part 34

People can hear what has happened to me and wonder how I survived it all. Even people who get regular updates on how I am doing will sometimes stop and say how sorry and hurt they are that I had to experience these things.

I was telling someone new about my experiences last week, and during my descriptions, he stopped me and asked how I got through all of it.

I very sincerely appreciate compassion and support, but lately it has gotten to the point that I look back at what has happened – being repeatedly raped, starting when I was such a little child, being physically and mentally tortured, being handed over to other predators, being in front of that goddam camera small and ashamed and naked – and the question of “how” I survived it all becomes irrelevant.

I mean, it is a really good question. How have I survived it all? I try to think about what my life was like before the abuse ever started. I try to remember what it was like to be like everybody else. I have this vague sense of brief happiness way in the back of my mind, but other than that, I have no memory of what it was like to be someone who had not been molested, or raped, or tortured, etc., etc., etc.

I have no comprehension of absolute security. I cannot comprehend how affectionate friends can be with each other (I’ve been watching Friends on DVD, and they are really affectionate with each other). I cannot comprehend someone standing next to me and reaching their arm behind me and feeling anything other than panic.

I’ve gotten pretty good with hugs. I have learned that I don’t have to hug everybody, and just because I hugged someone once, it doesn’t mean I have to hug them every time I see them. I am even almost to the point where I can just put my hand out and say “please do not touch me” to someone I really don’t like and who insists with their entire body on putting their hands and arms on me every time I see them.

I have not actually been able to do that anywhere other than in my imagination, though I have gotten to where I can at least not reciprocate the gesture in any way except to throw a shoulder toward them and lean my head away as far as possible. Also, looking away with no smile on my face while they are touching me, I really think, would be an indication that what they are doing is unwelcomed and that they should stop it already, but for some people it isn’t. Those people are the creeps.

Being almost to the point of directing others concerning my own body is a really big deal. It has gotten very easy with people I don’t know, or have only met a couple of times: “whoa, buddy, I don’t know who you are and you are gonna have to back it up.”

However, with people I have known for a while, I just can’t NOT let them touch me. I suppose my inability to assert myself is another of those inexplicable pains in my ass that come along with all the other shit.

Anyway.

I have gotten to a certain level of acceptance of what has happened to me, and who it was that did it. It has taken me a long time to comprehend all of what has happened to me, and it is a very heavy comprehension to carry around.

When someone says to me, “how are you dealing with all of this,” I can no longer appreciate their inability to comprehend such horrible acts. I have to remember that I have been dealing with all of this shit pretty much 24/7 and have had a lot more time to adjust to the reality of it. It makes me sad, though, when someone asks me how I have dealt with it all, and the only thing that comes to my mind is, “what the fuck else was I going to do?” FYI, I don’t actually say that out loud – compassion is very important to me, and I am not about to start shutting compassionate people down just because my perspective is different from theirs.

This surviving, or overcoming, or recovering, or dealing process has become a part of who I am. In a way, it IS who I am. It’s kind of lonely. It reminds me of the freak I used to be, especially as a kid: someone who could not settle into a group of people without any sort of point upon which to relate with anyone else. As an adult, I learned what things I could relate to people about, and could grab onto that (“So, how about this weather?”).

Now I feel like I am very capable of relating to other people about a lot of things, and also am very capable of recognizing that it is okay if I do not relate to other people. That knowledge about myself makes feelings of loneliness and isolation scurry away.

But there is this part of me that longs for idle chitchat about those horrendous things that other people really can’t comprehend. It is not easy for me to throw some random thought out that concerns the abuse in my past and have any reaction other than long, uncomfortable silences. Party foul!

I know there are other people out there who are capable of idle chitchat about living through hell. There are not that many, but there are a lot more than what I believe the general public is aware of.

And we find each other. Consciously or not, we know who we are. I find a lot of comfort in reading online or in a book about others’ experiences of abuse and how they have dealt with it and are still able to function years later. The lack of intimacy that accompanies reading someone else’s words instead of hearing them spoken out loud and in person is comforting.

Being able to have that connection without having to feel too vulnerable is nice. It reminds me that I don’t have to do this by myself, even if “not by myself” means knowing there are other people out there with whom I can relate but with whom I never actually have any personal contact.

I feel like what I have survived in the past cannot be questioned: I mean, I survived it, it’s real, it happened, it won’t ever change, I will never not survive it. So why bother thinking too much about how I survived it when I could be focusing a lot more on how I can live right now in spite of how it all shaped me in ways that make simply being awake really difficult?

I mean, what the fuck else am I going to do?