Unseemliness from a board member

 Won't say WHAT board, but my few regular readers can guess that.

While it's possible that any Dick or Jane who's a member of an email list associated with a support group could comb through membership information, by email address, for that email group, it would certainly be easier for a board of directors member.

It would be easier yet for said board member to cull through the entire email contact list that HQ has on file of past and recent donors and other Lifering contacts, and well-nigh impossible for a Dick or Jane to do that.

And, it would be unseemly for a board member to do that to encourage people to pre-order a personal memoir that, while connected with the reason for the nonprofit's existence, is not actually published by it.

I'm just leaving this here for now, but may write something elsewhere in the future.

Emotional abuse was the best tag I could think of.

Dear Theresa

 First, I probably didn't have quite as strong of romantic longings at the time as I indicated I did when I said I wanted a relationship, not casual dating.

You definitely were, and still are, attractive physically and otherwise. And, your interest in the arts, your Japanese-inclusive multi-ethnic background and other things made you attractive in the bigger picture.

That said, having had a couple of long-distance relationships putter out, and not having been in one for a while, I think that's part of why I spoke.

And, at the same time, there were also red and yellow flags.

The biggies were on money. You indicating I didn't make enough money, I guess is "understandable" from your point of view. Between teacher pay, department head stipend, master's boost, etc., plus private music lessons, you surely made twice as much as me. And, until a recent Google to your LinkedIn page and other stuff, I didn't even think about money you made off performance gigs.

At the same time, money was a red flag the other way. Yes, you had a mortgage payment vs. my rent payment. At the same time, you were renting out a garage apartment on the detached garage at your house. Probably a wash at "best" from my fiscal POV; at "worst," you were probably 20-25 percent ahead of me.

Yes, you were also finishing paying off your SMU master's of music degree loans, I expect. But? The flip side of that was department head stipend and master's boost.

Making half as much money as you, I was saving more.

And, this, second to the moves, moves, moves, since Today Newspapers closed, is probably the main reason I'm unattached today. I don't want someone more spendthrift than me putting me at financial risk.

===

There was one other problem, though.

Your comment about my hiking being just one big circle.

First, to riff on Heraclitus, it's never exactly the same trail twice.

Second, is not surfing, your passion, pretty much the same? You're paddling out in the same ocean and coming back in a loop on a wave.

===

Also, although not overtly, and nowhere in the way of a similar degree to Cathey, I occasionally had the impression that you thought I might have "issues." Maybe I'm wrong, to the degree I thought that then. Maybe I'm over- or misremembering now, driven by some version of motivated reasoning. 

But, to the degree I am right, in picking up on signals, that was troubling.

===

I'm not totally sure why I'm blogging this. 

I know it's a form of journaling. But, I could just keep it in a Word doc without posting it.

However, I think I'd like my few readers to know this about me, and also for the insights it may have in the first part, about "wanting a relationship" yet knowing that this want is "general" and not connected to a specific other.

As for "why" I'm blogging, writing or journaling this wherever, at this time?

Shannon.

Also unavailable to me, no doubt.

Physically? Oh, yes. 

Otherwise, and setting aside the issue of her kids? Less compatible in several interests ways than you and I would have been, Theresa.

But? More compatible in some personality ways. Though probably even less so than in others.

===

Part of this was on me, though. One part in particular.

Theresa was certainly physically attractive.

But? The same "shoulds" that said I should be wanting back in a relationship of some sort said I "should" feel sexually attracted by her. 

And I didn't.

I think in part that some of the other ancillary issues where I had flags pop up had done so early enough that I didn't move further forward otherwise.

And, that I didn't feel the desire to.

===

I won't die if I die alone.

But, even if well short of permanent, I'd love to have one real relationship, starting with the physical and sexual side, better than before.

Early life regrets — and even anger — aren't dead yet.

I don't think they ever will be, until I'm dead.

Me and Bob Conners

Note: Bob Conners was a college English and speech professor of mine. He had the outreach to students of "Just call me Bob," and occasionally dropping in on dorms to visit students there.

