Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero
Hi guys - I'm the dirty little hero
- Thread starterC. E.
- Start date
victor-victim
Registrant
Eirik the Great!
thank you for sharing this story of survival and strength.
your intro really does give good insight into your character.
you are a hero.
and the boy wonder avatar is awesome.
it is an amazing and inspiring history.
something you said struck home with me.
when i gave the abuser what he wanted, i did feel like i was manipulating him.
this gave me a false sense of power and guilt.
because i didn't really want to do it, i felt conflicted and complicit.
as an adult, i now see that i was being coerced into compliance.
the fact is, i only committed those acts
in order to "manipulate" and appease the abuser
in order to avoid assault,
and not because i wanted to.
it was self defense and desperation.
thank you for sharing this story of survival and strength.
your intro really does give good insight into your character.
you are a hero.
and the boy wonder avatar is awesome.
it is an amazing and inspiring history.
something you said struck home with me.
when i gave the abuser what he wanted, i did feel like i was manipulating him.
this gave me a false sense of power and guilt.
because i didn't really want to do it, i felt conflicted and complicit.
as an adult, i now see that i was being coerced into compliance.
the fact is, i only committed those acts
in order to "manipulate" and appease the abuser
in order to avoid assault,
and not because i wanted to.
it was self defense and desperation.
Eric,
Thanks for sharing this. I'm remembering "the greater love has no one than this, than to lay down his life for his friends" passage from Scripture. I believe that, and think it is the essence of the deepest heroism. I know that doesn't make what happened seem less dirty. But I admire you for doing the dirty work. If you think about it, all heroes do what would seem dirty or crazy if it weren't an emergency. It's part of the definition.
Thanks for sharing it. Although my story is very different, this helps me with my own work.
Sonata
Thanks for sharing this. I'm remembering "the greater love has no one than this, than to lay down his life for his friends" passage from Scripture. I believe that, and think it is the essence of the deepest heroism. I know that doesn't make what happened seem less dirty. But I admire you for doing the dirty work. If you think about it, all heroes do what would seem dirty or crazy if it weren't an emergency. It's part of the definition.
Thanks for sharing it. Although my story is very different, this helps me with my own work.
Sonata
victor-victim
Registrant
dear eric.
your story is upsetting and sadly familiar.
i totally relate to feeling betrayed by the system and the community.
it seems everyone just sort of hopes and expects
that someone else is taking care of it,
and nothing gets done and the crimes continue,
while people get on with their busy schedules...
schedules that do not include the health and welfare and safety of children.
we survivors struggle with shame,
but society should be embarassed.
i am nothing to them but filthy dirt under an ugly rug.
oops. sorry. perhaps i digress.
your story triggered me, i guess.
my belated codolences on the loss of your childhood.
your story is upsetting and sadly familiar.
i totally relate to feeling betrayed by the system and the community.
it seems everyone just sort of hopes and expects
that someone else is taking care of it,
and nothing gets done and the crimes continue,
while people get on with their busy schedules...
schedules that do not include the health and welfare and safety of children.
we survivors struggle with shame,
but society should be embarassed.
i am nothing to them but filthy dirt under an ugly rug.
oops. sorry. perhaps i digress.
your story triggered me, i guess.
my belated codolences on the loss of your childhood.
The dirty little hero rings so true, not that I was in any way for any one a hero, but I was a dirty little boy for sure. At 81/2 I went from happy, naive and trusting of all but my abusive father, to sullen, cunning, manipulative and overachieving to hide the disgusting person inside.
58 now. My heart pounds when I write this to you. Thanks.
58 now. My heart pounds when I write this to you. Thanks.
Strive 38/11
Registrant
May I say, the language you choose to label yourself with is a tool to the negative reinforcement of self and counterproductive to healing self. More you're telling me to think and refer to you as dirty with negative sexual connotations.
Be well Strive
38/11
Be well Strive
38/11
Strive 38/11
Registrant
more i think of it as thinking backwards, not forwards. Its unfair on the boy within to label him wrongly when he's only acting out something he's been wrongly taught, imprinted and wrong trust intimacy understandings. Who you choose to be now counts, only as safe adult can the boy feel safe to heal. Don't punish the boy he's already live through several hells.
