I’ve held off on posting this because I wanted to have a couple of posts to publish directly after this one. It’s not that I’m afraid of people reading it, I wouldn’t have posted it if I was.
I just want to make sure that the people that read it have at least a small amount of interest in myself and my well being.
March 4, 2014
Like most of the people I know, I had a pretty shitty childhood. I’m fairly open about it. I’m not shy when it comes to talking about my mother, or my brother, my father, or most of scarring situations that I was involved in. In my adult life, there have been a couple of traumatizing events, but about those I am just as honest and willing to talk (at times, too willing). The woman that I put too much faith in and let ruin my life, and the guy that got the wrong idea when I was desperate for comfort in the wake of that woman.
There’s only one thing I won’t openly speak about, and I don’t even really know that it actually happened. Memory is funny like that. I don’t know if it was my scout master, or an orderly at the behavioral health center I spent a few days in, or whoever. I only recall the situation and that it made me feel dirty, and used, and just wrong. That’s it, a hand and a feeling. It’s no more clear than that.
I’m so unclear about everything though. I only actually remembered this when I was 25. The recovery of a negative memory didn’t surprise me; I have a lot of my youth blocked out and things periodically surface.
I’ve read all about how our memories are so seldom accurate. How we recall an event is more shaped by how it made us feel than what actually happened.There’s something called confabulation where a memory with no basis in fact is shaped by the mind without intending to deceive others. I don’t know that this isn’t the case; all I am sure of is that I do remember it.
It was recently brought to my attention that I make comments concerning this topic on a fairly regular basis. I don’t like that. It’s something I think about from time to time, but I was surprised that it worked its way through. I had no idea that I mentioned the topic so often, and apparently in ways that are sometimes wholly inappropriate. It’s weird and uncomfortable for the people around me. .
I don’t think this has actually affected me in a monumental way. Most of my emotional issues are manageable and traceable to certain things within myself. I can catch depression on it’s way down and keep it at bay, I know when to isolate myself, and I know when to be around the right people. I have a list of places that bring up bad memories, or good memories of bad people. I avoid those places, and I work through the pain that’s associated with them, when possible. I have made incredible strides. I think I’m a good person. I refuse to blame myself for the pain of my youth, and, while the hurt is still present, it does not control me.
And it doesn’t make me special. I am not looking for sympathy. I know enough people with a similar trauma to know that I’m doing comparatively well and that I will be more or less unscathed with time; I’m not a danger to myself or others, I don’t enjoy torturing small animals. I am compassionate, empathetic and strong. I may have once been a victim, but I am no longer. I won’t continue to let my past control my future.
But being told that I so often bring up the topic in question reminds me that I’ve made no progress in that area, or at least less than I would like to think. Maybe I’m just so desperate to talk to somebody about it that I don’t even catch myself letting the words slip out.
I’m writing this because I need to. I’ll save it in my draft folder until I feel that I’m ready to share it with the world.