An unexpected thing happened to me after I finished writing yesterday's entry about the sexual predator in my neighborhood. I shed some unplanned tears as I wrote, posted the blog, and got up for another cuppa joe. Suddenly, I was bowled over by an avalanche of pure 100% RAGE. It took my breath away, but I just let it keep coming. Bring it on...it's long overdue. In my mind, the man who molested me was in my home. I beat him senseless. I beat him until he collapsed on my floor. And I kicked him in the face over and over and over until I couldn't even recognize him. I kicked him until what had been his face was nothing but blood and snot and bone. And then I stopped, because I did not want him to die, and God help me I did not stop out of mercy. I stopped because I wanted him to live so that I could watch him suffer and gasp for breath.And I felt better.
This is not a pretty picture, but I make no apologies. For years I have acknowledged the event, but completely repressed my feelings about what happened. I am angry about what happened to me when I was simply a little boy who went to a friend's house to play and the grown-up brother entrusted with my care violated me in the cruelest, vilest way. I am angry at my parents for not calling the police. I'm angry at the neighbors for making me feel like I did something wrong. I'm angry at the feelings of guilt, confusion, and shame that have made it difficult for me to establish deep intimate relationships because keeping people at arm's length feels safer.
But, I am grateful for this unleashed rage; and, Lord, I am grateful for a sense of release at long last. Thank you, God.
I shared a little of this in this morning's meeting, and it generated some wonderful discussion. So many of us AA's used alcohol to numb our feelings and emotions, and it can be a wild ride when we decide to stick the little knob-headed pin in the plastic car so we can get back on the road in the Game of Life.
An amazing thing happens when we jump back in the plastic car. Connectivity can be as limitless as we care to make it. The road doesn't end at the edges of the board game. Each day I go here for inspiration, and I discovered this new world by clicking on "AA" in my own blog profile under my interests. There's a wonderful world out there that I've been ignoring. There are lots of boys and girls with Matchbox memories. The bottle wasn't nearly as much fun.
One day recently several of us guys were outside after a meeting, and the subject of GI Joes came up. Clark, a macho-man contractor, still collects them, and we were all sharing GI Joe stories from boyhood. I had a GI Joe (never could figure out the right approach to ask for a Barbie), and I was the only kid I knew who had a black GI Joe. I'd like to say that my parents bought this because they were so liberal, but I suspect they waited too close to Christmas and NAACP Joe was all that was left on the shelves. I loved my GI Joe, but (unlike Clark) lost interest in playing with him eventually.
There comes a day in each boy's life when he wants to play with fire. My dad had a nice stick-built wood-framed shed at the back of our yard, with a lean-to on the rear for lawn and garden machinery. My buddies and I gathered in the lean-to one afternoon to torture GI Joe. We were having a blast wounding and disfiguring poor Joe with matches when he suddenly exploded. After we made sure the shed wasn't on fire, we collected Joe's far-flung charred parts for autopsy. In case you don't know, vintage GI Joes are held together with thick, strong rubber bands under very high tension. When those suckers burned through, Joe went flying everywhere. I was a bit chagrined, but would have been even more dismayed if I knew how much a black GI Joe from that era would sell for nowadays. Mine was the first black GI Joe, with painted on hair. Clark says they are highly sought by collectors.
So, today, through exorcising ghosts and the love and support of others, I can say that all is well. I am exactly who and where God intends at this moment.
Posts
My StumbleUpon Page
3 comments:
I am so sorry that horrible thing happened to you as a child, do or say whatever you need to, so that you can work through it.
Keep getting stronger Bill and some day someone is going to be a very lucky man to get you.
I burned my G.I Joe and Six Million Dollar Man, they were in perfect condition with the boxes and all. I thought it was my step into manhood, oh well twelve years old boys are not noted for their forethought.
Steven.
When I was a youngster we burned our trash in a structure made of concrete blocks with a metal mesh door. We called it the incinerator. My sister and I would burn the trash and throw on top of the fire handfulls of hay (she had horses and ponys). It would smolder and we would stick a stick inside and lift up portions and the smoke would pour out as we screamed like there were people trapped in there. Eh, it was one of our entertainments.
Regarding hidden emotional bundles, there is more room outside of us than inside. Let it out. Talk about it. I bet you are breathing easier today.
Blessings to you this day.
Bill, I, too, am so sorry this happened to you. How can people be so cruel to each other, and especially to little kids? That is what enrages me. The only way to get away from those demons is to walk through them. With God's help, and he's working through your new friends, you're doing just that. I love what Scott W said about there being more room on the outside to let all that stuff go.
Post a Comment