didn't think they caused the problem because there was only one pill taken. After a lengthy conversation about the drug regimen I was on, he finally realized I was having a reaction to the meds. It took the better part of the rest of the day for me to convince the doctor to release me so I could go to my doctor at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston.
Before I left the hospital, I asked how I got to the hospital and they told me I drove my car to the Emergency Room door and had to be removed from the car. That really scared me because I had absolutely no memory of driving my car. Good thing it was very late at night.
When I was released, I was able to get an appointment with my doctor at Mass General for the next day.
When I walked into my doctor’s office he said, "Man, you look terrible." He had me lay down and after I told him the story, he immediately did some blood work. He had me wait for the results. It turns out I was 400 % above the maximum allowable blood level for the primary drug I was on. He explained I was the victim of prescription drug mismanagement. I asked him, what did he mean? He explained I should have had weekly blood tests for the drug I was taking. I was never given one. He explained about once a month, someone like me walks into his office because of doctors not managing a drug properly. My body was not metabolizing this drug and therefore it was poisoning me. He told me I should not have been able to walk into his office. He also told me he wished he could testify in court against doctors like this but his hospital wouldn't let him. He was that upset. I never mentioned anything about suing anyone; I was in too much shock. Then he dropped a second bombshell, more good news for me. He explained I could not just come off these drugs cold turkey. My body was addicted and I should consider entering into a detox facility with 24 hour monitoring for the first two weeks or however long it took to get my blood levels down to a safe level. I couldn’t believe it. What the hell, I finally decided to deal with the depression and this is how it ends up! I was totally pissed. I just wanted to punch the psychiatrist in the mouth. My doctor showed me in his book of pills where it says, patients must have weekly blood levels checked. The idiot never read the directions. He could have killed me, and dam near did. I kept telling this moron I didn’t feel right and he tried to convince me it was normal. And so began the next chapter in my life out of the abyss yet still in it?
Fortunately, I had excellent insurance with Digital Equipment Corp and I was able to enter into an inpatient detox hospital in New Hampshire. It was a very good one and not far from home. I was mad as hell and almost decided I was not going to go through with it. I would rather have died, than go through the humiliation of any type of addiction detox. I knew the reasons didn’t matter when it came to people who are cruel and of limited thinking, I would be labeled nuts. I was not a happy camper. I was unhappy when I was told the first couple of days was required in a lockup unit. This had a major effect on me. I had been in emotional lock up most of my life in one form or another and this was not a good situation for me.
Nevertheless, I survived and was transferred to a private room.
I was having major withdrawal symptoms that were anything but fun. But I was determined to get beyond this and start living my life again. I was required to see a psychiatrist once a day but nothing else and I had constant monitoring for the first week or two. I noticed other patients had a regimen of required group meetings, meditation exercises and a relatively structured program of recovery. I was exempt from all of this and I was ok with not having to participate in any of it. I just wanted to get this stuff out of my system and move on to a better life.
A funny thing began to happen during my one hour per day visit with the psychiatrist. He recognized my defense mechanisms and he started to challenge me. I decided after a couple of weeks of being
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cleverly probed by my doctor, what the hell, I am here why not talk about the abuse, after all, all I had was time on my hands.
It was during these sessions when I began to realize how much the abuse was bothering me. I had not realized I was struggling with any of it. In my mind, it had ended it and that was that. He was a good doctor and I started opening up. After a few more visits, he convinced me to go to his group sessions. I didn’t want anything to do with talking about any of this with other people especially strangers who were in detox for drug and alcohol addiction. I didn't see any connection between me and them and I was too ashamed to want to participate, but I capitulated and agreed to try it. My blood levels were near normal and I was feeling pretty good so why not kill a little more time in a group session. I was already bored, so what the hell, why not.
After a week or so of listening to the group’s problems I found myself nearly bursting trying not to open up about what had happened to me. Finally, one day I did, I couldn’t hold back anymore. I was in an environment which fostered telling about what had happened, but more importantly, this environment was a direct assault on my denial. I came to a point where I had little choice but to start telling my story, as the tears were rolling down my face, I explained I was so ashamed for not stopping the abuse and for letting it happened. Then this lovely woman, who could have been my mother, finally said, "Oh honey you were just a kid and it was not your fault." Lights went off in my head. Here I was expecting people to get sick at what I was telling them, and I knew they would shun me and vilify me, or so I believed. Instead the first words I hear about it is, ''You were just a kid and it was not your fault." I had never considered this. It was true; I was just a kid and how can a kid stand up to an adult. Before long most of the group was chiming in and it was all the same, nothing but support and empathy and a few had their own abuses they had to deal with. I couldn’t stop crying for several hours, alone in my room of course. It was a similar feeling to the one at the cemetery. Sad but relieved, and a little bewildered.
I left detox after a 60 day stay, a new person and feeling liberated, different, better, but somewhat humiliated. I never believed I would end up in any detox hospital for any reason and it was hard for me to accept I was not a superman able to handle anything, talk about vanity, I guess I had it in spades. I was human and no more than that. And I reasoned to myself that I was not there for alcohol, illegal drugs or prescription drug abuse, so I considered my situation different than others. I was there because of the negligence of an incompetent doctor. But I had to live with the stigmatism of having been to detox and the insults of a nice who I never got along with, as was the case with most of my family and her.
Leaving detox was a good thing and a positive step but there was no follow-up counseling. I was done with counselors and meds, nor was any follow-up counseling recommended. But here was the trap. I fooled myself into believing I had dealt with the abuse and no more needed to be done. This is one of the major reasons I spent 40 years running from the wounds and truth, rather than embracing the truth and healing from the wounds. Over the years, I had been able to open up and discuss the fact that I had been abused but I never conceded the damage or recognized it. It was there, it was real, and I was still trying to keep it buried, unconnected to it. I was proud of myself for being able to talk about the abuse, and on more than one occasion, I considered giving myself a pat on the back for taking charge of the situation and finally dealing with the abuse. I didn’t understand all I had done was publicly acknowledge the abuse and I didn’t have a clue, or want a clue, that much more work needed to be done. My openness in group therapy was only a beginning and I really dropped the ball by not following up. At the time I felt so good but I didn't' have a clue of what was to come. The simple fact of the matter was, I felt different and better for a while, but all the same feelings of, anxiety and depression would creep in again. I would keep myself busy, work through the episodes, and move on, not realizing each time I did this only depleted my energy reserves and brought me closer to the ultimate showdown, still years away.
Beyond rehab, I was just trying to forget everything, the fire, losing the house I spent two years building, the abuse, and trying to prove to the world I was not gay or crazy. I had no desires to be with men and I was definitely not attracted to men, however my doubts about my sexuality were deeply instilled because I had been involved with men. I put a good deal of time into trying to forget. It seemed the harder I tried not to think about things, the more I would think about my past. There has rarely been a time when I
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am not reminded of how I felt during those dark years. It was a high price to pay. I focused a lot of my time on my work. I worked in high tech and have had some of the most fulfilling jobs any person could hope for. As it turned out, I have high natural aptitude for design and all things technical. My mother can attest to this with all the lamps I took apart as a kid. As a kid I was always trying to fix something or build something.
Trying to prove to the world I liked women, became a major focus during my twenties. I knew but did anyone else? It wasn’t that I was just trying to prove something, I really liked dating women. And with each woman the memories of abuse and doubts would fade a little more. Most of my relationships were healthy ones back then. Women my own age and I became very good in bed, or so I have been told many times. One of my driving forces was to make sure I was completely unselfish and accommodating in bed. I wanted sex to be great for my partner, and not like it was for me as a teenager. I am a very accommodating lover. I read books on lovemaking and I applied everything I learned. But I was struggling with self-image because I had so much male sex in my teens. I guess I was overcompensating trying to make sure there was no doubt I was straight.
Sex wasn't all roses though. I still had a very difficult time with the guilt I always felt about sex. Whenever I climaxed I would have a flood of guilt. This has been a direct result of how I first felt about sex and how it made me feel during my abuse years, and of course, there was the religious stuff that always weighed on me. And climaxing always took time. Even today, I am so conditioned that I still have a twinge of guilt after sex and rarely do I let myself climax.
It is funny, after I graduated high school I seriously considered becoming a priest, something I had wanted since I was a kid. Part of me wanted to be a priest and the other part of me believed I wouldn’t have to have sex. Ignorance is bliss. But I didn’t think God wanted much to do with me and therefore I never followed through on it. An incident with a priest when I was fifteen, didn’t help much either. In time, I recovered from the trauma of the priest episode and I became a little wiser and found my way back to God. I have never left Jesus again or more to the point, He has never left me.
I seemed to be liked by most of the women I dated but I had a very difficult time with the, ''I love you" stuff. I just could not believe it, because pretty much everyone I had feelings for ended up failing me and I didn't believe I was worthy of love. I had a difficult time reconciling my need and want for love with a total distrust of anyone using the word love. To solve this problem, I convinced myself: women only use the word as part of a game to help them feel wanted or part of something. So I minimized the word love but not the emotions of love, I loved being in love the few times I have been. Part of me really wanted to be loved, most of the time and in a healthy relationship, but it scared the hell out me and it took a long time for the right woman to come along. Keeping in mind, my dating did not start until I was in my twenties and I was just learning how to relate to a woman in this type of relationship. And of course, there was the never-ending fear that my past would be openly exposed. It was not something I could deal with. I lived my life in fear. I was always trying to cover my past and ignore it. My past was not a fun way to grow up. I wish it were different.
I was living the lie every day and I was blind to it. I refused to listen to my feelings and I learned ignore them. Talk about setting yourself up for a fall; I can’t think of a better way! I was always tried to convince myself to quit letting the abuse bother me, but it didn’t work. All I did was numb myself and tricked myself into believing there was no problem. I was trying to separate from a big part of myself: I was living in a make-believe-world of “there is no problem." No one can do this and make things better for themselves. The smarter choice would have been to ask myself how much more of myself was I willing to give to the abuse. I had wished I could have thought to ask this question, when I was eight or eleven or anytime sooner than I did.
In time I quit thinking about what I should have done, could have done, or should not have done, because I realized things are what they are and for whatever reason or reasons, I am, who I am, and my life has been what it was. This is going to have to do. And I would re-enforce this thinking by always minimizing what had happened to me. I tried to convince myself, how so many others had it worse. Or I reminded myself of the little children living in real suffering like, hunger, fear, homelessness, war, and disease.
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I made myself feel ashamed for feeling anything bad about what happened to me. For a time I had convinced myself I was the lucky one. Telling myself, God gave you the strength to survive and get yourself out of it, now let it go, it is in the past.
It was an ineffective game for many years. Unfortunately, whenever you deny yourself in this way you create a frame of mind that fertilizes the roots of denial. If I was going to recover, I had no choice but to accept the fact, I had created a world of false truths, and I would have to question how I think about myself. Any abuse is bad, and not recognizing the real dangers with this type of thinking, is devastating. It is true many others have had it worse than me in their own ways. However, pain and suffering are relative to each of us. If you have been abused, you are suffering, if you have not recovered. It became imperative for me to accept my suffering as equal to anyone’s and not allow myself to minimize it or make it any bigger than it was. The trick is to understand where the middle ground was and work towards it as a goal. Believing people had it worse than I did doesn’t make my trauma any less damaging or bearable for me. To minimize what happened only robbed me of any true recovery for a long time.