But ... he wasn't always perfect. And, beneath the surface, years later, I started wondering about his level of investment in some reach-outs, and also how much they were about the students, and how much they were about him.

BETWEEN ME AND BOB CONNERS

Bob, you told us all,

On that spring break road trip,

That in your family, growing up,

Nobody told anybody to “Shut up,”

Because it was considered an insult.

And then you told me to “Shut up,”

More than once, across hundreds of miles.

Did you have fun?

It may have been teasing,

But, decades later, across mnemonic reframing

I don’t recall you qualifying yourself that way.

Certainly, not regularly, and my emotional memory

Says it didn’t feel that way.

Rather, some part of me,

Inner child, inner teen, inner college student,

Says it felt like bullying, not teasing.

It felt like I was the class clown again,

But as the laughed-at, not the laugh-inducing,

As though I were on a negative pedestal

For everybody in dad’s Suburban.

No, it wasn’t all bad. And I don’t

Want to sound like a complainer.

But, to the degree I felt I was getting attention

It did feel like being a class clown at emotional gunpoint.

Later, when I for the first time was graced

By one of your legendary dorm visits

Yes, I appreciated it.

And, your insight of

“There’s no one here for you, Steve,”

Rang true.

But, per Deena

With hindsight,

It also rings vacuous, even if not hurtful.

Who was the “who” that should be for me?

What was your insight beyond your statement?

Did the same surface of openness,

Followed by depths of shields and distance,

Ultimately lead to your divorce?

Is it why Mike thought you a phony,

To read between his lines on campus?

In the short run, your comment

May have eased a small amount of pain,

And even tempted me to a bit of superiority.

In the long run, because the real truth is that

There was no one there for me at home,

It may have left me with more pain, for more years,

Than I wish I would have.

Namaste

For some reason

Just popped into my stream of consciousness

Even though there is no divinity there in that space between us.

Rather, it felt like

A Hindu “rest in peace,”

As the best I can offer your memory.

I didn't kill the puppy

Well, I did, but I didn't.

It was you, dad, inside my mind.

Urging me.

And so, I was stronger than you.

I didn't tell you.

You would have gotten insanely angry at me.

In part, because I had shown myself stronger than you,

And in part, because you knew that you had caused this, over years,

And over decades.

Go look, I say, to your non-existent soul

And what imprint its non-existent self

Still has in my mind.

Find the bones, and any fur, or meat, or bits of blood,

Still left beneath the grass.

You did it.

If funerals are for the living, I shall not attend

If funerals are for the living, what then when the living, or one of the living, doesn't want to do to the funeral of a dead relative?

My Uncle El died a couple of days ago. My dad had the one sister and no brothers, and my mom was an only, so I have just him and my Aunt Marguerite as aunts and uncles. The funeral is Tuesday. I could surely get off work, but I am not interested.

I semi-swore to myself after my mom's death, at her funeral, that I would never need to see my oldest brother again. I put the issues of deaths of siblings out of mind as being decades in the future, barring accidents or early cancer or similar.

But, I forgot about El and Marguerite, and now El is dead.

And I don't want to go, and not just because he's is surely going to be there.

I also semi-swore to myself that, other than for possible courtesy visits to church when visiting my sister and her minister husband, that I never would set foot in a church again except to attend a concert or other artistic event.

I have no desire to go there, and, at a minimum, to be a hypocrite, and, at a maximum, be proselytized by Marguerite, or her daughter (both former parochial school teachers), or my oldest or second-oldest brothers, with the likelihood from greatest to least being in that order. Years ago, Marguerite sent me an Easter card that, in not so few of words, said "You know it's true," about fundamentalist Easter beliefs. A religious funeral among conservative Lutheran Christians is only likely to bring that all to the surface, not to mention that, pre-deconversion, I had been to her church umpteen times and some oldsters there may still know me.

No desire.

If funerals are for the living, I'm not going.