Be well
Be well
Strive -
I understand your concern, and appreciate the support you express - a support that I can clearly read between the lines you have written. I don't know if I can explain this to your satisfaction, but I'll try.
I agree with you that the language I use to describe who I was seems rather unfair to me - to the boy I was. But it speaks to my truth. I don't think it is uncommon for many of us - especially those who survived grooming and the "gentle rapes" to which those seductions led - to blame ourselves. I used to think self-reproach was about poor self-esteem - a natural condition of survivors. I used to think that blaming oneself was due to misguided interpretations about why we did not fight for our bodies, our boundaries, and our nascent sense of honor, to the fact that at the very moment our voices were saying "no," our bodies were inexplicably surrendering and saying "yes." We don't talk much about that, do we? Is there such a thing here as too much honesty?
I look at my intro and realize it was three and a half years since I wrote that. That was how I saw myself then, and frankly my perspectives remain largely unchanged. I was tainted, and I felt that the "good" in my actions were entirely defined within the narrowly focused context of the girls themselves - that by submitting, I spared a few of them them from having to do the same. I was still despicable, but they got a reprieve. They were out swimming or jumping rope for just that one special day. I curl my fingertips to touch my thumb and bring the circle of my hand up to my eye - blocking out everything but the girls. And if I block out all the other crap lapping at the margins of that scene, the moment is perfect. I didn't buy that moment with integrity, wisdom, persuasion, strength or righteous indulgence - it was a solid purchase bought for the price of another disgusting and manipulative submission. That is my truth - and it comes up the same no matter how many coats of pretty paint I cover it with. Maybe the problem isn't in the truth, however. Maybe the problem is in the way we see it.
In these three and a half years, my thoughts have evolved. I've done a lot of work here - and even more with my sister and - yes - also with my abuser whom I have been talking with. I think that when we as victims blame ourselves, such blame may reflect a greater sagacity than the simple self-denigration we might otherwise assume. Only by accepting the blame can I ascribe to myself the power to grow beyond the insults I endured. My choice is really this simple - I either embrace fully my powerlessness, my victimhood - and hence I shall remain forever the hapless victim. Or I accept that I did something. I effected an influence on the route of the transgression somehow, someway. I didn't do it elegantly. I did not conduct myself with the stellar courage of a Captain Marvel comic book hero. I was flawed and dirty. But I did something, and changed the course of what was happening in some small way. Ultimately, it was enough to have someone call me her hero. I don't take that in the spirit of conceit. It is certainly not a bragging right, and you'll not see agent 007 employing my tactics. But sometimes it seems like that email she sent me is the only life preserver I have in the sea of darker memories and regrets.
There was simply nothing in how I subjugated myself that had any semblance of integrity or maturity. I was about to be Bar Mitzvahed and rise to the mantle of manhood - yet I was 85 pounds of barely pubertal child and looked even younger. I knew nothing of being a man. The incongruities of the boy I was, the submissive and essentially feminine role I was so frequently tasked to play, and the man I was expected to be - my whole life was about disconnecting and jettisoning entire parts of me. Nothing made sense. I stood on the bima of my own Bar Mitzvah a fraud, holding a universe of awful secrets in my head unknown to all but God Himself. He never swept in to save me or the girls - He only sat there watching. Judging. I've had my conversations with Him, too. They didn't always go well.
When faced with my abuse - the girls' abuse - I failed to assert a more noble will, but instead played on the abuser's field, engaged under his rules, dispossessed of the greater integrity this reflecting adult would rather imagine. And as soon as I was old enough, independent enough - I stopped looking back. It is perhaps easier to forget oneself than forgive oneself. How many others still don't look at themselves? Even more importantly, how many others never looked at us - for the same reasons? How many of us don't look at others? Think Jerry Sandusky and Happy Valley. Think the Boy Scouts, the rectories. Think how much was seen by heads that then quickly turned and stopped looking. I suspect many of us follow that same lead with ourselves.
Looking at one's past is not for sissies. Looking at the deeper truths is even harder. These are not pretty stories.
I was just a scruffy little kid with grass-stained knees holding the dirty secrets of our neighborhood no one else would see. I did all I imagine I could do. In the eyes of the boy I was, I was dirty. To at least one survivor, that boy was a hero. The former was necessary for the latter, and rephrasing it to appease sensibilities divests the truths I have learned to accept.