For most of my twenties, I was not taking any medication except pot. I struggled with periods of depression. Sometimes, if I was alone or things were going badly in my life the depression was bad. I always managed because I had become so used to depression over the years that I was able to function at the required level but no more than what was needed for work or other personal requirements. What was difficult for me to understand was, I was in a constant state of depression. I just had different levels of functioning. When I was functioning well, I felt relatively happy. I had become so used to the depression that I didn’t recognize it anymore. I just kept up the good face as best I could and tried not to think about it. And the depression was not the worst of it. The anxiety, which I never understood until a few years ago, was unbearable. For the most part, I was in a constant state of anxiety. And again, I had different levels of attacks, along with different levels of chronic anxiety. I did not understand why, because I never felt I had anything to be anxious or depressed about. Both these emotions would drive me nuts at times. I would keep asking myself, why I am feeling this way. Why are my nerves so screwed up? I could not make sense of it but I lived with it every day in one form or another and to one degree or another.
In my teens, while I was being abused, I had anxiety and depression but that made sense to me because there was a reason. It used to piss me off so much that I would get angry at myself and just keep on trying to convince myself how great things were. With each episode of depression and anxiety, I felt lost and sad. I didn't understand anxiety was a fear driven response of some sort. I didn’t understand its triggers, and they are many. With the aid of hindsight, there were clearly many indicators of pure denial and other indicators of suppressed anger. I rarely became outwardly mad or angry. I had good reasons not to. I am a big person and to show any kind of anger can be very intimating for people around me.
My lifestyle and early development did not give me the tools to deal with anger. So I simply buried it. Not developing a healthy means of dealing with anger led to other problems. The problem was, there were times when I did get mad, and I would break something of my own, punch a wall, or just really go off on someone verbally. It wasn't often, about every year or two. But it really bothered me, having this much rage inside and I didn’t know, or want to know, where it was coming from. I was grateful I was never violent toward any person. Between my parents being very strict, expressing anger was seriously suppressed by my family and abusers. I was reluctant and probably incapable of expressing anger in a healthy way. Of course, we all know what happens to suppressed anger. It does not stay suppressed just unidentified. It becomes a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Suppressed anger contributes to depression and anxiety which can become a way of life, where a person learns to live and function with it. This was me. The trick is to know when there is suppressed anger.
I was always with one girl at a time and I have never cheated. I had opportunities but it was not me, in fact, I loathed anyone who did cheat. Too many people in my past were low life’s and I didn’t want to hurt my partner or give my partner a reason to distrust me. I needed to be better to them than people were to me in the past. I am rather proud of this. It was important for me to do the right thing and not hurt anyone.
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As I said, sex was not always fun, because there were times when I had a difficult time responding spontaneously. It was usually the first time with a woman. Most of the time it was not a problem, except with one woman, who I still love dearly today and have not seen or heard from since the 1990s.
Ruth was my first love. I met her at my first job. But she was always involved with the ''tough guy" type. I guess she liked the bad boys back then. In time, we became very good friends and of course, I couldn’t do enough for her. I was twenty or so and she was nineteen. To this day, she was the best kisser I have ever known and she is very attractive. When it came time to be intimate, I just could not respond. I never figured out why. But it was an indication of some sexual dysfunction on my part. At the time I didn't think it was my fault because I decided she needed to be more involved in pre-heating the oven so to speak.
Of course, it was not her fault at any level.
In time, I recognized my inability to physically respond to Ruth, as some sort of subconscious reaction to her being the first woman I knew beyond the abuse. When I met her, I was still living at Ernie and Bette's home. I really miss Ruth. She is a great person. Our last attempt at having an intimate relationship was in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I failed miserably. It ended our relationship because I decided I had enough with her boos. I was just making another excuse to keep the focus off me. She deserved better than that. Ruth will always be special to me. And she was a great friend and has a great heart. We were friends for many years.
I believe what was really happening, when it came to Ruth was I was struggling with very real feelings of love, intimacy and trust, and making the two connect into actually loving someone. The abuse had separated the two from me and even today I still struggle with this. I began to realize I was not making good emotional connections between sex and love. This was another aspect of the abuse which bothered me, but not so much as I was willing to do much about it. I was still in denial, and denial will always make up your mind for you, just like the abusers did. I did go to a counselor for a short time but all he wanted to do was teach me how visualize making love to Ruth and becoming aroused. He made me very uncomfortable and I decided I could watch an 8mm movie and accomplish the same thing and not cost as much. It was sad because I always wanted a life with Ruth but I was not ready. I didn’t know who I was and I was struggling with an identity crisis. I hope she has found happiness.
During my twenties there were signs in the form of acting out that I did not recognize. There were times when I was attracted to streetwalkers. I never picked one up but if I happened to see one, I would always have a fantasy about her. I think the only reason I didn’t was the risk was too high and I couldn’t deal with the guilt. And I have always been scared to death of getting a disease. Other forms of acting were porno movies. I watched them a lot and found them very intriguing when I was stoned. Other times, I found myself flirting and being suggestive in a funny ways, it seemed to be the thing to do in the seventies and eighties, in fact, women rarely had a problem being the same way with me. However, one time, while stoned I showed inappropriate affection by kissing on the lips. This really bothered me and it was another indication of acting out. I also participated in various adult games, like bumps and grinds, shooters, and strip poker. Sex was everywhere, as it had been most of my life. And there was always pot and booze. I was never a heavy drinker but when I wanted to, I could keep pace with the best of them. I have only been drunk three times in my life, and every time, I wanted to be drunk.
I met my wife when I was thirty, and she was the best thing to ever happen to me. All the partying stopped and I had no problem stopping it. I was never happier than my years with my wife. I have never known a level of wholeness and true love, since Barbara. She was everything to me. For the first time in my life, I felt I was someone special. Barbara was a “10” in so many ways. She is seven years older than I but she always looked ten years younger than she is. What an incredible woman!
All my abuse stuff was really put on the back burner after meeting Barbara, not that I ever really had the abuse on the stove. My entire focus was Barbara and making her happy. However, it was tough having to be on the outside with her kids. Kelly was 15 and Mike was 17 when we first met. But through all the problems, I would do it again in a heartbeat, my acting out cost us our marriage.
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It became apparent over time, whenever things became stressful in my marriage I would start acting out again. I didn’t have a clue why or that it was called acting out. When I acted out, I always felt guilty and confused. It time, I found myself calling chat lines, these were the first social networks that ranged from online sex to just chatting. They were not readily accepted by society as a whole and you really didn’t want to tell anyone you were one of the lonely souls out there. I was married but I felt lonely and this made no sense to me. Anytime I called these Chat lines, I became really pissed at myself. I kept telling myself this was not me and it is wrong. Why the hell am I calling and chatting with total strangers? I could see if it was about sex but I had no interest in phone sex. I just wanted to talk.
In time, I explored making a business out of this new medium. After a while, I went to counseling to try to figure out what was going on, and I didn’t want Barbara to know about any of it. This made me feel more guilty. While my time on the chat lines was a matter of weeks, it was a clear indication of problems. My counselor knew me because he was our couple’s counselor. Barbara and I had been seeing him regarding our relationship with her kids. My counselor started probing about my past, I did tell him I was abused and that I had it under control. He was very good at getting me to talk. I did not see the sense in it at the time but he made me realize I had to start dealing with the abuse on a different level. I really didn’t believe him. Of course, he was right and when Barbara and I separated for the first time, what he said really hit home.
The reasons for our separation are not as simple as I am about to explain but it was the trigger for our separation. At the time, and for the better part of a year, Barbara was having all kinds of emotional swings. I suspected she was going through menopause. It was at an early age and I wasn’t really sure. Barbara was extremely concerned about getting older; she had extreme vanity about it. So much so, she went to two plastic surgeons and neither would work on her. They told her she was blessed and she was. For a year, I could not get her to go to her doctor and be checked out. She didn't want to hear about it at any level.
She would not deal with the possibility that she had reached menopause.
My first separation was a complete surprise and shock. One night, I came home at about 11:00 and Barbara was at the door, waiting for me. She stood there telling me to leave and that “It’s over.” I thought she was kidding. When I asked her why, she simply said, “Leave, it is over.” This encounter with Barbara was weird. She said I did nothing wrong and kept repeating, “It is over.” She seemed to be having some sort of episode because I didn’t know the person I was talking to. She looked like Barbara but she had a completely different personality than earlier that day; it was scary. I had no choice but to leave. I went to a hotel. I thought it would be cleared up the next day. But that was not going to happen.
As the days went by Barbara would not give me a reason for her wanting a divorce. It started to hit home, Barbara and I might be getting divorced. She hired a lawyer and all the papers said was irreconcilable differences. I began to have very serious emotional and physical reactions to all of this. I didn’t know what the hell was happening to my body. It was the most horrible feelings and physical reactions I had ever experienced. My mind was sharp but I was in total overload emotionally and physically. I was seeing my medical doctor through all of this and he was in awe at what was happening to me. He prescribed Xanax but it didn’t help. He told me I was going through sort of serious Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, although he didn’t understand why, and I didn’t understand what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was.
It once again started to hit home with me. The abuse must be affecting me at some level. This could not be all about the divorce and not seeing Barbara.
Physically, there was not one square inch of my body that did not hurt or any nerves that were not firing impulses constantly. My skin was crawling persistently. I lost a huge amount of weight and developed a stutter and facial twitches. Barbara proceeded with a lawyer and papers, none of which I would have anything to do with and she refused to talk with me. My physical and emotional condition was in such a state that I didn't think I could survive a divorce proceeding, and I didn’t get married in a court and I sure as hell was not going to participate in getting divorced in one. And I am a Catholic and that was a real problem. I didn't have time to focus on my thinking about the abuse and that it may be causing me so much distress. I was in pure survival mode.
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PTSD is a horrible disorder to live with. It is a real hell and unless you have experienced it, you cannot relate. The episodes reminded me of how I felt in my teens but this was much more severe. Those inner demons were alive and well, and they sure as hell were raising their ugly head.
I was so stressed out during the beginning of this that one day I caused an automobile accident by making a left hand turn in front of an oncoming vehicle. My pick-up was wrecked but there were no serious injuries. I could still drive the vehicle but something weird happened. I remember very little about the accident.
I remember the police officer knocking on my hotel room door and giving me my license back. I forgot to take it from him and the accident happened at the entrance to the motel. He told me I had dinged my ribs up pretty good and wanted to take me to the hospital. I told him no thanks. I just didn’t care about much anymore.
