He lived in the back bedroom. Yellowed window shades, crumbling with age, never opened.
The room was always dark, dusty, filthy. There was a diamond shaped collapsable child gate. I think it was there to keep us out, although, Lord knows I would never enter his room while he was still alive.
His doorway was directly next to the bathroom. That whole small hallway held dark secret ghosts that caused me to avoid staying there for more than a few passing seconds at a time.
I am having trouble even writing about this, thinking of him is a heavy burden. A headache is knife stabbing me in the forehead as my ears ring ... my back and wrists protest in pain...
rebelling in touching these memories.
I lived with a crazy uncle.
Is it fair for someone like me... a social worker... to call anyone crazy?
I would never do that in extending my heart to others, but when it comes to that man, the man whose name must not touch my mouth...
crazy is the kindest word I can dredge up.
And feeling like that makes me feel bad... soiled...
a dark corner in my soul that refuses to heal.
He left his mark on me. I feel like a tree marked by a territorial dog. I'm always going to stink of urine at my roots no matter how tall and strong I grow.
To be violated is to feel a separateness... a disconnect... from people around you. The ones who know you and recognize you as a survivor are those who have also been abused.
It's a special club with profound emotional injury as the prerequisite to membership.
The problem with being a lifetime member in this "club" is that you are connecting with people who have developed the fine art of disconnect in order to survive.
I would describe my disconnect triggers almost like a form of autism.
When I feel that emotional bond with a person, when I can look deeply in the eyes without avoiding that direct eye contact...
BAM!
The pain and fear flow in and a switch turns off in my nerve synapses.
Sort of like the pain people with autism feel from too much emotion.
I have to wonder if that switch is part of the neurological damage that occurs with trauma?
This "unplug" is not intentional. It is as automatic as a heart beat, as smooth as breathing.
The only reason I am aware of the disassociative shuffle in my mind is because I am working so hard to remain connected...
for the sake of my husband and son.
When I could still work, counsleing survivors was the healing journey for my soul. I could connect, I could feel and look deeply into the eyes of suffering.
The relationship is different.
When you counsel someone, there is a finite amount of time that you will spend together. The relationship is highly structured and defined by a code of ethics to protect the person seeking help.
At the end of my work day, I could "shut down" and recharge emotionally.
That doesn't mean I would forget about those who chose me to help them.
On the contrary, to this day... those I counseled remain in my mind and heart.
If I had not been the counselor, there are many people whom I happily would have entered into friendship with. But, that can not be.
Now, with my career erased away by systemic lupus... all I have is my family.
And that is not a bad thing, of course!
I think in the unfolding of this life... maybe my final task is to simply learn to love unconditionally as a wife, mother, sister, daughter, and friend.
I have to learn to connect and other's convenience... not just my own.
It is the hardest thing I have ever tried to do.
When I try to feel completely in the moment with my husband or son... I feel totally overwhelmed and exhausted.
My brain wants to launch off to be quiet and alone. Too much input. No rules of the road for communicating.
Very frustrating.
I try to make eye contact with my lovely little guy and he gets ticked off... "STOP STARING AT ME!"
"Sorry, I just need to SEE you."
And I think, "You are so beautiful... you make my heart ache."
Is that what intimacy is?
To connect and immediately feel your heart will break?Too much damage, I think to myself.
Too much damage to do this right.
This is the hardest thing I have ever done.
I am a sex abuse survivor.
I am a strong tree, branching, growing taller everyday, but my roots will always stink of urine.
