Random Rants 1
I was having a nice week so far some time ago when one my Facebook notices almost had me spiralling out of control. A cousin who had molested me as a child wanted to join my network as a friend.
What the hell? He ruined my life decades ago and now he wants to connect with me? Is he out of his mind? I so wanted to hunt him down right then and there and slash him to ribbons without any regrets. I spent years distrusting the opposite sex. I ended relationships in my head long before they had any chance of blooming just because I was afraid they'd discover I wasn't lily-white. I grew up feeling bad about knowing about the birds and bees long before I should have discovered about it naturally. I made so many mistakes I shouldn't have. I grew up feeling dirty and guilty. And it wasn't my fault.
I studied human behavior because I wanted to understand myself and maybe learn how to heal. As a teenager, I flinched at almost every contact with the opposite sex. I shrugged off friendly arms on my shoulders. I stood stiffly at every hug. I even squirmed away from a non-threatening affectionate gesture from our community priest because he was a male. In my mind, I knew they meant me no harm but childhood trauma teaches you otherwise. I had male friends, sure, but I kept them at a distance. After a while, I realized I was not going anywhere with anyone unless I fixed myself. I needed to learn how to trust again.
Unfortunately, not a lot of people knew about my problem. I think only my mother, my aunt and that wastrel son of hers knew about it. My mother thought I was this normal kid trying to make good (it didn't help I was known for winning most of the competitions I joined in grade school and high school). I couldn't tell her my problems.
Fortunately, solitude, time, learning and a lot of understanding from friends have a good way of helping one heal. After years of silence, I finally told my closest friends about my secret. Thankfully, they accepted me the same way and they never changed their view of me. I think some of them promptly forgot about that fact soon after because they figured it didn't matter anyway. I am grateful for that. I just wish it was easier for me to forget as well. Unfortunately, it isn't easy because it still drives my behavior towards men.
The funny thing about being a victim is the feeling of guilt. As much as well-meaning counselors, family, friends and significant others tell you it's going to be alright, it never quite feels so. Because if it was going to be alright, why did it happen in the first place? Being molested, or whatever traumatic event that happened in one's life, even if one wasn't physically hurt, gives you this message that you are not safe. All your innocence or the things that made you secure, are suddenly wrenched away from you. No amount of showering and scrubbing yourself would ever rid you of that ugly feeling.
No matter how one looks so put-together, it takes a lot of effort not to shatter. If my experience is any indication, it can take a lifetime of assurances and love to heal. I don't know how I survived except I knew I wanted to live and to do so, I had to fix myself. Even if I did heal so haphazardly with a lot of glue and duct tape and help friends who didn't mind I was this flawed being, the thing was I still lived. And still living and loving.
What the hell? He ruined my life decades ago and now he wants to connect with me? Is he out of his mind? I so wanted to hunt him down right then and there and slash him to ribbons without any regrets. I spent years distrusting the opposite sex. I ended relationships in my head long before they had any chance of blooming just because I was afraid they'd discover I wasn't lily-white. I grew up feeling bad about knowing about the birds and bees long before I should have discovered about it naturally. I made so many mistakes I shouldn't have. I grew up feeling dirty and guilty. And it wasn't my fault.
I studied human behavior because I wanted to understand myself and maybe learn how to heal. As a teenager, I flinched at almost every contact with the opposite sex. I shrugged off friendly arms on my shoulders. I stood stiffly at every hug. I even squirmed away from a non-threatening affectionate gesture from our community priest because he was a male. In my mind, I knew they meant me no harm but childhood trauma teaches you otherwise. I had male friends, sure, but I kept them at a distance. After a while, I realized I was not going anywhere with anyone unless I fixed myself. I needed to learn how to trust again.
Unfortunately, not a lot of people knew about my problem. I think only my mother, my aunt and that wastrel son of hers knew about it. My mother thought I was this normal kid trying to make good (it didn't help I was known for winning most of the competitions I joined in grade school and high school). I couldn't tell her my problems.
Fortunately, solitude, time, learning and a lot of understanding from friends have a good way of helping one heal. After years of silence, I finally told my closest friends about my secret. Thankfully, they accepted me the same way and they never changed their view of me. I think some of them promptly forgot about that fact soon after because they figured it didn't matter anyway. I am grateful for that. I just wish it was easier for me to forget as well. Unfortunately, it isn't easy because it still drives my behavior towards men.
The funny thing about being a victim is the feeling of guilt. As much as well-meaning counselors, family, friends and significant others tell you it's going to be alright, it never quite feels so. Because if it was going to be alright, why did it happen in the first place? Being molested, or whatever traumatic event that happened in one's life, even if one wasn't physically hurt, gives you this message that you are not safe. All your innocence or the things that made you secure, are suddenly wrenched away from you. No amount of showering and scrubbing yourself would ever rid you of that ugly feeling.
No matter how one looks so put-together, it takes a lot of effort not to shatter. If my experience is any indication, it can take a lifetime of assurances and love to heal. I don't know how I survived except I knew I wanted to live and to do so, I had to fix myself. Even if I did heal so haphazardly with a lot of glue and duct tape and help friends who didn't mind I was this flawed being, the thing was I still lived. And still living and loving.
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