What happened next was weird. For three days, I was an in total amnesia. It was the fourth day before I started coming around and my family and friends were telling me I was really acting angry and said some very inappropriate things and hurtful things to several people, including some kids. I didn’t have any memory of the previous three days. I thought I was losing my mind. I guess the accident put my stress level to the breaking point. I don’t know half of what I said because my family would not tell me, and they were more concerned about what was happening to me than what I had said. Here I was driving around having conversations and interactions with people for three days and I still cannot remember one minute of it. I considered this serious and I was having all I wanted of this crap. I decided I was going to give up on the marriage and get myself straightened out and on my feet. Emotionally I have still not let go of my love for Barbara and it took years for me to let her go after we divorced. She was my soul mate. But at that moment,
I decided I had to try to move on or this was going to kill me. To this end, I made the mistake of calling Barbara and trying to talk for a few minutes. She was very cruel with me again and I reacted badly. I had started on an antidepressant shortly after we separated and they were helping. But when Barbara totally rejected me again, as she did, I lost it. I decide I was going to get very drunk, something I had only done twice before; in fact, I rarely drank, much to the surprise of my family.
In the course of this binge, I managed to accidentally overdose myself on antidepressants. I was poisoned and in a very bad way. For two days I was on the floor of the hotel and it wasn’t until a friend of mine managed to get the door open and find me conscious but out of it, in and out of lucidity. I wouldn’t let her call an ambulance, that was all I needed and I was not going to deal with the embarrassments of my stupidity. I couldn’t believe what I had done. I was so pissed at myself. How could I do that to Barbara or my family, especially my parents? And again I didn't remember doing it. All I could remember was a couple of times not being able to move and trying to call for help on the phone. At a point, I managed to crawl on my stomach with great distress to the bathtub. I wanted to put myself under a cold shower. All I managed to do was raise myself-up on my arms only to have them give out and crack my head open on the tub. I don't know how long I laid there but it had to be several hours.
In a few days, I had recovered and I was still pissed at myself; I’d had had enough. I would write letters to Barbara but nothing else. It was time for me to move on. I managed to work and ultimately I moved in with my sister’s family, and again I found myself seeking comfort with the chat lines. Again, I was bothered by my behavior; I didn’t understand my need for chat lines. Although, in this case I know it was partly due to being very lonely, rejected and isolated.
Barbara and I were separated for some months and I finally decided all the love letters and flowers are not going to get her to talk with me or change her mind about the divorce. But this was Barbara all the way. She simply has never been able to deal with conflict. I decided if I couldn't say good-bye to her in person then I would send her a videotape saying good-bye. It was ironic. I was finally moving on and I sent her a video telling her so. What does she do? She calls me on the phone, crying and saying how much she loves me and does not want a divorce. Of course, I was elated! And I was in shock, and probably a dozen other feelings.
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Prior to this happening, I had told Barbara in a few different letters she should go and get her hormone levels checked. I had sent her a couple of books on the subject of menopause and of course, none of this was what she wanted to hear. During this separation, I was determined to figure out what the hell had happened in our marriage. I thought I was a great husband and good listener. So I hit the books and read everything I could find on marriage and “the change of life.” I learned a lot about both. In time, Barbara did read the books on menopause and I believed they are what changed her mind. After a couple of meetings, we agreed to go to counseling and she decided to get her hormones checked.
Her doctor told her she had the lowest level of hormones he had seen in twenty years. She went on hormone treatment and it was an amazing change in her in a matter of a couple of weeks. She was back to her old-self and we were back together after some more couple’s therapy. Things were going great for the next several years until I screwed things up permanently. Time has stood still for me when it comes to my feelings for Barbara. It was a tragedy losing her.
It was my separation from Barbara and my subsequent discovery of PSTD that really made me start thinking more about the abuse. How much had it really affected me? Unfortunately, I was so wrapped up in making our marriage work that once again, I put the abuse on the back burner and for whatever reason it was not addressed. I was just so happy being back with Barbara. But I was beginning to suspect there was a lot more to my abuse than I was willing to admit.
This really hit home on Christmas night 1994, a night never to be forgotten. I was angry with Barbara for not letting me give my mother $200.00 so she could buy some things for Christmas. In fact, I was pretty pissed. So like an idiot I decide to have a couple drinks to help suppress my anger. I don’t know if having a couple of drinks made any difference in my behavior or not, the bottle of vodka had been sitting on the shelf for almost a year and I decided it was time to open it. I had two drinks after which I was in the downstairs office when I got a phone call, another prank phone call. We had been getting them regularly lately and we didn't understand why. We were getting them on both our private line and office phone. This time I didn't hang up and I engaged the woman on the phone who was definitely baiting me with lewd talk. I was not thinking about anything other than it was somewhat funny and I wanted to know who it was. At first I thought it was a friend pulling a prank on me, and to this day I have my suspicions. Anyway, Barbara was listening at the door of my office. My conversation lasted two possibly three minutes. The only thing I remember saying that was lewd was, yes I liked big boobs and with a laugh. I couldn't continue the conversation and I told the caller the calls were getting old and I was happily married and to please stop the calls. I don’t know if it was the same person who had been calling, but I know one of the callers was a guy and others were women. I had believed it was Barbara's ex family who had been harassing us. We had had similar problems in the past, the only difference was when it was her ex-husband’s family, and they were open about it.
When I left the office, I went upstairs and I was laughing. I was about to tell Barbara about the phone call, when I saw the totally devastated look in her eyes. All she said was, "I want a divorce," no conversation, no nothing.
I left that night and since then Barbara has not had one personal conversation with me. The one brief encounter we had was legal stuff and as of today, she has not had one conversation with me. She will not give me one picture of our wedding or the hundreds of pictures and videos that belonged to me. I walked away with a bag of clothes and Barbara has refused to give me anything that belonged to me. I had a lawyer for a very brief time. But I decided I was not going to participate in the legal aspects of the divorce. If she wanted to divorce then she would have to do it on her own. I not only could not endure anything else with the divorce, I could not bring myself to do it. And I was very conflicted about the role of my faith in this. I was told flat out divorce was forbidden in the Catholic Church and they were right, unless there were very extenuating circumstances. So I took the easy way out and just did not participate in the legal aspects of my divorce. I just didn’t have it in me to do so.
Of course, in hindsight the phone call was just a bunch of bull, I was acting out. I saw an opportunity and I took it. Then I tried to distort the truth to fit my needed story, none of which I was
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realizing I was doing until recovery entered my life. In hindsight, the facts are clear; I should have just hung up the phone. I played a game that ended up hurting the most important person in my life. Realizing Barbara believed I was having an affair, I started to hate sex again. How much more trouble was this crap going to get me in? When was I going to do something about it? How much more did I have to lose? Not much because there was not much more to lose.
I didn’t date or have sex for almost four years after our divorce. When I did, I had a rough time of it. I was still very much in love with Barbara. I missed her more than I can explain and I didn’t want anyone else in my life. At some point, I decided I was going to apply for an annulment with the Catholic Church and then just date casually, which worked out pretty well for a while. I only dated one woman at a time but they knew up front that I had no interest in anything serious. Dating just for fun and sex was something I had never done since my twenties. It was not without its problems, but it was good. All the way up to the point when I realized just how empty and mechanical having casual sex was.
I considered sex a challenge, an art and a thing of beauty. How good could I make my partner feel? I was always the accommodating type, especially in bed. I guess I had good training. Until then the only person I had ever made an emotional connection to with sex was Barbara. With other partners I was emotionally connected but not with sex. I wonder if I would ever be given a second chance at this type of love, real love, in the heart genuine love. It was wonderful.
I left my marriage knowing I had things to work on. I still didn't care too much about it because I wasn’t really living. I was just getting by. I figured I would be dead in a matter of years and so it didn’t matter how I lived my life. I pretended to be angry at Barbara but I didn’t blame her. Trust was an absolute with Barbara and any infraction meant a divorce. So, I screwed up and we paid. It wasn't fair to her and for the longest time I wouldn’t see where I was responsible. I had convinced myself Barbara went way over the top because of a prank phone call and at the time, from my point of view, our marriage was worth more than a damned phone call, but not for Barbara I guess. I could not face the truth that I made a bad choice that cost so much. Over time, I came to take full responsibility, which was more a result of my epiphany in the cemetery than anything else was. For Barbara and me, it was just too late. I needed to step out of denial many years before and I didn't, and she needed to also and she never has. She deserves to be happy.
One of the biggest problems I had in my marriage was the insecurity I always felt. My own low selfesteem constantly made me feel insecure in our relationship. I was always worried we were going to break up. I didn't discuss it too often with Barbara but it worried me. Knowing Barbara was a no nonsense type person tended to make me walk on egg shells for the first few years of the marriage and of course the separation didn’t help. Have you ever woken up one morning and looked in the mirror only to see the lie your life has been? To realize you really do not know the person staring back at you. To really sense the damage that was done to you by so many. And to realize you have no energy left to continue the lie and lack the courage or wisdom to confront it. It made me realize the “shadow beliefs” of my life need to be brought into the light.
For many of us, sexual child abuse is a prison with no way out. It keeps us locked inside of ourselves, in fear of life and all it brings. I have lived most of my life in shame, without true dignity and a confused sense of self. I tried to hide by being a pot head. Since my divorce, I have been in a few relationships, as I am now. All ended in disaster with the exception of my current partner. But they have all been of the same nature. After my wife, except my current partner, my partners have all been heavy drinkers with other substances abuse issues, usually pot. I never dated anyone who did hard drugs; I was smart enough not to get involved with these types of relationships. I have cared deeply for my partners only to allow them to become totally dependent on me for money. And for whatever reason they would not work or could not work because they could not deal with their own issues. Don't get me wrong, my girlfriends were all good people who had lived hard lives or had problems beyond their control and many problems that they could do something about, but wouldn’t. But, giving my future away is just another cycle that I have continued since my very first job, which is one of the many reasons I have nothing to show for my life at fifty three. Some will call me a generous person, many will call me stupid. Me? Well, I guess a wise man would
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know to take care of one’s self first and prudently take care of others second. I was driven by emotions, not common sense, and a clandestine need to punish myself, something I only figured-out through recovery. It turns out I had many self-destructive behaviors. Not the least of which were dysfunctional relationships.
I left Colorado in 2001, partly, to reconnect with my family and to leave a disastrous relationship with my fiancé. It was sad that all my relationships ended the same way with me estranged from them and asking myself why I continue to do this to myself. I had believed I was helping them to overcome their problems by being the best boyfriend I could be. As most people know with some years of wisdom behind them, I was on a fool’s errand. I have come to believe I was trying to fill emotional voids in my life that have been empty since I was eight years old. All my helping made me the world’s greatest enabler. Why? The fact is being an enabler is really being a "disabler." We don’t help those we think we are helping. All we do is give them an easy excuse not to take responsibility for themselves. A real friend would not do that. I have taken on too many responsibilities that were not mine and in doing so prevented myself from moving in a positive direction. This must be some sort of self-destructive behavior. If it isn't then it should be.
As children we are molded by our environment; I ask you, if your life as child was riddled with emotional, spiritual, and psychological contradictions, how do you think your emotional health would be today? For me, it has taken forty years to accept that damage was done, and how much the wounds have affected everything in my life and above all, how much the damage has cost me, and my soul mate.