I then, with this adapted from handwritten journaling, thought about a poem. I had been thinking about writing one this afternoon. Hadn't sat down to do that.

Then, just after finishing up these notes, this extended haiku started to work its way out.

Death is for the dead
And life is for the living.
So don't fence me in.

Better yet, I won't
Fence myself by attending;
We're all better off.

Namaste for all —
A word that might well offend
Some others itself.

I touched dad's cold skin,
Satisfied that dead is dead
And shall remain so.

Schnittke's Requiem
Challenges old conventions;
Death is chaotic.

Emotional wounds
I shall not give, nor receive.
They will still result.

We will drift further.
I accept that is the price
Of preservation.

Glad I'm single

Yeah, I may die alone, but so have many people with partners and even marriages.

I may enter the realm of dying without them or without kids to look out for me, but, I'm not alone there, again.

I have no attachments. No hostages to fortune.

No wading through relationships only to hit booby-traps years, even decades, later.

The sexual, emotional and physical abuse made me learn aloneness, and an acceptance, even a sometime embrace of it.

Looking back over decades, at women in whom I had some interest at times, and it didn't work out?

I'm OK with that.

Twenty years ago today

Twenty years ago today, I quit drinking. And, at some point not too far later, actual sobriety set in, and stayed.

I got, if not drunk, half-drunk, for the first time when I was 10 years old. On liquor, not beer. And drunk straight, or as close to straight as a 10-year-old me could stand.

There’s a story behind that, which is part of the story with why I sought out alcohol more and more for nearly 25 years after that.

I’m a “survivor.”

A child abuse survivor.

A child sexual abuse survivor.

An incest survivor.

My primary sexual abuser led me to where that liquor was at. And encouraged me to get drunk.

In addition to being a survivor of child sexual abuse at home (and yes, there, not some grandparent or step-grandparent who lived elsewhere), I am also a survivor of a fair amount of emotional and verbal abuse, along with some other psychological abuse, and a modest amount of physical abuse.

I’m old enough to have been watching John Wayne movies before he died. I knew that “real men” like John Wayne drank straight whiskey, so I drank it as straight as I could on an empty stomach to show the neighborhood kids — acquaintances all of them more than friends, and sometimes bullies and even abusers themselves on an occasion or two — that I was a man.

And threw up 30 seconds after I met two of them.

Gradually, those memories faded more and more. Along with more and more alcohol, helped by me going to an “18-state” on beer for college. Repression may not be the right word, but something like that is real, and Elizabeth Loftus is wrong more than right on this. I know.

I drank more after graduating college and doing traveling church construction for a couple of years. That said, I had alcohol poisoning in college, along with bouts of depression, and didn’t learn.

I eventually tried to follow in my dad’s footsteps. But, before I was through graduate divinity school, knew I couldn’t be a pastor, even as part of the reason for trying it, other than to please my physically, emotionally and psychologically abusive dad was to be a Protestant Christian minister’s version of “married to the church” and escaping other things.

I got my degree, but not ordination. After a year of not getting full-time work, yet not grasping in my mind how manipulative my dad had been in the past, I accepted his offer to move back in.

He lined me up with the possibility of contract adjunct college teaching, which idea I liked, and even more when I got it. And with the job of working part time at a convenience store as well, which I dreaded and made me feel more a failure.

My third suicide attempt was the day before that interview. Yes, third. One at around the time of my first drunk, in childhood, when tormented by the second of my two sexual abusers at home one afternoon. Another in college, after rebuffs from a woman who in hindsight may have been like my third, covert sexual abuser. And then this.

A year later, I was the victim of an armed robbery at gunpoint at the convenience store. And my drinking took off from there. Drinking on the job there, I got fired.

Fortunately, my dad was going to move, and I had nothing keeping me in Flint, Michigan. So, I went with him to Texas. Got my first newspaper job. Then got one in another town. Not great pay, but enough to live on my own.

And the drinking got worse. The last year or so, the only thing I rationally thought about was whether my stomach could handle a straight shot when I got up, or if I needed to start the day on beer.

