by Nikki Sex
“You are! You don’t need help?” I ask in a distinctly cynical tone. “Well now, how’s that working out for you so far?”
Miguel’s chin jerks up. He glowers, but I can see my comment has made him stop and think.
Do it yourself? What a stupid idea. No one gets through shit like this on their own.
For a victim of abuse to become a survivor, and ultimately a ‘thriver’ they must embark on a road to recovery. Reading up on the subject, receiving counseling, and talking to people who have had similar experiences is part of the journey.
Unfortunately, you can’t fix someone else’s problems—they have to fix them themselves. But a friend can listen and be there for support, so that’s what Danny and I offer to do.
I excuse myself to speak with Shawna. I find her in the kitchen sitting in front of a pitcher of what looks like freshly made ice-tea. Tissues are everywhere, her eyes are blotchy and red. She sits up the second she sees me.
“Is Miguel all right?”
“He’s fine. He didn’t mean all those nasty things he said.”
She looks up at me through her long dark eyelashes. “You don’t think so?”
“He doesn’t, he’s already sorry—he told me so. People in pain often attack others.”
“Why? I just want to help him through this.”
“You are helping,” I assure her. “Unfortunately, mean, knee-jerk reactions are nearly always directed at the people it’s safest to attack. That would be friends, loved ones and those who are trying to help.”
“Oh.”
“Miguel feels bad about what he said to you already,” I say. “I know it’s hard, but it’s best not to take such outbursts too seriously,” I suggest. “Mood swings and inexplicable behavior are the norm when abuse survivors start down their road to recovery.”
“I don’t like it when he’s mad at me,” she confides.
“He’s not mad at you. If you think about it, Miguel’s behavior makes complete sense. How does one feel when facing past events concerning betrayal, manipulation, humiliation and shame?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Trust me, you feel betrayed, manipulated, humiliated and ashamed. Trust is difficult, but he has to work through it. You’ll get the man you love back, Shawna, and he’ll be better than ever.”
I have to believe this is true.
“Will he… get violent?”
I frown. “I honestly don’t think so. His effort to recover from abuse doesn't mean you should accept abuse from him, either. He needs you, but he also needs professional help to get through this. If Miguel becomes… difficult, don't hesitate to call.” I give her my card. “Call any time, day or night, if you have questions or he gets too much to handle.”
Danny and I stay for a couple of hours until Miguel visibly improves. Not surprisingly, Danny communicates easier with Miguel. I feel… irritable and a little nauseous. I want to back off from everyone.
This shit is a major trigger.
We leave the suicide prevention hotline number with him. Assured of its confidentiality and that the organization is staffed by experienced volunteers, Miguel promises he’ll call and talk to someone later today.
I’d wanted him familiar with the service, those people do a great job. Miguel needs all the help he can get right now.
Chapter 28.
“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
It’s late in the afternoon. Danny Berdeaux and I are on our way to see the next person on our list. I drive, because I prefer it. The engine of my new car hums along, while the radio plays the latest hits.
Danny’s updating his tablet, so I can drive and think.
Almost a month has passed since Mitten frightened my sister out of the house. Betty Jo isn’t talking to me. I figure her absence from my life is good for her health. I still want to make her pay for hurting my fiancée.
My fiancée!
Meanwhile, Renata picked out the perfect engagement ring, which she’s delighted with. Inordinately pleased with our engagement, André claims full responsibility for arranging the match.
“Me? Oh, I am very clever!” he told us, shameless in his pride. Also, ‘La vie est une fleur dont l’amour est le miel,’ which means, ‘Life is a flower of which love is the honey.’
That crazy Frenchman never fails to put a smile on my face.
Meanwhile, I feel a fresh jolt of wonder and surprise every time I wake up with Renata in the bed beside me. I’ll never get over it, I can’t believe she loves me. How did I ever find such happiness?
The woman makes me laugh, even at myself. I used to be way too uptight to laugh at myself.
I took her to the shooting range, introduced her to my staff, and let her try her luck on hitting the target with a 22. My two managers had wide eyes and raised eyebrows. Neither of them had seen me with a woman. Both feel obliged to tease me as often as possible, which the ‘new’ me takes in my stride.
When I’m not at work, we’re all together as a family. Sometimes I help her cook some complex French meal, or Mitten and I keep Briley entertained while she cooks. We play on the swing set for hours, or we work in the garden.
If it rains we have long frivolous discussions while listening to music and finishing jigsaw puzzles. She even made me dance with her, something I never do, but it was fun. We fight over what movie to watch, eat popcorn, and usually end up making out on the couch.
We make love again and again.
Every time, it feels like the first time.
My life has transformed. With Renata I feel powerful, euphoric and… most surprisingly, normal. I’m changed—yet myself. This relaxed and liberated person is the real me. Everything else was just bullshit.
Normal.
It’s what I constantly yearned for and never had. Inner voices sometimes fill my mind with doubts, forcing me to wonder how long my newfound joy could possibly last.
I try not to listen.