I cannot in good conscience say my motivation for writing this book is as unselfish or as honorable as simply educating and making people aware. I have been contemplating this book for the last five years. Well before I started my recovery, I procrastinated, because I could not clarify a motive or what I wanted from this book. In the beginning stages of my recovery, I was in too much overload and emotional confusion about my life, making it difficult get anything done beyond journals and research. Now I know that this "thing" has taken the first half of my life and I will not let it define the second half of my life. I have stopped running and I am facing whatever comes of this with honor, courage, and dignity. And through recovery I found a motive and purpose for writing this book. It would be my guiding light in my recovery process.
I have lived a hard life in many ways but I love life and I never lose sight of that love. It is simply a time to start making my life instead of my past molding my future. The abusers win no more. I want to heal and I am compelled to write this book in the spirit of bringing me back or more to the point bring to where I belong emotionally, and intellectua1ly. To take myself back through my life to examine the events and connect the dots between the abuses and understand the cause and effect as it relates to my choices in life.
Even as I write these first pages, I can sense the relief and excitement about how I feel about this dangerous, frightening but hopeful trek I have put myself on. With each word, I feel my resolve increase and confidence grow. It simply feels like I am doing the right thing. If writing about my life's experiences helps me heal or makes a parent aware of the signs of abuse, or gives comfort to a survivor or victim, then damn the critics. Because helping one child avoid the life I have lived will make all that I have endured worth it.
Recovery became a plethora of emotions just sweeping me along. What I found disturbing was my lack of anger. Let me be clear, I am very angry and I am not sure why. I know it is there but I also know I am not connected to it. A strange thing to say I know. But understanding the real source of the anger is more important than just accepting I have discovered I am angry. I know I am partly angry because I lived in denial for so many years, and now my life is half over and I have very little or nothing to show for it. I have educated myself enough to believe I have some very deep issues that I am deeply angry about and it was unsettling understanding there was anger that I was not connected to.
I have always wanted to make a difference in someone's life and I have yet to see this for myself. Even though others have been openly honest about my caring and nurturing nature and willingness to be generous to a fault, I can’t see where I have made a difference for anyone. The fact is I love helping people. The only question is why? I was brought up Catholic and was taught very high moral and ethical standards by my parents. As a kid, I was always wanting and willing to help most anyone. It always made me feel good.
Now I wonder if it was some manner of emotional bartering for affection and acceptance. Did I feel
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emotionally deprived? How could that be? I have a huge family. Maybe I wanted to be known as the nice kid rather than the bad kid I believed myself to be. Is my good nature a result of over-compensating for the abuse or is it because it is who I am? This is one of many questions I have asked myself a hundred times in the past few years. And there were many more questions to be asked.
I have concluded the only way to heal is to take myself back through time. Writing this book is one vehicle to make that happen. It is my intent to give you an inside glimpse at the anatomy of abuse from the point of view of a victim and survivor, while recovering. I am not a writer, social worker or anyone who can speak from a medical or psychological basis. I am simply a guy who has lived this life the best way I knew how. Every day I feel the effects of the psychological conditioning from abuse and it takes a constant vigilance of self-monitoring and questioning everything I am feeling or wondering, to maintain a level of control. I am tired of this millstone of abuse chained around my neck that has held me back and prevented me from enjoying life to its fullest. Now I have a goal to live to one-hundred-years-old and I want my life to count for something. To do that I have to leave the past where it belongs; this is obvious. The problem is how to reprogram the many “shadow beliefs” instilled in me starting at eight-years-old, through my teen years and into my early twenties. I can't undo the abuse or change the past. I can only change me and how I deal with the impact of such horrendous abuse.
I have been in counseling on and off over the years and have from time to time used various medications from anti-depressants to sedatives and pot. None of these are the answer, they were only a means to suppress the effects of abuse and or numb its physical symptoms. It was unfortunate I was not in counseling for the abuse. Had I been, the medications would have been great while working on the causes of my symptoms rather than using the med's as a band-aide. This is the real value of meds, to be used while the root causes are being worked through. I never spent any real time in counseling for abuse. Yes, I brought it up from time to time but I always presented it to the counselors as something that was not a problem.
In short, all the counseling was good to an extent; I always managed to take something from the it that was useful. After forty years I am pretty worn down but cautiously optimistic. Since my divorce, I have been waiting for God, simply getting by and totally stalled in a cesspool of emotional turmoil, chaos, and selfdestructive behavior. I have lost my patience with God and have decided if He is not willing to take me home, then it is time for me to take control. Although there have been times when I have considered helping God, my very strong spiritual beliefs (for which I am deeply grateful to my parents) have saved my life and have, for the most part, prevented me from acting on these dark impulses.
So I am left with two choices, change my life totally and become the person that I believe I am, or simply continue as I have, which may end in a tragic disaster. So this is my new beginning, a commitment to me to change my life and make it what I want. Uninfluenced by the pathetic people who affected the outcome of my life to such a sad degree! Yet, in many ways, I consider my life to be a good one, full of enrichment, experiences, and in my own way, I have succeeded as a person. The measure of this is, I am still here, still fighting and not giving up. It is now time for me to fight by my rules and not let myself be owned by my inner enemies. I have lived a life of duality not knowing which person I was, the victim or the survivor as well as other dualities. Inner conflicts that will become more evident as these chapters develop.
One sense of duality was, I am always struggling with what my family really thinks of me, and not understanding why I am estranged from them. Do they see me as a gay person, straight or with shame or disdain? Or do they see me as I see myself, a loving but distant brother, who really wants to be close to them. I understand the logistics of why things were as they were; I just do not understand why I have put myself in self-exile from them. They are a great family, even with all their faults they are good people and I miss them and my mother so much. I claim to keep myself in exile because, as I have said to them many times, I feel I am doing them a favor. I guess I feel unworthy of them, and I think I have convinced myself I am protecting them and probably myself as well.
I have no room in my heart for hate or anger towards any of the people who abused me or anyone for that matter. At least not yet, recovery may prove this a little different than I presume now. In fact, I feel sorry for most of them because all of them probably have done no better dealing with themselves than I have
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with myself. For sure, there are no winners in issues of this nature. I may have lost many battles to abuse but the war is won by rising above the abuse and allowing one’s self to heal. We win by defeating the abusers on our own terms and on neutral ground. And when a victim realizes the war is winnable, nothing can then stop it from happening.
To this end I spent many nights in my motel room, where I have been by choice for the last 1.5 years, pondering why my life has been as it has. Why is my life one of continued self-destructive behavior? In two days I start back to work at a new company. I ponder why I just walked away from my dream job a few weeks ago as an engineering manager at a very good company. I loved the job and position but it was overly demanding. I worked constantly and made constant compromises in my personal life so I would be sure to succeed at this job. In the end I definitely was burned out; something I have come to realize is a definite pattern in my life. Working 60 to 70 hours every week on salary will do that to a person. I am sitting here in awe that I have managed to destroy another positive development in my life. Changing the patterns of one’s life is a demanding and treacherous endeavor for someone with my history.
I am 53 years old whose life has not been grounded since my divorce, and rarely before I was married, and I find myself in the same cycles of self-destructive behavior. Always followed by the agony of starting over, only to overcome again, move on, rebuild, and then to watch it all fall apa
40 years, was a long time to be lost in the shadows of time, adrift in a world of half-truths, wishful thinking, and denial. Always struggling to be the person you want to be, mirrored by the truth that never stops reminding you of the person you are. It is a long time to carry the burdens of abuse, even a longer time to delay true awareness and recovery.
I came to realize, I no longer could run from the lie, which was my life; the time came to stop, turn, and face the hairy monster of my childhood dreams. Monsters or demons, the labels don’t matter, they have been my constant pursuers, always steering the compass of my life off course. They were the Ox yoke, and the taskmaster’s whip, who never relented in their pursuit of total dominance. Their tally was the sum of the damage done to so many others and me. The realization I had been badly damaged emotional allowed me to see the lie of my life for it was, and what it has done to me.
It was a funny thing, this revelation and how it evolved. At first, a month or two prior, it was an overwhelming sense of truth which I finally had emotionally connected to. It was also a feeling of sadness fueled by my new truth. It was as if a light had been turned on and everything I knew that was lurking in the dark was finally fully lit and in full view exposed by the brilliant light of truth. I was reminded of my parents’ words as a child. “There is nothing in the dark that isn’t there when the light is on.” Oh how true this is. And in this sense I found profound sadness looking me in the eye, fortified by anger, hurt, betrayal, resentment and hate of myself for letting it happen. It was a lot to deal with and I had to learn to connect with each of these emotions and wounds if I was going to heal. I knew from my own talks with people I cared about; I would have to embrace each one rather than fight them. I had fought them my entire life and in the end, I only delayed the enviable confrontation all victims must face. There are many ways to die but being alive and dead on the inside is the worst of the worst. Only by embracing my demons could I learn to heal from their pain. It was no different than treating a physical wound. It would take the same sensitivity and empathy needed to treat the wound of a child. And it is a wounded child I was dealing with.
The sadness I feel when I realize the harm done to me, or anyone who has been sexually abused, is overwhelming. I carried these burdens so long that they became part of me, and I became part of them. It is difficult for me fathom the number of years that could have been so different if I had a normal childhood or if I could have sought help sooner. How many more things could I have done or achieved if I was not so wrapped up in this stuff? How many dreams did I lose? It is so sad to feel the loss of so much of myself, and for what? Moreover, how many people are out there right now, suffering and waiting for a lifeline to be thrown by anyone? Waiting for anyone to have the courage to help; waiting for anyone to believe them and do the right thing? How many kids are being abused as I write these words? How many kids are watching a caretaker or friend transform before their eyes into the monsters chasing them in their dreams? This is the saddest of all of it, the kids and adults who are still trapped and there is not a damned thing I can do for them. Sadder yet, are the many kids who did not have to be abused: abused because people choose to turn a blind eye.
Since my fateful day in the cemetery, this is how I have been feeling. I can see my life with perfect clarity, all the good, and all the bad. Whatever happened to me it has left me with a keen awareness about my life with a sense of relief and sadness, in ways I have never experienced before. I believe this is what they call the" Awareness" stage of Recovery. I may not like what I am learning, but there was a reassuring feeling this is all right. But forty years! It is mind-boggling. What was more amazing is I had no sense of needing to hide or sugarcoat my past, since the cemetery. I had a different sense of the shame I carried for so long.
Although I had not formally started my recovery as planned, I felt I was making real progress.
I am not sure why, but I felt I was in a good place, even if it did not feel very good. It is not all bad because I had new hope to live a happy and full life. I had a sense it was no longer a dream or a goal, it is simply something that was going to happen because I had finally put this burden to rest. While my mood and attitude were somewhat somber, I had a solid level of optimism. Something I was used to.
