Mud Pies and Matchbox Cars

I remember making mud pies, building Matchbox cities in the dirt, and forming sand castles at the beach when I was a little boy. We had a brick-chimneyed barbeque at the back of our yard, and the baked mud pies, elaborately decorated with pyracantha berries, sure looked pretty but they turned back into dirt. The Matchbox world under my washing-machine treehouse was regularly ruined by rain. The sand castles were washed away by the tides before we even left for home. All that work, and nothing to show for it.

If you know me or have roamed through Planet Bill, you know that I had a wonderful partner named Michael who is no longer with us. For years I had dreamed of meeting that certain, special person I could march through life with. He wasn't exactly what I had pictured in my mind, but I knew when I met him that he was "the one." He wasn't the shiniest pebble on the beach at first glance, but he was my pebble, and I wasn't too shiny either. We were a good match. Life together was perfect bliss. Well, not exactly. Sometimes we fought like cats and dogs. But we rarely went to bed angry with each other. We were both head-strong, but we walked hand-in-hand, even if we did step on each other's toes once in a while. And then one day he was gone.

And life goes on. I wasn't interested in becoming the twentieth-century version of Queen Victoria, dressed in widow's weeds and pining for Prince Albert. A time came when I became interested in getting back into the world so I could experience the beauty, wonder, and splendor of dating again. Or, at least having a romp in bed occasionally. Some of the stories from this period are funny and some are tragic. Maybe I'll write about them at some point, but that's not the purpose of exercising my keyboarding skills today (I don't think I can call it typing when I only use three fingers and a thumb).

As I take twelve steps through my mind, I can see that something is really wrong in there. I've got to do some serious housecleaning - and perhaps hire an exorcist - before I will be ready to tackle another relationship. Otherwise, it wouldn't be good for me, and it wouldn't be fair to someone else.

I grew up in a Leave It to Beaver household. I'm not kidding. My friends used to compare my parents to Ward and June. My parents had real-life flaws, but they were about as close as you'd find to Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver. Our neighborhood was nice and safe. Cookies were homemade, fireflies danced in the yards at dusk, and beds were warm and cozy with sheets dried on the clothesline.

But weeds grow in unwanted places, and even the prettiest flowerbeds harbor snakes.

Significant things happened when I was five years old. I am finally starting to understand how they still impact my world.

I was repeatedly molested by the grown son of a family two houses down from my home. I don't remember many specifics, but I do remember crying and feeling sick when this man called me into his bedroom and told me to shut the door. Our sessions together always concluded with instructions that I must tell no one or something horrible would happen to me. I thought I had dealt with this, but I am coming to understand that this is when I started to isolate myself and hide my feelings from others.

On Saint Patrick's evening in 1965, my grandfather got up from the sofa to get his eyeglasses off the fireplace mantle so we could watch Gunsmoke together. Midway across the room, he collapsed and died painfully of a massive heart attack. He was my best friend. This happened after the molestation came to light, and many of the neighborhood children treated me like a pariah. I knew that if I made it home safely from the kindergarten bus, my Grandpa would be waiting for me so we could play a board game or go for a ride in the car. Before Matt Dillon could saunter into Miss Kitty's saloon, my best friend was gone.

These two events taught me that danger lurks behind friendly faces, and that the people you love will leave you. My dad was in the military, and was frequently away on missions. Living in a Navy town meant that your best friends often moved away because their dads were given new assignments. People up and die on you; even kids...when I was nine my best friend died with bone cancer. I was beginning to feel like the Beaver Cleaver version of Typhoid Mary.

Today, while writing this, I have cried for the very first time for that scrawny little five-year-old boy. I'm not looking for sympathy or understanding. I am writing about these things because doing so chips away at the power they hold over me. It's just part of my life, and shit happens whether you are ready or not. I am now understanding that I have resentment, confusion, and anger about these things. They have damaged me, and I'm pissed off about it. But here's what I have decided:

I'm not a mud pie that will dry up and crumble.
I'm not a toy car village that will wash away in the rain.
I'm not a sand castle that can't be rebuilt.
And I am not a helpless, hopeless drunk that will turn to a bottle any longer.

I am a living being with the power to heal.

I am no longer numbed senseless by alcohol, and I am starting to feel things intensely. It hurts, dammit, but I welcome it. I am not ready for another life-partner. Yet.

If I keep working the 12 Steps, that day will come if it is God's will, but even if that never happens I have plenty to keep me busy. There is much work to do, and I need to do this for myself.