I understand your concern, and appreciate the support you express - a support that I can clearly read between the lines you have written. I don't know if I can explain this to your satisfaction, but I'll try.
I agree with you that the language I use to describe who I was seems rather unfair to me - to the boy I was. But it speaks to my truth. I don't think it is uncommon for many of us - especially those who survived grooming and the "gentle rapes" to which those seductions led - to blame ourselves. I used to think self-reproach was about poor self-esteem - a natural condition of survivors. I used to think that blaming oneself was due to misguided interpretations about why we did not fight for our bodies, our boundaries, and our nascent sense of honor, to the fact that at the very moment our voices were saying "no," our bodies were inexplicably surrendering and saying "yes." We don't talk much about that, do we? Is there such a thing here as too much honesty?
I look at my intro and realize it was three and a half years since I wrote that. That was how I saw myself then, and frankly my perspectives remain largely unchanged. I was tainted, and I felt that the "good" in my actions were entirely defined within the narrowly focused context of the girls themselves - that by submitting, I spared a few of them them from having to do the same. I was still despicable, but they got a reprieve. They were out swimming or jumping rope for just that one special day. I curl my fingertips to touch my thumb and bring the circle of my hand up to my eye - blocking out everything but the girls. And if I block out all the other crap lapping at the margins of that scene, the moment is perfect. I didn't buy that moment with integrity, wisdom, persuasion, strength or righteous indulgence - it was a solid purchase bought for the price of another disgusting and manipulative submission. That is my truth - and it comes up the same no matter how many coats of pretty paint I cover it with. Maybe the problem isn't in the truth, however. Maybe the problem is in the way we see it.
In these three and a half years, my thoughts have evolved. I've done a lot of work here - and even more with my sister and - yes - also with my abuser whom I have been talking with. I think that when we as victims blame ourselves, such blame may reflect a greater sagacity than the simple self-denigration we might otherwise assume. Only by accepting the blame can I ascribe to myself the power to grow beyond the insults I endured. My choice is really this simple - I either embrace fully my powerlessness, my victimhood - and hence I shall remain forever the hapless victim. Or I accept that I did something. I effected an influence on the route of the transgression somehow, someway. I didn't do it elegantly. I did not conduct myself with the stellar courage of a Captain Marvel comic book hero. I was flawed and dirty. But I did something, and changed the course of what was happening in some small way. Ultimately, it was enough to have someone call me her hero. I don't take that in the spirit of conceit. It is certainly not a bragging right, and you'll not see agent 007 employing my tactics. But sometimes it seems like that email she sent me is the only life preserver I have in the sea of darker memories and regrets.
There was simply nothing in how I subjugated myself that had any semblance of integrity or maturity. I was about to be Bar Mitzvahed and rise to the mantle of manhood - yet I was 85 pounds of barely pubertal child and looked even younger. I knew nothing of being a man. The incongruities of the boy I was, the submissive and essentially feminine role I was so frequently tasked to play, and the man I was expected to be - my whole life was about disconnecting and jettisoning entire parts of me. Nothing made sense. I stood on the bima of my own Bar Mitzvah a fraud, holding a universe of awful secrets in my head unknown to all but God Himself. He never swept in to save me or the girls - He only sat there watching. Judging. I've had my conversations with Him, too. They didn't always go well.
When faced with my abuse - the girls' abuse - I failed to assert a more noble will, but instead played on the abuser's field, engaged under his rules, dispossessed of the greater integrity this reflecting adult would rather imagine. And as soon as I was old enough, independent enough - I stopped looking back. It is perhaps easier to forget oneself than forgive oneself. How many others still don't look at themselves? Even more importantly, how many others never looked at us - for the same reasons? How many of us don't look at others? Think Jerry Sandusky and Happy Valley. Think the Boy Scouts, the rectories. Think how much was seen by heads that then quickly turned and stopped looking. I suspect many of us follow that same lead with ourselves.
Looking at one's past is not for sissies. Looking at the deeper truths is even harder. These are not pretty stories.
I was just a scruffy little kid with grass-stained knees holding the dirty secrets of our neighborhood no one else would see. I did all I imagine I could do. In the eyes of the boy I was, I was dirty. To at least one survivor, that boy was a hero. The former was necessary for the latter, and rephrasing it to appease sensibilities divests the truths I have learned to accept.
woodenshoes
Registrant
Erik
You have moved forward. Keep going.