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However, it is not just about the cemetery. After I decided that I would deal with the cancer I went to the doctor, and what a surprise. Oh, what intricate webs we weave! He did his thing with tests and as it turns out, I didn’t have cancer. I was totally floored again. It was relativity minor to correct compared with cancer. I didn’t know whether to cry for being so stupid for not having an immediate second opinion, or whether I should jump for joy because I was so stupid. It seems I had been thrown another particular twist of fate. How much longer would it have taken me to step out of denial, if this cancer scared had not happen? Would I have ever stepped out of denial? I doubt it. It is said, God works in mysterious ways. Maybe what they say is right. For the most part, I feel pretty stupid but very grateful. This new twist sure put everything in a new perspective. What a frigging ride. How ironic though, a misdiagnosed cancer revealed the real cancer.
How do I describe how it feels to live so long with blinders on? To wake up every day, knowing you have a past that never let’s go and nobody can know but everyone probably does know and you can't escape it. Knowing every time, you see them, you are not sure what they are thinking about you, if anything. Is he gay? Is he a loser, does he care, or do they even care? I knew it would only take one wrong comment to bring the house of cards tumbling down. I was always on my guard, always uncomfortable around the people I love and cared about. I was always trying to carry the shame and guilt shrouded in a fake persona of false confidence and a made-up self-image. It was painful never being able to stay at my mother’s house without feeling anxieties from the past, or sleep in her house because of memories that never go away, or the cryptic physical reaction of fear and anxiety, and always fighting an overwhelming need to run.
living with blinders is possible because I did. It took a lot kidding myself, and some very clever defense mechanisms, but nonetheless I did it. Every tactic I created was tailored to keep the truth suppressed. To keep me from seeing what I didn't want to believe. It was never a consideration to consider anything but total suppression of my past. I created a world in an emotional cocoon to keep myself from feeling or seeing the truth. It was a game, a very dangerous and damaging game.
Part of my problem was a trap I fell into when I thought I had finally dealt with my abuse and began patting myself on the back for having triumphed over my abusers. A trap I had sprung on myself in my early twenties.
It was the early eighties (I was in my mid-twenties)and I was in the middle of re-building my home destroyed by fire. I had been doing it alone and after nearly two years, I was really burned out. I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained. I had insurance so visiting doctors was easy to do. I visited my medical doctor and told him I was interested in talking to a physiatrist. I figured it was time to start dealing with my depression. I explained everything to the physiatrist and he decided to offer me a new series of antidepressants. I had no problem with trying antidepressants; also he recommended I begin visiting a therapist. I had no problem with trying anything at this point. I just wanted to feel differently. I never mentioned the abuse to either the doctor or the therapist, because in my mind it was not a problem. The abuse was just a history event and nothing more.
Things did not go well with my drugs. I was told it could take up to eight weeks to feel the benefits of the drug. In the course of the treatment, the dosages were continually adjusted up and with each increase came a new series of side effects. The doctor gave me various drugs to help with the side effects. Unfortunately, I kept getting worse until one night after I had picked up the new prescription at a higher dosage. I took one pill from the bottle; I had already not been feeling right. However, the doctor kept reassuring me it was normal and not to worry. Shortly after taking this pill, I laid down and I really began to feel bad. I was having a very hard time staying conscious or lucid. I realized I was in trouble. I didn’t have the phone hooked up and there were no cell phones. I lived on a dead end dirt road, 1500 feet off the main road and my one neighbor was not home. I was in a bad way in my mind. Therefore, I decided I had no choice but to try to get to the main road where someone could see me. I couldn’t walk, I was having a terrible reaction and felt poisoned. I crawled on my hands and knees to my car. I pulled myself into the driver's seat because I realized there was no way I was going to be able to crawl to the main road. I decided I
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was going to try to drive to the main road and I would flag someone down. This was the last thing I remembered.
The next thing I knew, it is the next day and I was waking up in the Emergency Room at the hospital. I wasn't feeling so good. I had oxygen and IVs along with heart monitors hooked to me. The doc came over to talk with and asked what I had taken. I told him I didn’t know what he meant. He said I had an overdose. And I asked him, "Of what?"
He said he was hoping l could tell him what it was. I told him the meds I was taking and said they found my prescription on me and that he didn't think they caused the problem because there was only one pill taken. After a lengthy conversation about the drug regimen I was on, he finally realized I was having a reaction to the meds. It took the better part of the rest of the day for me to convince the doctor to release me so I could go to my doctor at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston.
Before I left the hospital, I asked how I got to the hospital and they told me I drove my car to the Emergency Room door and had to be removed from the car. That really scared me because I had absolutely no memory of driving my car. Good thing it was very late at night.
When I was released, I was able to get an appointment with my doctor at Mass General for the next day.
When I walked into my doctor’s office he said, "Man, you look terrible." He had me lay down and after I told him the story, he immediately did some blood work. He had me wait for the results. It turns out I was 400 % above the maximum allowable blood level for the primary drug I was on. He explained I was the victim of prescription drug mismanagement. I asked him, what did he mean? He explained I should have had weekly blood tests for the drug I was taking. I was never given one. He explained about once a month, someone like me walks into his office because of doctors not managing a drug properly. My body was not metabolizing this drug and therefore it was poisoning me. He told me I should not have been able to walk into his office. He also told me he wished he could testify in court against doctors like this but his hospital wouldn't let him. He was that upset. I never mentioned anything about suing anyone; I was in too much shock. Then he dropped a second bombshell, more good news for me. He explained I could not just come off these drugs cold turkey. My body was addicted and I should consider entering into a detox facility with 24 hour monitoring for the first two weeks or however long it took to get my blood levels down to a safe level. I couldn’t believe it. What the hell, I finally decided to deal with the depression and this is how it ends up! I was totally pissed. I just wanted to punch the psychiatrist in the mouth. My doctor showed me in his book of pills where it says, patients must have weekly blood levels checked. The idiot never read the directions. He could have killed me, and dam near did. I kept telling this moron I didn’t feel right and he tried to convince me it was normal. And so began the next chapter in my life out of the abyss yet still in it?
Fortunately, I had excellent insurance with Digital Equipment Corp and I was able to enter into an inpatient detox hospital in New Hampshire. It was a very good one and not far from home. I was mad as hell and almost decided I was not going to go through with it. I would rather have died, than go through the humiliation of any type of addiction detox. I knew the reasons didn’t matter when it came to people who are cruel and of limited thinking, I would be labeled nuts. I was not a happy camper. I was unhappy when I was told the first couple of days was required in a lockup unit. This had a major effect on me. I had been in emotional lock up most of my life in one form or another and this was not a good situation for me.
Nevertheless, I survived and was transferred to a private room.
I was having major withdrawal symptoms that were anything but fun. But I was determined to get beyond this and start living my life again. I was required to see a psychiatrist once a day but nothing else and I had constant monitoring for the first week or two. I noticed other patients had a regimen of required group meetings, meditation exercises and a relatively structured program of recovery. I was exempt from all of this and I was ok with not having to participate in any of it. I just wanted to get this stuff out of my system and move on to a better life.
A funny thing began to happen during my one hour per day visit with the psychiatrist. He recognized my defense mechanisms and he started to challenge me. I decided after a couple of weeks of being
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cleverly probed by my doctor, what the hell, I am here why not talk about the abuse, after all, all I had was time on my hands.
It was during these sessions when I began to realize how much the abuse was bothering me. I had not realized I was struggling with any of it. In my mind, it had ended it and that was that. He was a good doctor and I started opening up. After a few more visits, he convinced me to go to his group sessions. I didn’t want anything to do with talking about any of this with other people especially strangers who were in detox for drug and alcohol addiction. I didn't see any connection between me and them and I was too ashamed to want to participate, but I capitulated and agreed to try it. My blood levels were near normal and I was feeling pretty good so why not kill a little more time in a group session. I was already bored, so what the hell, why not.
After a week or so of listening to the group’s problems I found myself nearly bursting trying not to open up about what had happened to me. Finally, one day I did, I couldn’t hold back anymore. I was in an environment which fostered telling about what had happened, but more importantly, this environment was a direct assault on my denial. I came to a point where I had little choice but to start telling my story, as the tears were rolling down my face, I explained I was so ashamed for not stopping the abuse and for letting it happened. Then this lovely woman, who could have been my mother, finally said, "Oh honey you were just a kid and it was not your fault." Lights went off in my head. Here I was expecting people to get sick at what I was telling them, and I knew they would shun me and vilify me, or so I believed. Instead the first words I hear about it is, ''You were just a kid and it was not your fault." I had never considered this. It was true; I was just a kid and how can a kid stand up to an adult. Before long most of the group was chiming in and it was all the same, nothing but support and empathy and a few had their own abuses they had to deal with. I couldn’t stop crying for several hours, alone in my room of course. It was a similar feeling to the one at the cemetery. Sad but relieved, and a little bewildered.
I left detox after a 60 day stay, a new person and feeling liberated, different, better, but somewhat humiliated. I never believed I would end up in any detox hospital for any reason and it was hard for me to accept I was not a superman able to handle anything, talk about vanity, I guess I had it in spades. I was human and no more than that. And I reasoned to myself that I was not there for alcohol, illegal drugs or prescription drug abuse, so I considered my situation different than others. I was there because of the negligence of an incompetent doctor. But I had to live with the stigmatism of having been to detox and the insults of a nice who I never got along with, as was the case with most of my family and her.
Leaving detox was a good thing and a positive step but there was no follow-up counseling. I was done with counselors and meds, nor was any follow-up counseling recommended. But here was the trap. I fooled myself into believing I had dealt with the abuse and no more needed to be done. This is one of the major reasons I spent 40 years running from the wounds and truth, rather than embracing the truth and healing from the wounds. Over the years, I had been able to open up and discuss the fact that I had been abused but I never conceded the damage or recognized it. It was there, it was real, and I was still trying to keep it buried, unconnected to it. I was proud of myself for being able to talk about the abuse, and on more than one occasion, I considered giving myself a pat on the back for taking charge of the situation and finally dealing with the abuse. I didn’t understand all I had done was publicly acknowledge the abuse and I didn’t have a clue, or want a clue, that much more work needed to be done. My openness in group therapy was only a beginning and I really dropped the ball by not following up. At the time I felt so good but I didn't' have a clue of what was to come. The simple fact of the matter was, I felt different and better for a while, but all the same feelings of, anxiety and depression would creep in again. I would keep myself busy, work through the episodes, and move on, not realizing each time I did this only depleted my energy reserves and brought me closer to the ultimate showdown, still years away.
Beyond rehab, I was just trying to forget everything, the fire, losing the house I spent two years building, the abuse, and trying to prove to the world I was not gay or crazy. I had no desires to be with men and I was definitely not attracted to men, however my doubts about my sexuality were deeply instilled because I had been involved with men. I put a good deal of time into trying to forget. It seemed the harder I tried not to think about things, the more I would think about my past. There has rarely been a time when I
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am not reminded of how I felt during those dark years. It was a high price to pay. I focused a lot of my time on my work. I worked in high tech and have had some of the most fulfilling jobs any person could hope for. As it turned out, I have high natural aptitude for design and all things technical. My mother can attest to this with all the lamps I took apart as a kid. As a kid I was always trying to fix something or build something.
