I find myself erasing line after line of poetry, jumping from story to story, wandering between distractions. It’s nice to forget myself in my hobbies. It makes it easier not to think about all the things that are frothing beneath my surface, trying desperately to escape, if I’m busy creating something. I think it can be a healthy coping technique—turning all that negative energy into something beautiful and expressive. Converting ugliness to beauty is a special kind of therapy, and usually it helps me.
But sometimes, I use my hobbies to ignore what I’m feeling, and that’s when it becomes unhealthy.
I’ve found myself doing this increasingly over the past few weeks—ignoring, that is. It’s the result of a great many things cropping up in my personal life, many stemming from trauma I never addressed from my adolescence. Childhood feelings of inadequacy, abandonment, and fear slither into my daily thoughts like leeches, and with them, they bring their adult counterparts: anger, loathing, depression. They’re unsightly feelings—dark and ugly, twisted and drenched in neglect.
Like the good peacemaker I am, I quickly find ways to stow these feelings somewhere they won’t cause problems. Somewhere they won’t be seen.
They find their way into my dreams now, and I’m nightly tormented by visions of childhood abuse and tragedy I’ve been too afraid to deal with in the daylight. I wake sweating, my heart lodged in my throat, and sometimes I slip to the bathroom to cry. I stare at my reflection, warped by sleep, sheet marks, and years unnoted, and I wonder why I never noticed how sad my eyes are. They’re worn and tired. I see the little boy I was crouching in their depths, knees hugged to his chest, wondering if anyone would even notice his absence?
I’m not that little boy anymore, not really. I’m a grown man now. I have a job I love, a small family that takes care of me, and a comfortable life overall. I am no longer prey to a sick, older man’s perversions, and I am certainly not trapped by my age anymore. I can make decisions. I have freedom to choose where I go, how I dress, what name I bear, and so on. I am free.
Ah, but that’s the thing about childhood trauma, right? It follows you into adulthood, and sometimes, I can still feel the shackles on my wrists. It’ll happen at odd moments, relatively inane little intersections of life that would otherwise go unnoticed. Perhaps it’s a stranger’s cologne. Someone standing too close at my back, fingers grazing my forearm in just the right way. My muscles clamp down in panic, and that little boy is back again. Everything becomes blisteringly close, bright as a million suns crawling down my throat, and I’m helpless but to ride the waves of my own terror out until they mellow.
Transparency in my abuse has, to some extent, made these past weeks worse. My mother and Gavin are aware of my history, and their support has been something surpassing understanding. Their kindness and belief have made all the difference.
My other three siblings, however, have chosen to believe that I am lying to them. My abuse, in their eyes, is fabricated.
There are few things in life that have brought me so quickly to my knees as having my own blood accuse of me of lying about childhood molestation at the hands of a male family member. I imagined I might meet some resistance to sharing my story. I might receive some mixed reviews owing to my abuser’s position in the family. He is beloved by many—I knew toppling his throne would likely create waves.
But God, I was naïve. I never imagined they would think I was “consorting with the devil” or “believing lies of the enemy”. I never imagined I would face their derision, and now, their utter indifference towards me manifested in silence. It’s a point of deep, abiding pain that makes forgiving them, moving on, or healing nigh impossible.
I alternate between hatred, so dark and insidious, it threatens to swallow me entirely. I’m angry at them for choosing to remain blind and mute, I’m angry that my abuser is, somehow, after all this, still winning. Sometimes, I turn my anger to that little boy still crouched inside me, and I scream at him that he should’ve told someone sooner. He should’ve said something, anything. He should’ve been strong enough to fight back.
But, in the end, that little boy is a part of me, and I buckle beneath my own bitterness. Those are my abuser's words, not mine. My knees give way beneath me and I puddle to the floor in a heap, consumed by a despair deep enough it permits no words. I grieve. I mourn. I wail and weep and gnash my teeth in sorrow. It’s a grief I’ve never known, not in my deepest valleys, not in the darkest nights. It persists. It swells and expands and smooths until it’s just numb.
It’s why I choose to distract myself. Better to feel nothing than everything all at once, right?
The truth is, I can’t ignore it. My trauma is a part of me. It’s informed who I am as a man, a human being, a spiritual individual. It’s guided my every move, in both negative and positive ways. Ignoring that pain, and the pain caused by those responding to it, would be disowning a part of myself.
I’m meeting with that little boy inside me more and more often these last few days, wondering what I would say to him now if I could go back and see him. I wonder how much of what I could say would even sink through the brainwashing he endured, or how much would slide off him like water off feathers. Would he even listen to me if I tried? Is he even capable of understanding me?
This is not your fault. You are not evil, or dirty, or too much. What is happening to you is despicable. I love you. I see you. I’m so sorry you’re hurting.
I believe you. I believe you. I believe you.
I try these words out when I stare in my bathroom mirror. Sometimes he doesn’t believe me. The words slide off his skin, water on oil, and he remains chanting the same speeches he was taught over and over again—self-hatred, blame, and fear. But sometimes, I think I get through. I can see it when those same tired, old eyes lift to me and stare in wonder.
I hope that if I keep repeating these words—belief and love—they’ll eventually drown out the words of our abuser. Eventually, he’ll forget what it felt like to blame himself, and I might finally be able to put him to rest. Until then, I wake from my nightmares and I stumble to the bathroom, and I stare at myself all over again. I find the little boy in my eyes, knobby kneed and gap-toothed, and I tell him that he matters.
I think, maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to believe it too.
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