For non-drinking reasons that weren’t all my fault, I was fired there. At the risk of boss-employee issues, I had asked my office manager out, for coffee, the week before. That removed that problem.

I had it “easy” on drinking. Both a Walgreen’s and a grocery within three-block walking distance and another grocery less than a mile away. After we’d been dating a few weeks, my former office manager saw me walking back to my apartment with a case of beer one afternoon. When she was over that evening, she told me how it made her feel.

Something in my listened. That was a couple of days before July 28, but … after I finished off the booze I had at home … I didn’t buy any more.

And soon, memories started coming back. And more. I talked some with her. Later, I talked more, as yet more memories came back, with the only other person I could talk to at the time.

I soon got a new newspaper job, in a new city. While driving there from Hobbs, New Mexico, I got gas in Amarillo, Texas. A voice inside me said “open the phone book when you go inside.” One AA group was the “Hobbs Plaza” group. I was a secularist of some sort then, and even more, now. But. That caught my eye. I went to a meeting in 15 minutes and an emotional dam started to break.

Then? The move, the stress, the sobriety? The memories came on more — with more emotional content. I would have to stop driving because I was crying.

Eventually, in the next town over, I found out that the pastor at the Methodist church had experience with counseling children. She’d never counseled an adult survivor before, but she helped, with EMDR, and some other techniques.

Eventually, after losing that job for various reasons, I got to Dallas. I found some secular sobriety meetings there, and got involved with Lifering online.

I also, crucially, found a organization called The Family Place which had a lot of women at risk services and then, with a grant, started its first group therapy for male survivors.

The Methodist pastor had diagnosed me with PTSD. I had first figured that was mainly a diagnosis to give an insurance company something as an entry for billing purposes. But, I found out it was real. Very real. And still is today. I even learned that something like this is considered "complex PTSD."

Along with those emotional returns came about two early sobriety years of semi-regular flashbacks and silent scream nightmares. Occasional “body memories” and actions. That’s pretty much faded away, but I had a silent scream nightmare earlier this year. Had a flashback from another trauma last year, over the car accident that badly displaced my left hand two years ago. I may have some genetic susceptibility to this, for traumas beside the sexual and other abuse, as well as that abuse priming me for other PTSD reactions.

I’ve had a hard life. I don’t mean this as a “poor me, pour me” moment per the old AA chestnut. And my life isn’t as hard as someone born into poverty. Nor have I suffered the worst sexual abuse. Trust me, from The Family Place, I know that in person. But, it’s been hard enough.

After a couple of years at The Family Place, I started facing parts of my past. Even before that, I had mildly confronted my dad over the physical and other abuse. He denied it, then minimized it while outsourcing blame.

I then confronted my primary sexual abuser. After initial non-comment, he admitted it, but said the fact he was in the ministry now was a sign he was beyond it. In turn, that only adds to the idea that in some cases, religious abuse can be a real issue.

I’ve never confronted my second abuser, but … while having less interest in confronting him before, I have less interest in accepting his apologizes for not defending me from the older abuser of the two of them as an apology, or even an unconscious admission, of his own actions. The other family member, who said I have false memory syndrome once long ago, I’ve ignored since then on family dynamics issues.

Had I confronted my mom with what I earlier called covert abuse, she would have been clueless, even with a detailed explanation, but then might have had a fatal heart attack years earlier than reality. I don’t want to go into more details; I still feel bits of shame about the weirdness, along with everything else in my family. And, again, with all of this being full blood — no "steps" or "halfs."

With the two people I have confronted, just as described in some books of survivor narratives, I’ve learned that there’s not much healing there.

Do I still have bitterness today, inside the mild-mannered self that many know in person and some Lifering friends have probably sensed just through online contact? Yes.