Trying to prove to the world I liked women, became a major focus during my twenties. I knew but did anyone else? It wasn’t that I was just trying to prove something, I really liked dating women. And with each woman the memories of abuse and doubts would fade a little more. Most of my relationships were healthy ones back then. Women my own age and I became very good in bed, or so I have been told many times. One of my driving forces was to make sure I was completely unselfish and accommodating in bed. I wanted sex to be great for my partner, and not like it was for me as a teenager. I am a very accommodating lover. I read books on lovemaking and I applied everything I learned. But I was struggling with self-image because I had so much male sex in my teens. I guess I was overcompensating trying to make sure there was no doubt I was straight.
Sex wasn't all roses though. I still had a very difficult time with the guilt I always felt about sex. Whenever I climaxed I would have a flood of guilt. This has been a direct result of how I first felt about sex and how it made me feel during my abuse years, and of course, there was the religious stuff that always weighed on me. And climaxing always took time. Even today, I am so conditioned that I still have a twinge of guilt after sex and rarely do I let myself climax.
It is funny, after I graduated high school I seriously considered becoming a priest, something I had wanted since I was a kid. Part of me wanted to be a priest and the other part of me believed I wouldn’t have to have sex. Ignorance is bliss. But I didn’t think God wanted much to do with me and therefore I never followed through on it. An incident with a priest when I was fifteen, didn’t help much either. In time, I recovered from the trauma of the priest episode and I became a little wiser and found my way back to God. I have never left Jesus again or more to the point, He has never left me.
I seemed to be liked by most of the women I dated but I had a very difficult time with the, ''I love you" stuff. I just could not believe it, because pretty much everyone I had feelings for ended up failing me and I didn't believe I was worthy of love. I had a difficult time reconciling my need and want for love with a total distrust of anyone using the word love. To solve this problem, I convinced myself: women only use the word as part of a game to help them feel wanted or part of something. So I minimized the word love but not the emotions of love, I loved being in love the few times I have been. Part of me really wanted to be loved, most of the time and in a healthy relationship, but it scared the hell out me and it took a long time for the right woman to come along. Keeping in mind, my dating did not start until I was in my twenties and I was just learning how to relate to a woman in this type of relationship. And of course, there was the never-ending fear that my past would be openly exposed. It was not something I could deal with. I lived my life in fear. I was always trying to cover my past and ignore it. My past was not a fun way to grow up. I wish it were different.
I was living the lie every day and I was blind to it. I refused to listen to my feelings and I learned ignore them. Talk about setting yourself up for a fall; I can’t think of a better way! I was always tried to convince myself to quit letting the abuse bother me, but it didn’t work. All I did was numb myself and tricked myself into believing there was no problem. I was trying to separate from a big part of myself: I was living in a make-believe-world of “there is no problem." No one can do this and make things better for themselves. The smarter choice would have been to ask myself how much more of myself was I willing to give to the abuse. I had wished I could have thought to ask this question, when I was eight or eleven or anytime sooner than I did.
In time I quit thinking about what I should have done, could have done, or should not have done, because I realized things are what they are and for whatever reason or reasons, I am, who I am, and my life has been what it was. This is going to have to do. And I would re-enforce this thinking by always minimizing what had happened to me. I tried to convince myself, how so many others had it worse. Or I reminded myself of the little children living in real suffering like, hunger, fear, homelessness, war, and disease.
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I made myself feel ashamed for feeling anything bad about what happened to me. For a time I had convinced myself I was the lucky one. Telling myself, God gave you the strength to survive and get yourself out of it, now let it go, it is in the past.
It was an ineffective game for many years. Unfortunately, whenever you deny yourself in this way you create a frame of mind that fertilizes the roots of denial. If I was going to recover, I had no choice but to accept the fact, I had created a world of false truths, and I would have to question how I think about myself. Any abuse is bad, and not recognizing the real dangers with this type of thinking, is devastating. It is true many others have had it worse than me in their own ways. However, pain and suffering are relative to each of us. If you have been abused, you are suffering, if you have not recovered. It became imperative for me to accept my suffering as equal to anyone’s and not allow myself to minimize it or make it any bigger than it was. The trick is to understand where the middle ground was and work towards it as a goal. Believing people had it worse than I did doesn’t make my trauma any less damaging or bearable for me. To minimize what happened only robbed me of any true recovery for a long time.
For most of my twenties, I was not taking any medication except pot. I struggled with periods of depression. Sometimes, if I was alone or things were going badly in my life the depression was bad. I always managed because I had become so used to depression over the years that I was able to function at the required level but no more than what was needed for work or other personal requirements. What was difficult for me to understand was, I was in a constant state of depression. I just had different levels of functioning. When I was functioning well, I felt relatively happy. I had become so used to the depression that I didn’t recognize it anymore. I just kept up the good face as best I could and tried not to think about it. And the depression was not the worst of it. The anxiety, which I never understood until a few years ago, was unbearable. For the most part, I was in a constant state of anxiety. And again, I had different levels of attacks, along with different levels of chronic anxiety. I did not understand why, because I never felt I had anything to be anxious or depressed about. Both these emotions would drive me nuts at times. I would keep asking myself, why I am feeling this way. Why are my nerves so screwed up? I could not make sense of it but I lived with it every day in one form or another and to one degree or another.
In my teens, while I was being abused, I had anxiety and depression but that made sense to me because there was a reason. It used to piss me off so much that I would get angry at myself and just keep on trying to convince myself how great things were. With each episode of depression and anxiety, I felt lost and sad. I didn't understand anxiety was a fear driven response of some sort. I didn’t understand its triggers, and they are many. With the aid of hindsight, there were clearly many indicators of pure denial and other indicators of suppressed anger. I rarely became outwardly mad or angry. I had good reasons not to. I am a big person and to show any kind of anger can be very intimating for people around me.
My lifestyle and early development did not give me the tools to deal with anger. So I simply buried it. Not developing a healthy means of dealing with anger led to other problems. The problem was, there were times when I did get mad, and I would break something of my own, punch a wall, or just really go off on someone verbally. It wasn't often, about every year or two. But it really bothered me, having this much rage inside and I didn’t know, or want to know, where it was coming from. I was grateful I was never violent toward any person. Between my parents being very strict, expressing anger was seriously suppressed by my family and abusers. I was reluctant and probably incapable of expressing anger in a healthy way. Of course, we all know what happens to suppressed anger. It does not stay suppressed just unidentified. It becomes a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Suppressed anger contributes to depression and anxiety which can become a way of life, where a person learns to live and function with it. This was me. The trick is to know when there is suppressed anger.
I was always with one girl at a time and I have never cheated. I had opportunities but it was not me, in fact, I loathed anyone who did cheat. Too many people in my past were low life’s and I didn’t want to hurt my partner or give my partner a reason to distrust me. I needed to be better to them than people were to me in the past. I am rather proud of this. It was important for me to do the right thing and not hurt anyone.
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As I said, sex was not always fun, because there were times when I had a difficult time responding spontaneously. It was usually the first time with a woman. Most of the time it was not a problem, except with one woman, who I still love dearly today and have not seen or heard from since the 1990s.
Ruth was my first love. I met her at my first job. But she was always involved with the ''tough guy" type. I guess she liked the bad boys back then. In time, we became very good friends and of course, I couldn’t do enough for her. I was twenty or so and she was nineteen. To this day, she was the best kisser I have ever known and she is very attractive. When it came time to be intimate, I just could not respond. I never figured out why. But it was an indication of some sexual dysfunction on my part. At the time I didn't think it was my fault because I decided she needed to be more involved in pre-heating the oven so to speak.
Of course, it was not her fault at any level.
In time, I recognized my inability to physically respond to Ruth, as some sort of subconscious reaction to her being the first woman I knew beyond the abuse. When I met her, I was still living at Ernie and Bette's home. I really miss Ruth. She is a great person. Our last attempt at having an intimate relationship was in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I failed miserably. It ended our relationship because I decided I had enough with her boos. I was just making another excuse to keep the focus off me. She deserved better than that. Ruth will always be special to me. And she was a great friend and has a great heart. We were friends for many years.
I believe what was really happening, when it came to Ruth was I was struggling with very real feelings of love, intimacy and trust, and making the two connect into actually loving someone. The abuse had separated the two from me and even today I still struggle with this. I began to realize I was not making good emotional connections between sex and love. This was another aspect of the abuse which bothered me, but not so much as I was willing to do much about it. I was still in denial, and denial will always make up your mind for you, just like the abusers did. I did go to a counselor for a short time but all he wanted to do was teach me how visualize making love to Ruth and becoming aroused. He made me very uncomfortable and I decided I could watch an 8mm movie and accomplish the same thing and not cost as much. It was sad because I always wanted a life with Ruth but I was not ready. I didn’t know who I was and I was struggling with an identity crisis. I hope she has found happiness.
During my twenties there were signs in the form of acting out that I did not recognize. There were times when I was attracted to streetwalkers. I never picked one up but if I happened to see one, I would always have a fantasy about her. I think the only reason I didn’t was the risk was too high and I couldn’t deal with the guilt. And I have always been scared to death of getting a disease. Other forms of acting were porno movies. I watched them a lot and found them very intriguing when I was stoned. Other times, I found myself flirting and being suggestive in a funny ways, it seemed to be the thing to do in the seventies and eighties, in fact, women rarely had a problem being the same way with me. However, one time, while stoned I showed inappropriate affection by kissing on the lips. This really bothered me and it was another indication of acting out. I also participated in various adult games, like bumps and grinds, shooters, and strip poker. Sex was everywhere, as it had been most of my life. And there was always pot and booze. I was never a heavy drinker but when I wanted to, I could keep pace with the best of them. I have only been drunk three times in my life, and every time, I wanted to be drunk.
I met my wife when I was thirty, and she was the best thing to ever happen to me. All the partying stopped and I had no problem stopping it. I was never happier than my years with my wife. I have never known a level of wholeness and true love, since Barbara. She was everything to me. For the first time in my life, I felt I was someone special. Barbara was a “10” in so many ways. She is seven years older than I but she always looked ten years younger than she is. What an incredible woman!
All my abuse stuff was really put on the back burner after meeting Barbara, not that I ever really had the abuse on the stove. My entire focus was Barbara and making her happy. However, it was tough having to be on the outside with her kids. Kelly was 15 and Mike was 17 when we first met. But through all the problems, I would do it again in a heartbeat, my acting out cost us our marriage.
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It became apparent over time, whenever things became stressful in my marriage I would start acting out again. I didn’t have a clue why or that it was called acting out. When I acted out, I always felt guilty and confused. It time, I found myself calling chat lines, these were the first social networks that ranged from online sex to just chatting. They were not readily accepted by society as a whole and you really didn’t want to tell anyone you were one of the lonely souls out there. I was married but I felt lonely and this made no sense to me. Anytime I called these Chat lines, I became really pissed at myself. I kept telling myself this was not me and it is wrong. Why the hell am I calling and chatting with total strangers? I could see if it was about sex but I had no interest in phone sex. I just wanted to talk.