Mother disapproves of our engagement, but hasn’t said as much in so many words. Her condemnation shows mainly by her raised chin, pursed lips and superior manner. I feel censure coming off of her in waves.
My mother is easier to read than a preschool primer. See Spot run. See mother's disapproval. What else is new?
Renata doesn’t come from a prominent family, with old money. She has no connections. My mother’s hoping to get my girl alone in order to scare her off. Fat chance. I’ve warned her, in no uncertain terms, to stay away from my fiancée.
Unfortunately, when my mother’s around I easily slide into a guilt trip. I’ve realized I was part of a love triangle, except instead of a mistress, I was the other person my father cheated with. His devotion and attention went to me—not to his wife.
As a child I didn’t understand.
As an adult I know how unbelievably wrong this was. My mother had a cold, bitter personality. Can I blame her? How much did she know about me and my father? I hate her for not protecting me, for not stopping my abuse, but maybe she honestly never knew.
Meanwhile, Alex and Sky are overjoyed by my choice of a bride. Renata gets on well with both of them, and more importantly—their son likes her. That’s enough for them.
Tapping my fingers on the wheel, I pull out onto the freeway.
Danny’s busy typing notes into his tablet. He’s super-organized, making a journal of every step of our journey. I’m just glad he’s quiet for the moment, because he’s usually inordinately chatty.
Right now, I’m deep in my own thoughts. There’s lots to think about.
I haven’t sat down privately with Alex to ask him whether or not he was behind our father’s death. I should, but I’m not sure if I really want to know. Is my brother a murderer?
Also, Alex seems to be purposely avoiding being alone with me, probably as much as I avoid
being alone with him. No one in my family even knows I’ve been arrested and released, twice.
Our family was taught not to communicate. We’re good at keeping secrets from each other, from the outside world—and especially from ourselves.
Ingrained habits are difficult to break.
Meanwhile, my lawyer has created a tax-free charity I boldly named the ‘Sexual Abuse Therapy Foundation.’ The name has negative connotations, but to hell with it. No one should be ashamed to have been the victim of sexual abuse. No one should be embarrassed to admit they need counseling.
This is the start of a major breakthrough for me. I want to set an example by someday ‘coming out’ with what happened to me. I want to challenge society’s conspiracy of silence and shame concerning sexual abuse.
All money will go directly toward approved services for survivors. For now, the benefits will help people who were abused by my father. In the future, who knows?
Someday, if I get up the nerve, I might try to utilize my mother’s fund raising skills to seek out sponsors. For now, I’m the only donor to this charity.
Danny and I have compiled a directory of Boy Scouts from my father’s troops over the four year period he was the Scout Master. Also the church youth group, gun club, and golf caddies at the country club—but we start with the scouts.
When we include camps and occasional special events, we have thirty-six names on our list. It’ll take time to contact them all.
It's been trial and error, but our plan seems to be working.
We have to proceed slowly. With each person on our list, we follow a protocol. First, we phone and ask if they’ve recently received any photos in the mail. If they have and they're amenable, we arrange to meet. We drive out to visit anyone we can’t get in touch with by phone.
First contact is the most difficult. Threatening to call the cops is the norm, but we’ve managed to talk people out of that option.
To date we’ve met two others who were abused by my father. Both recently received photos. Just how many more will we find?
One man was a year younger than Danny, the other was his age. As Danny is twenty-six—three years younger than myself, I find this detail concerning dates and ages interesting.
I suspect by the time I turned eleven, my father had begun selecting other children to take my place as he could see the writing on the wall. Once I hit my teens, I couldn’t help but start to question my abuse.
Unless, of course, my father simply preferred younger children, which could certainly be the case.
I knew there was a high possibility of discovering more victims, yet when I found it was true, it shocked the hell out of me. It also caused an unexpected, illogical and primitive reaction I couldn’t identify at first.
I had to take a few minutes to step back, to honestly and brutally study my own response.
How did I feel when I discovered other boys had been abused by my father? Ashamed, because the predator had been my dad? Yes. Was I relived there were more viable murder suspects? Yes. Was I glad to be right? Sure.
I felt all of these things, yet none of these things.
My biggest knee-jerk emotional response floors me.
I felt jealous!
Chapter 29.
“Jealousy is simply and clearly the fear that you do not have value. Jealousy scans for evidence to prove the point—that others will be preferred and rewarded more than you. There is only one alternative—self-value. If you cannot love yourself, you will not believe that you are loved. You will always think it's a mistake or luck.”
— Jennifer James
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
The bottom has dropped out of my world, for no logical reason.
Jealousy roils through me—burning my guts and ripping into my chest like an open wound. Bitter. Resentful. Seething! Isn’t that a screwed up way to feel?
I was my father’s boy—his special boy. I knew about Alex when that first began. I felt terrible for not protecting my brother. Yet, in my secret heart of hearts I knew my father only wanted me.
I spent my entire childhood feeling lost, nervous and uncertain. Fear, confusion and mixed signals ruled my world. As a child, my father’s desire for me was the only proof I had value.
