Leftover Scars
When I was a very little child, I fell on an iron heating grate at my grandmother's house. One of the old-style grates where the pieces make like a checkerboard. It cut out a chunk of knee flesh, so had to have it sewn up. It did leave a scar, and after all of these years, I still have that scar. It has faded a lot, but if you look closely, you can still see the outline of it. I am coming to see that it is that way with the kind of trauma survivors share. We talk about many of the obvious ones, but in one of my 'dark' moods I started thinking, I thought about some other ones. The wounds happened a long time ago (sixty years ago, for me), but the outlines of the scars are still there. I know it's different for every survivor, but as I examine myself, some stand out.
One scar is a poor self- image. I have a hard time seeing the good that others see. Probably because I was told I was not good for anything except sex, and sometimes that I wasn't all that good at that. So when I see my reflection in the mirror, my eyes go to the imperfections and flaws, even if others don't notice anything. Others can try to tell me they don't see that, I do.
Then there is my obsession with perfection. By that I mean being obsessed with needing to be the 'perfect' me. I spent a long time trying to create that guy, and I didn't need AI to do it. I needed to be absolutely certain to apprear to be the perfect man that the people around me expected, because they loved that kind of guy. I remember my school years now. I insisted on wearing only certain kinds of clothes, certain colors, certain types of shoes, having my hair at a certain length. Always careful to walk in a certain way. I needed to make sure than no one suspected. That there was no hint of having been used by another male. God no. I to have mentioned it before, but in my home office, I have a wall full of diplomas, certificates of excellence, honors given to me through the years. Trophies on the road to perfection.
And the insane shyness that has always been paralyzing. Fear of other people, of rejection. However you want to say it. That wound just kept getting bigger. In my case, I was trained to keep quiet and to keep away from anybody other than my abuser. Failure to do that would result in hurt, because they would always let me down and leave me alone. He alone was my friend and protector. What that does is lead to loneliness that you want to change, but can't. So I pretend. Alcohol was my tool to try and force myself to be different, because after a few drinks, I could laugh and talk and open up. Oh, I have family and people around; but it's a different kind of loneliness that is deep inside.
And I can't leave out being attracted to males. I've talked about it because I finally got my voice. That scar meant hiding and pretending for decades. Fear of being 'found out', pornography, risky secrets. It meant never daring to be completely who I am, out of fear of the consequences for others, when the consequences for me were worse.
Ugly stuff. But I will say that there is one very good scar that I hope never fades, and that is the determination to survive. The damage scarred me, but it gave me the determination to survive. I am not sure just how that happened, but somehow it was there. I wanted to survive the abuse, even when it meant doing things I hated. Maybe I did not consciously know it or understand it, but it was there. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here. There are days when I wonder about that, but that survival instinct has brought me through so far. And I wish that those who used a boy without any thought of what they were doing could see that I'm still here.
One scar is a poor self- image. I have a hard time seeing the good that others see. Probably because I was told I was not good for anything except sex, and sometimes that I wasn't all that good at that. So when I see my reflection in the mirror, my eyes go to the imperfections and flaws, even if others don't notice anything. Others can try to tell me they don't see that, I do.
Then there is my obsession with perfection. By that I mean being obsessed with needing to be the 'perfect' me. I spent a long time trying to create that guy, and I didn't need AI to do it. I needed to be absolutely certain to apprear to be the perfect man that the people around me expected, because they loved that kind of guy. I remember my school years now. I insisted on wearing only certain kinds of clothes, certain colors, certain types of shoes, having my hair at a certain length. Always careful to walk in a certain way. I needed to make sure than no one suspected. That there was no hint of having been used by another male. God no. I to have mentioned it before, but in my home office, I have a wall full of diplomas, certificates of excellence, honors given to me through the years. Trophies on the road to perfection.
And the insane shyness that has always been paralyzing. Fear of other people, of rejection. However you want to say it. That wound just kept getting bigger. In my case, I was trained to keep quiet and to keep away from anybody other than my abuser. Failure to do that would result in hurt, because they would always let me down and leave me alone. He alone was my friend and protector. What that does is lead to loneliness that you want to change, but can't. So I pretend. Alcohol was my tool to try and force myself to be different, because after a few drinks, I could laugh and talk and open up. Oh, I have family and people around; but it's a different kind of loneliness that is deep inside.
And I can't leave out being attracted to males. I've talked about it because I finally got my voice. That scar meant hiding and pretending for decades. Fear of being 'found out', pornography, risky secrets. It meant never daring to be completely who I am, out of fear of the consequences for others, when the consequences for me were worse.
Ugly stuff. But I will say that there is one very good scar that I hope never fades, and that is the determination to survive. The damage scarred me, but it gave me the determination to survive. I am not sure just how that happened, but somehow it was there. I wanted to survive the abuse, even when it meant doing things I hated. Maybe I did not consciously know it or understand it, but it was there. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here. There are days when I wonder about that, but that survival instinct has brought me through so far. And I wish that those who used a boy without any thought of what they were doing could see that I'm still here.
