Mark, This is the reply I wrote to you, but, after writing it, I think it more about how I feel about this place than it is the reply I meant to write to you. Still, I think it may help a little. We've got a lot in common here. Bobby
Ain't it the truth. The walls come a tumbling down, and you didn't even know they were there. Your world collapses. You're not even the person you thought you were. You're some guy you made up to get through the hell that was your life...and you went on with it because you thought that was you. Your depression was a clue, but you thought you were just that kind of personality. You chose a life that you thought you wanted and you were pretty good at it. You're a worker and a good guy and you were respected for what you did. But inside, you were very lonely. You felt like no one could get in there and be with you. What you wanted most in the world was someone to get inside you and be with you, but there was no way you could do that. You had friends, went to parties, etc., but nobody got in...nobody.
Then, all of a sudden, it all changed. For whatever reason your world turned upside down. You started having memories of strange things. They were bits and pieces at first, but gradually they became clearer. Someone had done terrible things to you...sexual things...horrible things that changed who you were completely. You were this happy little kid on the way to a decent life and someone decided to end that for you. The only way you could survive was to go into emotional hiding and build very strong walls around yourself. Part of you went on with life. You weren't aware of it, but another part of you, your sensitive, innocent, wonderful little boy sat down inside the walls and stayed there, too frightened to ever come out.
Then your walls came down and there was that little boy. You had forgotten him, but you knew him immediately. You recognized the part of yourself you had left behind and you grieved for him...for yourself. You couldn't put the thoughts together, but your whole being grieved. Nothing made sense...not any of it, even when you started to put the pieces of the puzzle together. People you loved didn't believe you, couldn't believe you, wouldn't believe you. Some wanted badly to believe you but couldn't understand how you had lived so many years with it and were just now reacting to it. Why did you have to react to it now? Were you sure it happened? Could he have done that to you, really?
And so, you realized that, even though your walls were down and you had discovered your child and with him, your pain, your loss, your rage, your complete sorrow, you were still alone. Nothing had changed except that now you were aware of who you were and why you were and what a terrible thing had been done to you and to the life you should have led.
You went into therapy and that was good. It helped. The therapist believed you. You got some of it out. You told some friends. They were sympathetic and said they understood. But nobody understood...not even those who were closest to you. At first you were hurt, but after awhile, you began to understand that no one could ever understand. No one could know that the horrible acts committed against your body years ago could have destroyed your whole being and even have changed who you were. All were well meaning, but you were still alone, but now you were not only in this for yourself, but for your child...the child who had stayed behind...the child who had stayed within the walls so he would not die of sorrow.
And then you found this place. And all of a sudden there were other men like you. There were men who understood the things you were saying. There were men who were actually saying the things that you were thinking. There were men who actually cared about your pain, and about your little boy, and about how you could get through this. And, most of all, nobody questioned what you were going through. Where once you had felt weak and hopeless, you began to see that you were actually strong and had fought a really good fight just to still be alive. Many were not. You became even a little bit proud of yourself for getting through it.
And you began to feel again, and you gave yourself the right to grieve and the right to cry and the right to do all of those things your little boy couldn't do all those many years ago when there was nowhere to turn and no one to help. And you cried for him, and you cried for yourself, and you cried for all the lost years inbetween. And you understood so many things. Mostly you finally understood you.
And you read the stories of all of these guys and you cried for them and you realized that they, too, had gone through what you were going through and that they were healing and were getting on with their lives and had beat this thing that looked so ominous from where you were. And you also realized that they wanted nothing more than they wanted to help you through the hard times. They actually wanted to hear your story...as many times as you needed to tell it. They wanted to share your anguish, your torment, your anger, your tears. They knew that's what it would take to begin the healing.
I'm where you are, Mark. A lot of the others aren't, but they all have been. Let it rip. Let it all go. This is the place to do it. Everyone wants you to, because they know you have to. They know you hurt,and they know that, after you get it out...every last bit of it, you and your little boy can start to pick up the pieces and build that life you should have been living all these years...together.
