It’s Not Your Fault

WARNING: The following post has triggers and adult sexual content. It contains references to suicide, child abuse, rape and their subsequent trauma, social dysfunction and mental illness. Read carefully, stop if you can’t handle it, and leave comments or contact me if you wish. This memoir is an ongoing account of my life. It was never pretty.

And when I get to Heaven, to St. Peter I will tell,

“One more Survivor reporting, sir,

I’ve done my time in Hell.”

A jogger just went by. I was outside, smoking a 72. Which, of course, is crazy.

The jogger was loudly clucking, like a very slow chicken. Which, of course, is crazy.

You and I may have heard about people doing crazy things lately, and that’s true enough, but people have always done crazy things.

I know. Don’t think I came through abuse, rape and assault lasting over a decade without actually going a bit nuts. Guys, especially when entering adolescence, have a source of guilt girls can hide, even though they feel just as guilty, just as soiled. Sexual contact, whether forced or consensual, causes some level of “excitement”. Stimulation, however scary, eventually causes a physical response. And adolescent boys can’t hide it when they have an orgasm.

After the guilt sets in, it will not easily go away. It’s a lifelong companion and the enemy of your soul. It will consume every good and positive thought you would have had. It makes you unfairly blame and hate yourself.

That leads to bad choices, costly decisions and pain. Incessant, unyielding pain. It is my contention that every survivor is automatically traumatized. There are few things in life more horrible than sexual violation. What comes after is a hellish existence.

An adult who endures this but who grew up in a relatively safe home and social life may be silent and never report it. The shame is too much to bear, the pain too much to ever give vent to, not even with a spouse or friend, or spiritual leader, not even a doctor.

I can only talk about them from things I’ve learned over the years. But the violation from as far back as I can remember, at least four years old but in the criminal case only to age 7, that I’ve written and spoken about many times. I’ll never get the whole story out; there’s just too much. And I know it first-hand, and that’s the worst way to know about any kind of abuse.

While on this journey of laying my life out for everyone to see, I’ve inadvertently hurt others. I tried to contact old friends on Facebook. They either weren’t there or they decided not to interact with me after a small taste of my writing.

I never wanted that. I regret it no end. But then, I have a lot of regrets. They haunt me. Like the memories that can never be wiped away, the pictures in my mind, the movies of the past, they haunt me.

I’ve told the truth. From the supernatural events to the mundane, which you can find in my archives, every story, every detail is laid down as I remember it. That thing in my room when I was little was real. This was no child’s imagination fueled by fear. That thing was there, and whatever it was, I felt its intense hatred. I didn’t understand hatred. But that was my first experience with it.

What I want to say now is about guilt and regret. Those things often hang out together in my mind. These days, approaching my sixtieth birthday, I’m disabled and alone. I have time to deal with them, face them on days I feel strong enough. And I remember…

Loneliness. In a family that kept being added to, I was always lonely. Dad would pit us kids against each other. He would come home from work and before he could open his car door, we went to our respective rooms for safety. Invariably one of our names would be called in anger. The belt would come off and someone went to bed with their back striped. You stuck to the sheets. You didn’t really sleep. We never trusted one another. I did very little ratting, but I was often the target of it. Looking back, I’d have to say, I’d rather it be me than my sisters or baby brother. But I couldn’t save them even when I was older. There’s some justified guilt for you. And I became a lone wolf. Everyone knew it.

One of my biggest regrets is my social life. My interactions with others. While other boys in my third grade class were dreaming of being astronauts and baseball players, I fantasized about what my teacher looked like naked. And what we could do together. I’d begun my training as a sex object. Sex was always on my mind.

I loved a girl that year. She distracted me from my abnormal fantasies. She was beautiful and happy and I never even made friends with her. I left her alone. I realized such a beautiful girl didn’t deserve the fucked-up thing I was becoming. I love that girl to this day. And the truth is, I imagined she’d just hurt me like I was hurt when my girlfriend the year before left with her family for Thailand. I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again.

Odd; school pictures show me smiling. I rarely smiled. I laughed, but only at the expense of others.

But I digress. I’ve loved others over my sixty years. I still do. They’re a comfort and a source of empty regret at one and the same time. In high school I dated two girls. I loved them both, not at the same time, of course. They both dumped me. It hurt. I was suicidal. I even tried to cut my wrists. It hurt too much, and I looked for other ways.

Somehow, I got through it and my life seemed to have turned better when I met and married a woman who thought I was a nice guy. It would not occur to us until later that we were better friends than lovers.

