versions

versions

i-m-Bri

Greeter
Staff member
***TRIGGERS***

…he untied my hands and told me to have sex with the other bound boy. I ran off and locked myself in another room…
the-room.jpg


That’s the story of a selfish coward. It’s a telling of a pathetic person who scurried off. It is also only loosely based on what happened:

…he untied my hands. He told me I could do whatever I wanted to the other bound boy. I didn’t feel any desire. Was this a test? Was I the homosexual I thought I was? I knew taking advantage of his helplessness was wrong. I knew I wasn’t that. Without thinking, I went into another room and stealthy locked the door…

How did the first version become the story I told for decades? True, in no version did I rescue him. In those moments, I never considered untying the other boy. At the time, I understood the stakes to be much more benign. Our mentor was having us face our fears. Tying us up was simply another of countless exercises we’ve done with him. As a 14-year-old, most were mysteries I barely grasped. In the moment, there was no danger.

…later that night. I woke up to our mentor molesting me. He attempted to force his rank, dirty dick into my mouth. I pushed him off, and he tumbled over. I ran and locked myself in a bathroom. When the guard made his morning rounds, I ran from the building…

At some point, after it was over, I condemned myself as an accomplice. I felt responsible that the other kid was there in the first place. My guilt wasn’t clever enough to understand his cunning grooming. He already had access to the kid, who was, by all standards, a good-looking boy. Agreeing he was attractive was just another checked item in his plan.

On top of that, I had come to believe the other boy had been abused after I left him there. All in all, I felt responsible for whatever hell befell him. Over time, the version I told was formed by my guilt.

I was not the monster that horrible night. I was a boy, not a superhero. As much as I wish one flew in for us both.


The night was in August 1973.

The location is the dressing room in a college auditorium.

The image is the room I went into.
 
I was not the monster that horrible night. I was a boy, not a superhero. As much as I wish one flew in for us both.
And that's why we have to face the pain our memories and let ourselves feel once again what we felt and how we felt it... So we can see ourselves as we were and understand the impossible choices we were forced to make. There is nothing shameful in not being a superhero, and in fact it is a very boyish thought to have.
 
Life is full of would have and should have and why didn´t I situations. It is very easy to look back and second guess and or critique what one has said or done I in the past. An of course easy to feel guilt, shame etc. for not handling the situation better or in retrospect one sees as the right way. You were a 14 year old boy, not an adult. You were up against an experienced predator. You did the best you knew how at that moment. Now as an adult you would know how to handle things differently.
 
@Induna and @GaD3! This came up because I told a friend this part of my story in detail. It was almost an out-of-body experience when the 1st version came out of my mouth. I know it wasn't true, but it's how I had been thinking & feeling for so long. It wasn't until I was alone that I could think it through and recall exactly what I did.
 
A very similar thing happened to me almost 4 years ago when I told the story of the boy I loved in college to someone. I told it as if reading a script I had long prepared, but she didn't see the story the way I thought it must be seen.

Afterwards alone the whole story started to take on a different light and I found parts myself I had refused to see for decades. I had been so full of self-loathing that I had ceased to see anything human. This was the first crack in my shell. It all came apart in the years that followed.
 
@Induna and @GaD3! This came up because I told a friend this part of my story in detail. It was almost an out-of-bodyTha experience when the 1st version came out of my mouth. I know it wasn't true, but it's how I had been thinking & feeling for so long. It wasn't until I was alone that I could think it through and recall exactly what I did.
Thanks for the clarification. I understand, as I look back over many I too have "stories" that have a narrative that is not really true.
 
Bri, these 'Versions' as you put it sounds like fragmented (partial) memories. It's a protective mechanism that our brains deploy to protect us from the most damaging/impactful parts to our psyche. It's common to have these partial memories. Events, Therapy, and other triggers can cause these memories to 'fill in'. 2nd, In the meantime, one may try to fill in the missing pieces, only to find out later it was different. And 3rd, each time we recall these partial memories we can get slightly different versions based on a mix of the 2 above.
What really is the importance of the memory itself? Filtering all of the details to get that one absolute picture of the past, or understanding the effect the experience had on us? You might think that getting that totally true picture is needed for the latter, but is it? You may be chasing ghosts forever.
 
This was the first crack in my shell. It all came apart in the years that followed.
I am glad you survived. It's horrendous and a blessing when we can't hold it together any longer. The pain is overwhelming. But it's the opportunity we need to face things, ugly as they are.

@blacken I can see how it sounds like fragments. But in this case, it was retrospective knowledge and that guilt blocking my full recollection. ...so in that way, maybe it was fragmented. But the memories were always available to me, only my interpretations and feelings were different.
Interesting, I did a lot of writing during the first covid lockdown. I re-read my telling of this. 4 years ago, I wrote down the second version very clearly.
 
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