Bitterness over a stolen adulthood as well as a stolen childhood, not so much from alcohol, but all the family abuse and dysfunction that led to the psychological battering that led me to start getting drunk in the first place. Bitterness over knowing that, in things like a family life for myself today, or not one, a career path that isn’t my original idea or my ideal — not my ideal creatively and “spiritually” even more than not my idea or ideal financially — gets harder to change as I get older, especially in a country like ours.

All I can do ultimately is stay sober and “trudge,” as Yenta the Matchmaker says near the end of “Fiddler on the Roof.”

And, with that said, a couple of closing thoughts, for people with me now, or working to be with me now, on this journey.

One is how huge luck is in our lives. A middle class minister’s family shows blood is not thicker than water. A girlfriend’s comment at the right time “sticks.”

Related to that? Per the old medieval Church’s rhetorical question, “Cur alii, non alii,” I don’t know why sobriety, and sobriety support, “sticks” for some and not for others. I’ve tried to become more careful in insights I offer, or claim to offer, over the years, because of that.

Speaking of, I offer a few “call-outs” to those who have passed.

I mentioned Robert “Itchy” Bradley recently in another post here.

Kat Wyke, aka Kishimojun, was little known even to “oldtimer” Liferingers outside the online meeting and chat room. She stayed sober through the pain and intestinal surgeries of Crohn’s disease for more than a decade herself, until a recurrence of feminine cancer was too much.

I think of Thailand Chani (never learned her real name) and Kenya Johnson, who stayed sober through years of bipolar disorder and other mental health challenges.

Sadly, I think also of those who “succeeded” on one action where I “failed,” because they were frustrated by not staying sober. Or, those who may have thought marijuana was OK, even if marijuana smoke may not have agreed with other health issues.

Cur alii, non alii? As Brahms, Ein Deutsches Requiem, plays here in the background.

All I can do is stay sober, while being honest and true to myself. That's part of what non-steps sobriety offers, including on dealing with issues behind sobriety, and recognizing that they, not "sobriety itself" in a sense, may need to be the primary focus at times.

==

On a related issue, I also don't know why on "cur alii, non alii" on child sexual abuse and recovery. That's both as to why some children are affected worse by it and why, some recover better than others.

I'm going to offer a few bits of speculation, though.

First is that, if it's just a one time, or even more than once, a very occasional abuse, that may lessen its effect.

Second is that, per the ACES evaluation, stability or instability of a child's family life in general is a factor.

Third is if a child is able to, or not able to, find some sort of surrogate parents.

The paradox of emotional awareness

THE PARADOX OF EMOTIONAL AWARENESS

I became the emotional sponge of sorts
As mom and dad drifted, even careened, toward divorce,
Whether or not they were at all conscious
Of their emotional dumping
Through surrogate spousehoods, pedestal-placing, or other tricks.
And yet, though an emotional sponge,
I was often poor at reading people’s faces, actions and moods.
Why?
I think I had nearly fully despaired, by that time,
Of any control over other people’s emotions.
I had learned to “freeze” quickly, already, for Dad’s anger,
So I had no need to react any quicker to advance signs of it.
Parental dismissal, of various sorts, if only on the minor or modest levels
(Though it was sometimes major, sometimes huge),
Had become the norm, and so, didn’t need to be “read.”
And love and hope?
The reality of them, beyond any words, was so unlikely,
Especially on a deep or ongoing basis,
That I couldn’t have “read” them anyway; they were too unfamiliar.
And, if attention can be called an emotion, it was rarer yet;
The flip side of dismissal, it rarely came up heads.
Those emotions were shut books, and so I was illiterate.
Beyond that, though, the dismissal, the passive dismissal,
The simple non-interest, was the worst.
How could they not know the even darker secrets of our household,
Beyond even some sexual issues they themselves projected?
How could they not ask why I was afraid to sleep,
And still be awake at 2 a.m., beyond a thirst for late-night reading?
How could they not know, I used to wonder.
Today, as I stumble toward more emotional, and psychological,
Awareness of both past and present,
I wonder no longer.
They knew. Maybe not everything, but something.
And did nothing.
NOTHING!
Did they even care nothing?
My mom saw my first suicide attempt, as a child;
My dad heard me tell of my second, at the end of college.
Does an emotional sponge even suck up nothingness?
Well, I ate, had clothes, and a roof over my head.
So, on a surface, and material, level, they did.
Beyond that?
I, as an adult, don’t have to read Sartre to know existential nothingness;
I just look inside, for the face and voice of a numbed-out child.