In 1984 I met a receptionist named Peggy. She was exquisitely beautiful and she made my heart pound so hard every time I looked at her that my kidneys hurt. She was soft-spoken, with the voice of an angel. I knew she could tell. I never actually told her, but she knew. I was head over heels in love. Here was a special person, one who made me listen to sad classical music in my car, violins speaking a truth I couldn’t bear: I wasn’t good enough for her. My wife came to the same conclusion about me. I’ve been alone ever since. I’ve had affairs, trysts, but nothing serious. I’ve been celibate since the Twin Towers were still standing. To this day, I love that woman. I regret never having told her how special she was, even if I could never be with her. I wish I could change that. Regrets are merciless and they don’t leave you. Not easily, anyway. As surely as I carry all those I’ve loved with me, I carry the regrets that go with them. The things left unsaid. The crazy things I did, that they always found out about. Most of all, I think the regrets of being socially awkward and sometimes misunderstood may nag at my mind the most.

I didn’t know how wounded I really was. I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t know what it was. From one job to another, from one apartment to another, one town to another, I carried some insidious malignancy in my head that made me nothing close to normal. I didn’t understand it. I felt like everyone hated me. I knew they hated me. The last time I saw Peggy, she had a look on her face that broke my heart. Hatred. Anger. I can’t get that image out of my head.

In 2000, over a decade later, I was living alone. I had no friends. A crazy demonic girlfriend I couldn’t get rid of. And I was getting worse. The depression would keep me in bed for days. I’d miss visitation with my kids. I was descending into a pit. Once at the bottom, and I could picture it, I was sure I’d never get out.

It took me three serious suicide attempts. Twice I wound up in intensive care on ventilators. Once at St. Joseph’s Hospital and once at Howard General. For weeks, I didn’t even know who I was.

But I still hated myself. For anyone who ever hated me, I assure you that I hated myself more. PTSD is a condition affecting millions. That along with bipolar II disorder, and learned behavior they call personality disorders, well, I’m a mess, and the decision to go to the state hospital in Sykesville was the best decision I ever made. I was properly diagnosed and treated. I was allowed to be sick, and in that, I began to slowly grasp that I had to learn to live with being so injured. First, I had to find a way to forgive myself. The guilt was out of place. It belonged to my parents, not me. The regrets I have to work on. I’m doing that. Yesterday a girl walked past, singing a song. She was pretty. She returned a bit later, waved enthusiastically and said, “I love your flannel.” It’s a hoodie and I hate flannel, but it’s the last thing my son ever gave me. But without hesitation I said, “And I loved your singing.” She was so happy. It was never my nature to be outgoing. There was a time when I would have said something mean. Or nothing at all. Friendliness scared me. My defense was cruelty.

I liked the way I handled a simple friendly compliment. Actually she may have been stoned, she was so happy. But that’s groovy. It was nice.

I saw my friend Stephanie who works at the grocery. I told her I admired her courage during this dangerous time. In parting I said, “Be safe, okay? You’re my hero.”

I’ve never been sorry that I was nice or that I had a friend. I’m still taking meds and I enjoy talking with people. Much more socially comfortable than I’ve ever been. There’s just the nightmares, dissociative states, anxiety stress and panic, the dirty feeling like I can never get clean, and of course, depression.

And guilt. No matter what, I’ve got to do something with it. Forgiving myself for something that wasn’t my fault is a tall order. Remember that scene from Good Will Hunting? I want all of you to know. Every one of you. You’ve been violated, beaten, had your mind fucked, been told you’re worthless until you believed it, you who feel dirty, guilty, you who hate yourself and all the awkward shit you do, all you who thought about or tried suicide, all you who have mishandled or purposely fucked up relationships, to know one thing: it’s not your fault.

It’s not your fault. I may not know you, but we’re brothers and sisters. We have been through hell. Too much of it, and life’s not fair, and we all know it. Forgive yourself. It’s not your fault.

If you need help with post traumatic stress and anxiety, there are resources easily found online and in your area.

If you or anyone you know is suicidal, having suicidal thoughts or feeling like you can’t go on, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 24 hours a day, 7 days a week at 1-800-273-8255.

Your life is worth more than how you’re feeling it is. You’re not worthless. Suicide is final; often done on impulse in a moment of deep fear and despair. You can’t change your mind once it’s done. No matter how terrible you feel, I don’t want you going that way. And if you think no one loves you, well I love you. Brothers and sisters, remember?

It’s not your fault.

And it’s not my fault, either.

We good?