In time, I explored making a business out of this new medium. After a while, I went to counseling to try to figure out what was going on, and I didn’t want Barbara to know about any of it. This made me feel more guilty. While my time on the chat lines was a matter of weeks, it was a clear indication of problems. My counselor knew me because he was our couple’s counselor. Barbara and I had been seeing him regarding our relationship with her kids. My counselor started probing about my past, I did tell him I was abused and that I had it under control. He was very good at getting me to talk. I did not see the sense in it at the time but he made me realize I had to start dealing with the abuse on a different level. I really didn’t believe him. Of course, he was right and when Barbara and I separated for the first time, what he said really hit home.
The reasons for our separation are not as simple as I am about to explain but it was the trigger for our separation. At the time, and for the better part of a year, Barbara was having all kinds of emotional swings. I suspected she was going through menopause. It was at an early age and I wasn’t really sure. Barbara was extremely concerned about getting older; she had extreme vanity about it. So much so, she went to two plastic surgeons and neither would work on her. They told her she was blessed and she was. For a year, I could not get her to go to her doctor and be checked out. She didn't want to hear about it at any level.
She would not deal with the possibility that she had reached menopause.
My first separation was a complete surprise and shock. One night, I came home at about 11:00 and Barbara was at the door, waiting for me. She stood there telling me to leave and that “It’s over.” I thought she was kidding. When I asked her why, she simply said, “Leave, it is over.” This encounter with Barbara was weird. She said I did nothing wrong and kept repeating, “It is over.” She seemed to be having some sort of episode because I didn’t know the person I was talking to. She looked like Barbara but she had a completely different personality than earlier that day; it was scary. I had no choice but to leave. I went to a hotel. I thought it would be cleared up the next day. But that was not going to happen.
As the days went by Barbara would not give me a reason for her wanting a divorce. It started to hit home, Barbara and I might be getting divorced. She hired a lawyer and all the papers said was irreconcilable differences. I began to have very serious emotional and physical reactions to all of this. I didn’t know what the hell was happening to my body. It was the most horrible feelings and physical reactions I had ever experienced. My mind was sharp but I was in total overload emotionally and physically. I was seeing my medical doctor through all of this and he was in awe at what was happening to me. He prescribed Xanax but it didn’t help. He told me I was going through sort of serious Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, although he didn’t understand why, and I didn’t understand what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was.
It once again started to hit home with me. The abuse must be affecting me at some level. This could not be all about the divorce and not seeing Barbara.
Physically, there was not one square inch of my body that did not hurt or any nerves that were not firing impulses constantly. My skin was crawling persistently. I lost a huge amount of weight and developed a stutter and facial twitches. Barbara proceeded with a lawyer and papers, none of which I would have anything to do with and she refused to talk with me. My physical and emotional condition was in such a state that I didn't think I could survive a divorce proceeding, and I didn’t get married in a court and I sure as hell was not going to participate in getting divorced in one. And I am a Catholic and that was a real problem. I didn't have time to focus on my thinking about the abuse and that it may be causing me so much distress. I was in pure survival mode.
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PTSD is a horrible disorder to live with. It is a real hell and unless you have experienced it, you cannot relate. The episodes reminded me of how I felt in my teens but this was much more severe. Those inner demons were alive and well, and they sure as hell were raising their ugly head.
I was so stressed out during the beginning of this that one day I caused an automobile accident by making a left hand turn in front of an oncoming vehicle. My pick-up was wrecked but there were no serious injuries. I could still drive the vehicle but something weird happened. I remember very little about the accident.
I remember the police officer knocking on my hotel room door and giving me my license back. I forgot to take it from him and the accident happened at the entrance to the motel. He told me I had dinged my ribs up pretty good and wanted to take me to the hospital. I told him no thanks. I just didn’t care about much anymore.
What happened next was weird. For three days, I was an in total amnesia. It was the fourth day before I started coming around and my family and friends were telling me I was really acting angry and said some very inappropriate things and hurtful things to several people, including some kids. I didn’t have any memory of the previous three days. I thought I was losing my mind. I guess the accident put my stress level to the breaking point. I don’t know half of what I said because my family would not tell me, and they were more concerned about what was happening to me than what I had said. Here I was driving around having conversations and interactions with people for three days and I still cannot remember one minute of it. I considered this serious and I was having all I wanted of this crap. I decided I was going to give up on the marriage and get myself straightened out and on my feet. Emotionally I have still not let go of my love for Barbara and it took years for me to let her go after we divorced. She was my soul mate. But at that moment,
I decided I had to try to move on or this was going to kill me. To this end, I made the mistake of calling Barbara and trying to talk for a few minutes. She was very cruel with me again and I reacted badly. I had started on an antidepressant shortly after we separated and they were helping. But when Barbara totally rejected me again, as she did, I lost it. I decide I was going to get very drunk, something I had only done twice before; in fact, I rarely drank, much to the surprise of my family.
In the course of this binge, I managed to accidentally overdose myself on antidepressants. I was poisoned and in a very bad way. For two days I was on the floor of the hotel and it wasn’t until a friend of mine managed to get the door open and find me conscious but out of it, in and out of lucidity. I wouldn’t let her call an ambulance, that was all I needed and I was not going to deal with the embarrassments of my stupidity. I couldn’t believe what I had done. I was so pissed at myself. How could I do that to Barbara or my family, especially my parents? And again I didn't remember doing it. All I could remember was a couple of times not being able to move and trying to call for help on the phone. At a point, I managed to crawl on my stomach with great distress to the bathtub. I wanted to put myself under a cold shower. All I managed to do was raise myself-up on my arms only to have them give out and crack my head open on the tub. I don't know how long I laid there but it had to be several hours.
In a few days, I had recovered and I was still pissed at myself; I’d had had enough. I would write letters to Barbara but nothing else. It was time for me to move on. I managed to work and ultimately I moved in with my sister’s family, and again I found myself seeking comfort with the chat lines. Again, I was bothered by my behavior; I didn’t understand my need for chat lines. Although, in this case I know it was partly due to being very lonely, rejected and isolated.
Barbara and I were separated for some months and I finally decided all the love letters and flowers are not going to get her to talk with me or change her mind about the divorce. But this was Barbara all the way. She simply has never been able to deal with conflict. I decided if I couldn't say good-bye to her in person then I would send her a videotape saying good-bye. It was ironic. I was finally moving on and I sent her a video telling her so. What does she do? She calls me on the phone, crying and saying how much she loves me and does not want a divorce. Of course, I was elated! And I was in shock, and probably a dozen other feelings.
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Prior to this happening, I had told Barbara in a few different letters she should go and get her hormone levels checked. I had sent her a couple of books on the subject of menopause and of course, none of this was what she wanted to hear. During this separation, I was determined to figure out what the hell had happened in our marriage. I thought I was a great husband and good listener. So I hit the books and read everything I could find on marriage and “the change of life.” I learned a lot about both. In time, Barbara did read the books on menopause and I believed they are what changed her mind. After a couple of meetings, we agreed to go to counseling and she decided to get her hormones checked.
Her doctor told her she had the lowest level of hormones he had seen in twenty years. She went on hormone treatment and it was an amazing change in her in a matter of a couple of weeks. She was back to her old-self and we were back together after some more couple’s therapy. Things were going great for the next several years until I screwed things up permanently. Time has stood still for me when it comes to my feelings for Barbara. It was a tragedy losing her.
It was my separation from Barbara and my subsequent discovery of PSTD that really made me start thinking more about the abuse. How much had it really affected me? Unfortunately, I was so wrapped up in making our marriage work that once again, I put the abuse on the back burner and for whatever reason it was not addressed. I was just so happy being back with Barbara. But I was beginning to suspect there was a lot more to my abuse than I was willing to admit.
This really hit home on Christmas night 1994, a night never to be forgotten. I was angry with Barbara for not letting me give my mother $200.00 so she could buy some things for Christmas. In fact, I was pretty pissed. So like an idiot I decide to have a couple drinks to help suppress my anger. I don’t know if having a couple of drinks made any difference in my behavior or not, the bottle of vodka had been sitting on the shelf for almost a year and I decided it was time to open it. I had two drinks after which I was in the downstairs office when I got a phone call, another prank phone call. We had been getting them regularly lately and we didn't understand why. We were getting them on both our private line and office phone. This time I didn't hang up and I engaged the woman on the phone who was definitely baiting me with lewd talk. I was not thinking about anything other than it was somewhat funny and I wanted to know who it was. At first I thought it was a friend pulling a prank on me, and to this day I have my suspicions. Anyway, Barbara was listening at the door of my office. My conversation lasted two possibly three minutes. The only thing I remember saying that was lewd was, yes I liked big boobs and with a laugh. I couldn't continue the conversation and I told the caller the calls were getting old and I was happily married and to please stop the calls. I don’t know if it was the same person who had been calling, but I know one of the callers was a guy and others were women. I had believed it was Barbara's ex family who had been harassing us. We had had similar problems in the past, the only difference was when it was her ex-husband’s family, and they were open about it.
When I left the office, I went upstairs and I was laughing. I was about to tell Barbara about the phone call, when I saw the totally devastated look in her eyes. All she said was, "I want a divorce," no conversation, no nothing.
I left that night and since then Barbara has not had one personal conversation with me. The one brief encounter we had was legal stuff and as of today, she has not had one conversation with me. She will not give me one picture of our wedding or the hundreds of pictures and videos that belonged to me. I walked away with a bag of clothes and Barbara has refused to give me anything that belonged to me. I had a lawyer for a very brief time. But I decided I was not going to participate in the legal aspects of the divorce. If she wanted to divorce then she would have to do it on her own. I not only could not endure anything else with the divorce, I could not bring myself to do it. And I was very conflicted about the role of my faith in this. I was told flat out divorce was forbidden in the Catholic Church and they were right, unless there were very extenuating circumstances. So I took the easy way out and just did not participate in the legal aspects of my divorce. I just didn’t have it in me to do so.
Of course, in hindsight the phone call was just a bunch of bull, I was acting out. I saw an opportunity and I took it. Then I tried to distort the truth to fit my needed story, none of which I was
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realizing I was doing until recovery entered my life. In hindsight, the facts are clear; I should have just hung up the phone. I played a game that ended up hurting the most important person in my life. Realizing Barbara believed I was having an affair, I started to hate sex again. How much more trouble was this crap going to get me in? When was I going to do something about it? How much more did I have to lose? Not much because there was not much more to lose.
I didn’t date or have sex for almost four years after our divorce. When I did, I had a rough time of it. I was still very much in love with Barbara. I missed her more than I can explain and I didn’t want anyone else in my life. At some point, I decided I was going to apply for an annulment with the Catholic Church and then just date casually, which worked out pretty well for a while. I only dated one woman at a time but they knew up front that I had no interest in anything serious. Dating just for fun and sex was something I had never done since my twenties. It was not without its problems, but it was good. All the way up to the point when I realized just how empty and mechanical having casual sex was.
I considered sex a challenge, an art and a thing of beauty. How good could I make my partner feel? I was always the accommodating type, especially in bed. I guess I had good training. Until then the only person I had ever made an emotional connection to with sex was Barbara. With other partners I was emotionally connected but not with sex. I wonder if I would ever be given a second chance at this type of love, real love, in the heart genuine love. It was wonderful.