My story, part 1

First, without getting into too many details, I’m a sexual abuse survivor.

There’s a word for it — it’s called incest. At least 2 years that I can remember, perhaps more, from at least when I was 8 to 10 years old. Maybe even longer than that. About anything you can think of, without being more specific. (I don’t just blurt this information out, anyway, for obvious reasons.)

I still can’t remember a lot today. And, I have post-traumatic stress disorder (more on that later).

The lack of memory probably says something. I’ve done the “self-counseling” work of looking at old childhood pictures, and I started looking like a pretty unhappy camper already in 4- and 5-year-old pics.

Whether that was some degree of sexual abuse that I can’t remember, physical or emotional abuse from dad, or emotional neglect going to indifference from mom, I was an unhappy camper, to put it mildly.

I know that the phrase “dysfunctional home” gets used a lot, but, I was there. Behind the Ozzie and Harriett of a conservative Lutheran minister and his wife and his five kids, there were seven individual balls of shit as the years went on.

To put it rhetorically, which may keep a little more distance for me:

When you’re 8 and two of your brothers come into your bedroom at night, and family life goes “blissfully” on the next day, you’re not in a normal family.

When you’re 9, and after you’ve chased your 1-year-younger sister with your Christmas present hunting knife (not recognizing she was reaching out from some degree of abuse herself, etc.), and your dad threatens to use the knife on you if you ever do that again, and life goes “blissfully” on the next day, you’re not in a normal house. (Dad was not the most horrible physical abuser in the world, but did go far enough to hit me and each of us kids in the mouth at least once, go beyond spankings to beatings more than once, etc.)

When you’re 9 and your dad catches you reading in bed at 2 a.m. and spanks you to the point of beating, rather than praising your intelligence for reading non-fiction books late at night, let alone not asking why else you would be up that late, you’re not in a normal house. (Why was I up that late? Best I can figure now, I realized my brothers wouldn’t come into my bedroom, even late at night, if I still had a light on. And, I was surely afraid to go to sleep. How afraid, I may still not recognize.)

When you’re 10, and the younger of the two older brothers is physically abusing you, and something finally snaps, and you attempt to strangulate yourself with a belt, you’re not in a normal house.

When, five minutes later, that same brother and your mom intervene to stop the suicide attempt, and nothing more is ever said about it, let alone done about it, as the family life goes “blissfully” on, you’re not in a normal household.

When, also at 10, the oldest brother primary sexual abuser shows you where dad’s liquor is at on the top shelf of the pantry, encourages you to try various things, etc. you’re not in a normal family.

(And when you don’t recognize until almost 30 years later how abnormal this all was, you’ve definitely been affected by living in a dysfunctional family.)

That said, I sampled all the clear liquors. Then, I saw the Jim Beam, or Jack Daniels.

The amber color fascinated me. Besides, I knew that real men like John Wayne drank whiskey — straight whiskey.

So, I did, or nearly so. I may have cut it 10-15 percent with water, but nothing else. This 98-pound kid drank 4 ounces or maybe a little more. He was macho. Wait until the neighborhood bullies heard about this.

Little did that gentle, soft-spoken boy realize he had just turned off, or finish turning off, an emotional and psychological light switch.

He wasn’t macho; he was hurting, and getting drunk for the first time.

(To be continued.)

Hello

I decided to start a blog just about recovery issues, to keep it separate from my other blogs, on political, professional or philosophical issues.

I'll discuss recovery from alcoholic-level drinking, recovery from overt and covert sexual abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse, emotional neglect/abandonment, and post-traumatic stress disorder.