Was it all a lie?
Did I have no value at all?
Shit. It’s clear I have more work to do. It’s taken a long time, but I finally figured out how to deal with abuse and all the complicated problems it causes—like this mind-fuck of today.
Abuse must be addressed, but it’s not something you can fix on your own. Someone you trust can help, but it’s still up to you to do most of the work.
Sorting through one’s past is like peeling an onion. You start with the outermost layer. First you pull away the easy stuff, the parts you can face—perhaps focusing on the abuser and how he or she was a complete asshole.
After that, the next layer is exposed and you begin to feel like a pervert. You’re ashamed and humiliated by what happened. A sense of self-blame, self-hate and worthlessness then joins in this twisted, off-key song—not to mention feelings of guilt, debasement and despair.
As each layer is peeled away, difficult emotions and thoughts are exposed. After several layers, once you go even deeper, then you begin to realize the really nasty stuff.
What they did is one thing… what YOU did, is another.
Facing up to one’s own flaws, faults and failings is tricky. You begin to feel you deserve to be unhappy. You deserve to be alone. Examining your own sins can make you end up with an even lower opinion of yourself. This is particularly soul destroying when you already feel broken.
Yet, the only way out of this hell on earth is to push through it.
Every mistake, every regret and shame must be courageously and honestly viewed. Only then can you gain true insight.
Eventually, your sins fall into a more balanced perspective. You learn self-acceptance and forgiveness for what wasn't ever your fault to begin with. You grasp the vast power inequities between an inexperienced child and a manipulative, predatory adult. You begin to understand why there’s a legal age of consent.
With a kid it’s all about, ‘monkey see, monkey do.’
Grown-ups know best. Right and wrong, good and bad are concepts that are explained or modeled to you from the get-go. You’re not old enough to have the life experience necessary for genuine understanding.
When looking through the eyes of a child, everything is your fault.
Eventually you begin to ask crucial questions. How much responsibility should a six-year-old really take? How bad can a person be when they’re only twelve years old? Or even in their teens?
It’s then you rip open toxic secrets, cut out the cancer and begin to make real strides.
You discover you’re not a monster. You’re good, and right, and worthwhile. You recognize how abuse never truly broke you.
You become grateful.
In time you notice you’re more compassionate, more understanding and less judgemental. You’re a better person.
Like a sword needs to be tempered through heat and fire to become a stronger, better blade—you survive the fire of abuse and are a greater, tougher, wiser soul because of it.
At least that’s what André thinks. He says, ‘I am persuaded such struggles expose the heart and liberate the soul.’
Renata and I prefer to go along with that concept.
Today’s uncovered truth however, is a real toughie. What kind of person feels jealous over his own abuser?
I hate that he used me and called it love. I despise the fact he had the ability to arouse me. Yet, I can’t help but feel betrayed and bitter because I wasn’t the only one.
At this moment I’ve hit an entirely new level of shame. I'm embarrassed to be me. How pathetic.
It taints me to be my father’s son. I’m sickened by the feelings I had for him. He was a bad father, and yet… he was mine.
I only had him, but he had othe
rs.
Is this how people feel when they find out their partner is unfaithful? Of course, it isn’t like that at all… but it is.
I knew about my brother, but even with Alex, my dad preferred me. My father liked me best. What an ugly thing to realize about myself. I never understood how much I valued my ‘special’ position in the family.
This is a hell of a deep layer to peel back on that never ending onion. Shit, after years of work, wouldn’t you think I’d have gotten to the damned core by now? Surely at some point, if I keep peeling, there’ll be nothing left.
I sigh deeply, resolving to put this stormy emotional upheaval and self-disgust away to deal with later. I’ll hate having to do it, but I’ll confess these shameful feelings with Renata later tonight. She’ll hear my dishonor, but it won’t bother her. Talking to her makes me feel better about myself.
For now, I need serious distraction. I don’t want to fall down this rabbit hole of self-hate. So I ask Danny a question I’ve been wondering about for a long time. “Do you think my father was gay?”
Danny closes up his tablet and regards me with raised eyebrows. “Why do you ask?”
I shrug. “Because he liked to screw around with little boys.”
He frowns. “I don’t see the connection.”
“How can you not see it? What do you mean? My father was only with boys. Doesn't that mean he was gay?”
“I’m gay, my sexual preference is men.” Danny shakes his head as though I’m a lost cause. “Note, I say men. I’m repelled by the idea of sex with boys. Child molesters prefer children, not adult men or women. As I see it, there’s no connection between one and the other.”
“Ah.” I smile broadly. “That makes perfect sense.”
The answer is obvious when you stop to think about it. Sexual preference covers a broad range. Bi-sexual, homosexual, heterosexual, and for child molesters, children.
Danny nods. “I figure a child molester may favor boys or girls, or chose victims solely according to opportunity. If there were choir girls in the Catholic Church (and not choir boys) it’s likely Church lawsuits would have been for abuse of girls. In every case however, molesters prefer the untainted innocence of children.”