I left my marriage knowing I had things to work on. I still didn't care too much about it because I wasn’t really living. I was just getting by. I figured I would be dead in a matter of years and so it didn’t matter how I lived my life. I pretended to be angry at Barbara but I didn’t blame her. Trust was an absolute with Barbara and any infraction meant a divorce. So, I screwed up and we paid. It wasn't fair to her and for the longest time I wouldn’t see where I was responsible. I had convinced myself Barbara went way over the top because of a prank phone call and at the time, from my point of view, our marriage was worth more than a damned phone call, but not for Barbara I guess. I could not face the truth that I made a bad choice that cost so much. Over time, I came to take full responsibility, which was more a result of my epiphany in the cemetery than anything else was. For Barbara and me, it was just too late. I needed to step out of denial many years before and I didn't, and she needed to also and she never has. She deserves to be happy.
One of the biggest problems I had in my marriage was the insecurity I always felt. My own low selfesteem constantly made me feel insecure in our relationship. I was always worried we were going to break up. I didn't discuss it too often with Barbara but it worried me. Knowing Barbara was a no nonsense type person tended to make me walk on egg shells for the first few years of the marriage and of course the separation didn’t help. Have you ever woken up one morning and looked in the mirror only to see the lie your life has been? To realize you really do not know the person staring back at you. To really sense the damage that was done to you by so many. And to realize you have no energy left to continue the lie and lack the courage or wisdom to confront it. It made me realize the “shadow beliefs” of my life need to be brought into the light.
For many of us, sexual child abuse is a prison with no way out. It keeps us locked inside of ourselves, in fear of life and all it brings. I have lived most of my life in shame, without true dignity and a confused sense of self. I tried to hide by being a pot head. Since my divorce, I have been in a few relationships, as I am now. All ended in disaster with the exception of my current partner. But they have all been of the same nature. After my wife, except my current partner, my partners have all been heavy drinkers with other substances abuse issues, usually pot. I never dated anyone who did hard drugs; I was smart enough not to get involved with these types of relationships. I have cared deeply for my partners only to allow them to become totally dependent on me for money. And for whatever reason they would not work or could not work because they could not deal with their own issues. Don't get me wrong, my girlfriends were all good people who had lived hard lives or had problems beyond their control and many problems that they could do something about, but wouldn’t. But, giving my future away is just another cycle that I have continued since my very first job, which is one of the many reasons I have nothing to show for my life at fifty three. Some will call me a generous person, many will call me stupid. Me? Well, I guess a wise man would
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know to take care of one’s self first and prudently take care of others second. I was driven by emotions, not common sense, and a clandestine need to punish myself, something I only figured-out through recovery. It turns out I had many self-destructive behaviors. Not the least of which were dysfunctional relationships.
I left Colorado in 2001, partly, to reconnect with my family and to leave a disastrous relationship with my fiancé. It was sad that all my relationships ended the same way with me estranged from them and asking myself why I continue to do this to myself. I had believed I was helping them to overcome their problems by being the best boyfriend I could be. As most people know with some years of wisdom behind them, I was on a fool’s errand. I have come to believe I was trying to fill emotional voids in my life that have been empty since I was eight years old. All my helping made me the world’s greatest enabler. Why? The fact is being an enabler is really being a "disabler." We don’t help those we think we are helping. All we do is give them an easy excuse not to take responsibility for themselves. A real friend would not do that. I have taken on too many responsibilities that were not mine and in doing so prevented myself from moving in a positive direction. This must be some sort of self-destructive behavior. If it isn't then it should be.
As children we are molded by our environment; I ask you, if your life as child was riddled with emotional, spiritual, and psychological contradictions, how do you think your emotional health would be today? For me, it has taken forty years to accept that damage was done, and how much the wounds have affected everything in my life and above all, how much the damage has cost me, and my soul mate.
I cannot in good conscience say my motivation for writing this book is as unselfish or as honorable as simply educating and making people aware. I have been contemplating this book for the last five years. Well before I started my recovery, I procrastinated, because I could not clarify a motive or what I wanted from this book. In the beginning stages of my recovery, I was in too much overload and emotional confusion about my life, making it difficult get anything done beyond journals and research. Now I know that this "thing" has taken the first half of my life and I will not let it define the second half of my life. I have stopped running and I am facing whatever comes of this with honor, courage, and dignity. And through recovery I found a motive and purpose for writing this book. It would be my guiding light in my recovery process.
I have lived a hard life in many ways but I love life and I never lose sight of that love. It is simply a time to start making my life instead of my past molding my future. The abusers win no more. I want to heal and I am compelled to write this book in the spirit of bringing me back or more to the point bring to where I belong emotionally, and intellectua1ly. To take myself back through my life to examine the events and connect the dots between the abuses and understand the cause and effect as it relates to my choices in life.
Even as I write these first pages, I can sense the relief and excitement about how I feel about this dangerous, frightening but hopeful trek I have put myself on. With each word, I feel my resolve increase and confidence grow. It simply feels like I am doing the right thing. If writing about my life's experiences helps me heal or makes a parent aware of the signs of abuse, or gives comfort to a survivor or victim, then damn the critics. Because helping one child avoid the life I have lived will make all that I have endured worth it.
Recovery became a plethora of emotions just sweeping me along. What I found disturbing was my lack of anger. Let me be clear, I am very angry and I am not sure why. I know it is there but I also know I am not connected to it. A strange thing to say I know. But understanding the real source of the anger is more important than just accepting I have discovered I am angry. I know I am partly angry because I lived in denial for so many years, and now my life is half over and I have very little or nothing to show for it. I have educated myself enough to believe I have some very deep issues that I am deeply angry about and it was unsettling understanding there was anger that I was not connected to.
I have always wanted to make a difference in someone's life and I have yet to see this for myself. Even though others have been openly honest about my caring and nurturing nature and willingness to be generous to a fault, I can’t see where I have made a difference for anyone. The fact is I love helping people. The only question is why? I was brought up Catholic and was taught very high moral and ethical standards by my parents. As a kid, I was always wanting and willing to help most anyone. It always made me feel good.
Now I wonder if it was some manner of emotional bartering for affection and acceptance. Did I feel
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emotionally deprived? How could that be? I have a huge family. Maybe I wanted to be known as the nice kid rather than the bad kid I believed myself to be. Is my good nature a result of over-compensating for the abuse or is it because it is who I am? This is one of many questions I have asked myself a hundred times in the past few years. And there were many more questions to be asked.
I have concluded the only way to heal is to take myself back through time. Writing this book is one vehicle to make that happen. It is my intent to give you an inside glimpse at the anatomy of abuse from the point of view of a victim and survivor, while recovering. I am not a writer, social worker or anyone who can speak from a medical or psychological basis. I am simply a guy who has lived this life the best way I knew how. Every day I feel the effects of the psychological conditioning from abuse and it takes a constant vigilance of self-monitoring and questioning everything I am feeling or wondering, to maintain a level of control. I am tired of this millstone of abuse chained around my neck that has held me back and prevented me from enjoying life to its fullest. Now I have a goal to live to one-hundred-years-old and I want my life to count for something. To do that I have to leave the past where it belongs; this is obvious. The problem is how to reprogram the many “shadow beliefs” instilled in me starting at eight-years-old, through my teen years and into my early twenties. I can't undo the abuse or change the past. I can only change me and how I deal with the impact of such horrendous abuse.
I have been in counseling on and off over the years and have from time to time used various medications from anti-depressants to sedatives and pot. None of these are the answer, they were only a means to suppress the effects of abuse and or numb its physical symptoms. It was unfortunate I was not in counseling for the abuse. Had I been, the medications would have been great while working on the causes of my symptoms rather than using the med's as a band-aide. This is the real value of meds, to be used while the root causes are being worked through. I never spent any real time in counseling for abuse. Yes, I brought it up from time to time but I always presented it to the counselors as something that was not a problem.
In short, all the counseling was good to an extent; I always managed to take something from the it that was useful. After forty years I am pretty worn down but cautiously optimistic. Since my divorce, I have been waiting for God, simply getting by and totally stalled in a cesspool of emotional turmoil, chaos, and selfdestructive behavior. I have lost my patience with God and have decided if He is not willing to take me home, then it is time for me to take control. Although there have been times when I have considered helping God, my very strong spiritual beliefs (for which I am deeply grateful to my parents) have saved my life and have, for the most part, prevented me from acting on these dark impulses.
So I am left with two choices, change my life totally and become the person that I believe I am, or simply continue as I have, which may end in a tragic disaster. So this is my new beginning, a commitment to me to change my life and make it what I want. Uninfluenced by the pathetic people who affected the outcome of my life to such a sad degree! Yet, in many ways, I consider my life to be a good one, full of enrichment, experiences, and in my own way, I have succeeded as a person. The measure of this is, I am still here, still fighting and not giving up. It is now time for me to fight by my rules and not let myself be owned by my inner enemies. I have lived a life of duality not knowing which person I was, the victim or the survivor as well as other dualities. Inner conflicts that will become more evident as these chapters develop.
One sense of duality was, I am always struggling with what my family really thinks of me, and not understanding why I am estranged from them. Do they see me as a gay person, straight or with shame or disdain? Or do they see me as I see myself, a loving but distant brother, who really wants to be close to them. I understand the logistics of why things were as they were; I just do not understand why I have put myself in self-exile from them. They are a great family, even with all their faults they are good people and I miss them and my mother so much. I claim to keep myself in exile because, as I have said to them many times, I feel I am doing them a favor. I guess I feel unworthy of them, and I think I have convinced myself I am protecting them and probably myself as well.
I have no room in my heart for hate or anger towards any of the people who abused me or anyone for that matter. At least not yet, recovery may prove this a little different than I presume now. In fact, I feel sorry for most of them because all of them probably have done no better dealing with themselves than I have
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with myself. For sure, there are no winners in issues of this nature. I may have lost many battles to abuse but the war is won by rising above the abuse and allowing one’s self to heal. We win by defeating the abusers on our own terms and on neutral ground. And when a victim realizes the war is winnable, nothing can then stop it from happening.
To this end I spent many nights in my motel room, where I have been by choice for the last 1.5 years, pondering why my life has been as it has. Why is my life one of continued self-destructive behavior? In two days I start back to work at a new company. I ponder why I just walked away from my dream job a few weeks ago as an engineering manager at a very good company. I loved the job and position but it was overly demanding. I worked constantly and made constant compromises in my personal life so I would be sure to succeed at this job. In the end I definitely was burned out; something I have come to realize is a definite pattern in my life. Working 60 to 70 hours every week on salary will do that to a person. I am sitting here in awe that I have managed to destroy another positive development in my life. Changing the patterns of one’s life is a demanding and treacherous endeavor for someone with my history.
I am 53 years old whose life has not been grounded since my divorce, and rarely before I was married, and I find myself in the same cycles of self-destructive behavior. Always followed by the agony of starting over, only to overcome again, move on, rebuild, and then to watch it all fall apa
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