Ws
You have moved forward. Keep going.
Ws
highflight
Registrant
Wow, Eirik. Your wisdom and master of words has me searching for my breath this morning. Thank you for this post. It gives me hope that the dark corners (and changes in "how" I perceive things) has some merit and it worthwhile.
-D
-D
Eirik
I cannot express the gratitude I have for you sharing this with us all. It took incredible strength to share such painful experiences of your life. As I read this I was so deeply moved and encountered so many different emotions and memories.
For me the words that your dad spoke to you hit struck me two fold.
My dad died very unexpectedly when I was 41 (my mom died when I was 16) and we never had an opportunity to share final words with each other. I too kept my dad at arms length to protect him from knowing about my abuse. He would always ask me what was wrong. I could never find the strength or words to tell him about the abuse I had endured.
The second part is that those are words that i could speak to myself today. "I never knew you like I wanted to - you are such a private person. But i know you love me." There are no words to express how deeply that resonates within me.
Thank you so very much for sharing this with us.
Mike
I cannot express the gratitude I have for you sharing this with us all. It took incredible strength to share such painful experiences of your life. As I read this I was so deeply moved and encountered so many different emotions and memories.
For me the words that your dad spoke to you hit struck me two fold.
My dad died very unexpectedly when I was 41 (my mom died when I was 16) and we never had an opportunity to share final words with each other. I too kept my dad at arms length to protect him from knowing about my abuse. He would always ask me what was wrong. I could never find the strength or words to tell him about the abuse I had endured.
The second part is that those are words that i could speak to myself today. "I never knew you like I wanted to - you are such a private person. But i know you love me." There are no words to express how deeply that resonates within me.
Thank you so very much for sharing this with us.
Mike
Eirik,
I just finished reading the your post...and yes it left me a BALL OF TEARS!!! You are MY HERO and what a writing GIFT you have been given. Love you BROTHER!!! I was molested by my brother over a 7 year time-frame and he was 7 yrs older...you have given ME SUCH STRENGTH MY FRIEND!!! jaw
I just finished reading the your post...and yes it left me a BALL OF TEARS!!! You are MY HERO and what a writing GIFT you have been given. Love you BROTHER!!! I was molested by my brother over a 7 year time-frame and he was 7 yrs older...you have given ME SUCH STRENGTH MY FRIEND!!! jaw
Eirik,
I just finished reading the FULL post above...and yes it left me a BALL OF TEARS!!! You are MY HERO and what a writing GIFT you have been given. Love you BROTHER!!! I was molested by my brother over a 7 year time-frame and he was 7 yrs older...you have given ME SUCH STRENGTH MY FRIEND!!! jaw
I just finished reading the FULL post above...and yes it left me a BALL OF TEARS!!! You are MY HERO and what a writing GIFT you have been given. Love you BROTHER!!! I was molested by my brother over a 7 year time-frame and he was 7 yrs older...you have given ME SUCH STRENGTH MY FRIEND!!! jaw
Thank you for posting your story. I wept after reading it but I related so deeply to it on so many levels. It really hits home and your bravery in writing it and overcoming it is inspiring. Though the situation for me was different, my abusers were adult mentor figures much of the same happened when it came to the psychological mess, manipulation they put me through and who I was trying to protect. I'm so sorry you went through this.
Hi Eric-- there are similarities in our stories, and in our feelings about ourselves, and further adult abuse due to being plied with alcohol: ditto. I thought more drinking & drugging & permiscuous sex & pornography was the way to deal with it for years, or isolating myself from others, hiding in my apartment with the shades down. Hating life, hating myself. The Loser. The Failure. Now... 12-step recovery and therapy. I'm trying to forgive myself, for keeping myself down most of my life, and them; the bullies & abusers & rapists. Love and admiration to you.----- Tom E
Hey, Eirick - it's Winston in Seattle - thank you for posting. What a story. While mine wasn't like yours, it was still years of abuse and weird sex, et. all. A few years of therapy have given me the 'push' so to speak, to begin to write my story. It was at the suggestion of my T, and it truly has been therapeutic. We walk this broken road thinking no one else understands, then we begin to unravel our story and discover we were/are not alone.
You are one brave man.
You are one brave man.