Discovering Expectations
This post started as one thing, but revealed something more important to me...so it's a bit rambling.
Over a year ago, I found a podcast about how my kidnapper attacked Roy Cohen. At the time, I couldn’t listen to it. The other day, I was tired of music, so I launched the Podcasts app. Yikes, there it was. I haven’t used it in all this time!
I thought, what the fuck, just listen. The hosts were loving how devious and outrageous Richard was. I felt a need to write and tell them he was more than just a “wacko”. I gave a brief overview of my story, but also gave a link to my photo essay “so many skins, since”. I felt good that I asserted my truth about Richard, even if it was to the void.
But a half hour later they responded with an invitation to record “so many skins, since” for an upcoming podcast. I agreed.
Oddly I have been a super bitch since. I’ve been pissy as shit since. I can’t put my finger on why. I’m very proud of my series and am grateful to have an audience to share it with.
On the surface, this funk feels like “why bother, after all the work I’ve done, I’m still so far away from…”
Bingo! It’s the “from what” that’s the culprit. I was going to write “cured”. Cured from what? The damage they did to my psyche? Does part of me really think that I will ever not be affected? Do I think one day, I will say the right thing in therapy and suddenly be capable of feeling my body, of being romantically intimate, and being able to have fun-loving sex?
I may be able to achieve those goals to some degree. But I also know no matter what modality I try, I will never become the man that boy would have been had this shit never gone down.
Of course, I will continue to work on myself; it’s what I do. But for now, I am pretty blah about the most likely limited progress.
Over a year ago, I found a podcast about how my kidnapper attacked Roy Cohen. At the time, I couldn’t listen to it. The other day, I was tired of music, so I launched the Podcasts app. Yikes, there it was. I haven’t used it in all this time!
I thought, what the fuck, just listen. The hosts were loving how devious and outrageous Richard was. I felt a need to write and tell them he was more than just a “wacko”. I gave a brief overview of my story, but also gave a link to my photo essay “so many skins, since”. I felt good that I asserted my truth about Richard, even if it was to the void.
But a half hour later they responded with an invitation to record “so many skins, since” for an upcoming podcast. I agreed.
Oddly I have been a super bitch since. I’ve been pissy as shit since. I can’t put my finger on why. I’m very proud of my series and am grateful to have an audience to share it with.
On the surface, this funk feels like “why bother, after all the work I’ve done, I’m still so far away from…”
Bingo! It’s the “from what” that’s the culprit. I was going to write “cured”. Cured from what? The damage they did to my psyche? Does part of me really think that I will ever not be affected? Do I think one day, I will say the right thing in therapy and suddenly be capable of feeling my body, of being romantically intimate, and being able to have fun-loving sex?
I may be able to achieve those goals to some degree. But I also know no matter what modality I try, I will never become the man that boy would have been had this shit never gone down.
Of course, I will continue to work on myself; it’s what I do. But for now, I am pretty blah about the most likely limited progress.
