From: anon-1554@twwells.com (Jazzman)
Newsgroups: alt.sexual.abuse.recovery
Subject: Memories. . . ***SPOILER***
Date: 26 Jan 93 06:38:46 GMT
Organization: Anonymous Posting Service at twwells.com
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So, how did I come to be here on asar, anyway?  It is a long story, 
but it mostly has to do with memories.  Both aware and un-aware memories.

I don't know how much a ***SPOILER*** is called for, but just in case, 
I put it in.  Who knows how much I'll be able to tell here tonight, but
the _whole_ story needs lots of ***SPOILER*** warnings.  It could ruin 
your whole _week_.













I was OK.  All my life I was OK.  Everyone knew how OK I was, 'cause I
told them so often.  And clever?  Certainly.  Good grades, good manners, 
lovely wife, nice good paying job, beautiful home, adorable children. . .
Such a nice picture.

All of it fraud.  Inside I was miserable.  Doing destructive things to 
myself.  Hateful violent sexual hurting things to myself.  Over and over
and over every day.  

Why did I feel this way?  Therapy next.  Ahh, _there's_ an idea.  Therapy.
In a group.  Stories they told.  Of their abuse.  She was sexually abused
from age three 'til she ran away at 16.  He was emotionally abused all his
childhood.  She was beaten and made to . . . .  It went on and on.

But why was I there?  None of those things had happened in my ideal life 
Why was _I_ there?  _None_ of those things had happened in _my_ ideal life.
But I had all the symptoms.  Felt like I was the worst piece of shit on the
planet.  Spaced out whenever things got a little threatening.  Compulsively
masturbated myself raw several times a day (but didn't tell about that).  Had
weird scary feelings about certain fairly normal objects.  Had memories that
were all fragmented and confused after about age 8.  Was scared of sleeping
under more than a thin light blanket.

Therapy no help.  Try another one.  Some help, but still nothing makes sense.

WHY AM I LIKE THIS??



Finally found someone who I could tell the sexual stuff to after working
with him for a while.  Realized there are memories that I need to find.  I
knew they were there.  After describing what I do to myself I told him, "I
can't remember, but I feel a weight when I do those things.  I see the back
of a white chair.  I feel an egg (why an egg?) in my rectum.  I hear someone
saying 'It's called "Fucking Corns" '.  I'm in my bedroom and I hear someone
grunting and cursing softly."  He helped me remember that there was something
to remember, and gave me a book, "Right to Innocence", to read.  But it still
stayed lurking in the corners of my mind.  I just couldn't remember.

I know, I'll visit that house!  My 20th class reunion was an ideal time, cause
it was only 45 miles from where that house was.  We did it.  My fiancee and I
went back to that neighborhood and walked around.  Fear.  Disgust.  Anger.
Angst.  Dread.  I've gotta get out of here!!!!  But still no memory, only 
suspision of who and what, but no memory.



We had a wonderful time that weekend.  There wasn't a motel in town with room,
so we stayed at a little motel in a nearby town and found that there was
river tubing nearby.  What a delightful thing to do on a warm Saturday in July.
Floating slowly down the river, talking, planning our life together, young 
(well not really _so_ young) lovers enjoying each other's company.  Then
Lots of meeting of old friends from High School, and they liked her and we
danced and announced that our engagement had been announced a few weeks before.
 
Then up and on the road to stop at her folk's house to pick up her son and
head home where they had just moved in with me while our new house was 
being completed.  I don't remember beyond that morning's breakfast.  We 
drove to her folk's and had lunch and then left.  









Flying?  Landing?  In a helicopter??  Too weird, I'll just slip away again
into that comfortable unconsciousness.  Days later coming back to . . . what?
Hospital bed?  "How's - where's - Bonnie?"  No answer from Mom. "I'm Dr. ____." 
"How's Bonnie", I repeat.  His brow furrows. "I'm sorry."




NOOOOO . . . 



I drove into a train.  Bonnie's dead.





But I got my memory.  I got my FUCKING MEMORY!!!!!!   I can't remember
how I missed seeing a GODDAM  T R A I N, but I can remember my abuse. . . .



There's a trade-off for you.





My brother.  That's who was saying "If you tell anone, I'll pound you."
And he could, too, so I never told.  It was his weight I felt on top of
me.  The white chair is in front of me and I focus on it to block out 
what he's doing to me.  The pain. The humiliation.  I can feel his rage
as he pushes against me.  Later I hear him in the other bed and hear his
quiet rage as he abuses himself over and over.  How many times?  I'm not
sure, but many, for sure.  Over about 2 years until he moved out to go 
to boarding school.  He got thrown out there for attempting something
with someone there . . . I don't know the details . . . .





So now I abuse myself.  It stopped here.  He came from a horrible, horrible
background until my folks adopted him.  They adopted me a few years later, 
and I stopped this chain of abuse.  I have two daughters and a son and they
will not be subjected to anything like this from within their own family.

So if that's what it took, I'm glad.  It was worth it.  I'll never be more
than a piece of shit, but my kids are going to have good feelings about
themselves; about their sexual identity; about their worth.


So that's what brought me to asar . . . .

Jazzman



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