#also rather proud of myself for understanding nearly 90% of everything she said

[nookishposts]

Boundaries

*** Special note; this is not a cheerful post and contains potential triggers for those vulnerable to issues of childhood trauma. This is a true story.

When I was 10 years old, I met a man who was kind and caring, funny, affectionate, and had been matched through the Big Brother’s Association with the 12 year old brother of a friend of mine. His job was working with persons with physical and mental challenges and he seemed to genuinely thrive on helping others. I was often a part of family events where he was present, and the Little Brother he had been matched with, hung on this man’s every word. It was lovely.

Fast forward almost 20 years, and I run into this gentleman at the recreation facility I was working at; he was waiting for a meeting with my executive director for some kind of mutually beneficial programming. We had a hug and a nice catch-up and he was still in touch with his Little Brother (now in his 30s, but still struggling with emotional issues) as well as the rest of the family. Over the next few years, we periodically met for coffee, he came to my home for social events, and after quite a few years, he came out to me. I escorted him to his very first Gay Pride event and he nearly wept with the impact of an environment he’d always felt he needed to hide from. I was proud of him for his bravery, as I knew it had been a long journey for him to stand that day among his peers. He asked me if I would be interested in accompanying him on a visit to his Little Brother, a day trip, about 90 minutes each way. I said sure.

Little Brother was at this point a young grandfather, living on a disability pension and with a woman who seemed to care for him, their dog, and some kind neighbours. Their home was tidy and humble and they insisted we share a meal. Little Brother, agoraphobic among other things, agreed to go for a walk on the beach since I was there and he felt safe with Big Brother around. Big Brother even trimmed little Brother’s hair for him while we visited, apparently something that happens every few weeks. It was a very sweet reunion and we talked of fun stuff we got up to as kids, going through old school photos and some of his sister and her family, his Mum, Big Brother, often in the family gatherings.

On the way home, Big and I got to talking and he confessed to a gambling addiction and volunteering for the provincial self-disclosure status at Ontario Casinos. His photo is in a book with other self-professed gambling addicts so they can be stopped at the door and refused entry should they lapse in their recovery. I confessed that I had struggled with addictions myself when I was younger but thanks to the help of a wonderful therapist, off and on for about 20 years, I had come to understand my triggers and put many of them to rest. I shared with him that a family member had been a pedophile and that for 11 years I was his favorite target, kept quiet only because of his threats to harm others close to me if I dared disclose. At 15 I was finally big enough to stop him, fully prepared to die by his hand, but knowing I just could not endure any more. The fact that I didn’t die, that he walked away defeated after the struggle, and the balance of power shifted so dramatically, made me hate myself for not having fought back earlier. (It took a while to understand why I didn’t) I went on to explain that it took years of lying to cover up the damages and finally being unrelentingly suicidal that got me to disclose, and eventually to the right person for help. That I finally understood I was not to blame. (Statistics and research are very clear that when children cannot find a reason for a loved one abusing them physically, sexually, or emotionally, they assume they are bad/evil/need punishment, solely for the sake of having a reason. I concur. I was absolutely sure I was the sick and evil one.) I talked about the permanent damage, the occasional swamp of flashbacks that come without warning even now, and that I thought anyone who abused children or animals willfully should have a special place reserved for them in Hell, where they spend the rest of their consciousness feeling exactly what their victims felt at their mercy. Big Brother nearly drove off the road, and I felt bad for having upset him. I apologized for being a little too honest, and we changed the subject.

 Forward another 10 years and I am living in Winnipeg. In a phone conversation with my Mum, she gently tells me that Big Brother (who she also came to know pretty well) is in jail for sexual assault of a minor. His sister`s grown boy. His own nephew. A man now in his 30s who also sought help and finally had the courage to charge his Uncle with the ruination of his childhood; his repeated molestation at the hands of Big Brother. Big decided to confess rather than go through a public trial, and he admitted everything. Of course I was rattled. I told myself at the time that I was very glad the nephew got help, spoke up, and that Big actually owned it. I was also glad he was doing jail time for it.

Now we are up to date and I know Big has been out of jail for at least a year. I attended a public outdoor concert very recently with my Mum, and who should be sitting on the apron of stage right, facing and watching the crowd, especially all the little children, shirtless or in bathing suits due to the heat, but Big Brother. With a sly smile on his face. My Mum noticed him too, and asked me if I needed to move. I thought about it for just a second before saying No. When Big,scanning the crowd, looked our way, he saw me and his expression changed.I decided that if he was bold enough to approach, I would simply and quietly say`: `Don`t`, and turn away. I would not run. I would not hit him tempting as that might be.Unless he refused to leave, at which point I would either call police or raise holy hell, or maybe both. I was glad I had on sunglasses and he would not be able to see my eyes if he got close enough. I took a few deep breaths and tried really hard to concentrate on the music, the soft summer evening, the sweet interaction of all-agers assembled for the event. What I really wanted to do was run out and scoop up every one of those wee ones and hand them back to their parents and tell them why. The 4-15 year old still alive inside of me wanted to vomit and then go hide. The 56 year old wanted to beat the living shit of out of Big and expose him to the world. How dare he be there, watching, thinking god-knows-what as he watched those children play.

Big stayed put for the entire concert. He left immediately afterward, but I didn’t see him go. As far as I know, he was alone.

When Big Brother’s predatory story broke, the Association that matched him with Little Brother stated they had never had any whiff of wrong-doing when Big was a member.  Big’s employer said much the same. But years earlier, when Big discovered I was working in social services, there were 2 men he asked if I had ever come across professionally as colleagues. And I knew them both. When I mentioned Big’s name to each of them, they nodded and changed the subject so quickly I was left wondering.Their reactions made sense when Big’s story came out. They would have been the same age as his nephew. I highly suspect that both of those professional men, like me, got some good help in dealing with whatever Big brought to their lives, and it may in fact have contributed to their choice of career. Stats are also clear that abused children often choose a helping profession: either to atone for what they perceive as their own flaw/crime, or to try to intervene and advocate on behalf of other victims. I did. The stats also show that when someone abuses a child, the likelihood that they have more than 1 or 2 victims is very high. My abuser had several that we know about because a couple of them confronted him on his deathbed. I fully expect there are more who could not.

Abusers are very shrewd, very adept. They charm, they groom, they commit and then, having discerned their victim’s most vulnerable traits, they threaten. They are cunning. They make a conscious choice, a choice between right and wrong, and they do it over and over and over. They target and they plan. It’s seldom spontaneous.There is a theory that some abusers want to get caught, they offend so they can get help. I can’t handle that one. Like gambling addicts, there is a program whereby those who feel they might offend can self-declare and receive a chemical castration and enforced counselling. There is also evidence that the majority of abusers were themselves abused as children. But nobody that I know that has been abused has ever had the urge to offend in the same way, so I wonder about the legitimacy of that angle. I have been part of or connected as a resource to many many people who were abused as children and they have confessed some dark things, but never the urge to abuse another child.

My view is of course highly prejudiced by my own experience. I am one of the very lucky ones who after a few false starts found the right therapist and was able to do the work, piece by piece, over many years. I still have the occasional nightmare. I still have a couple of resources I can draw upon if I really need to. There is a certain cologne, and also a certain series of scents that will put me on high alert until I can talk myself down. No matter how much good help you get, it never leaves. It’s a part of your forever. You learn to accept it with as much healthy perspective as you can muster, but sometimes, even that isn’t enough. The MeToo Movement has been a very long time coming and will take a long time to get us where we need to go.

As for Big Brother...I have a LOT of questions. Is he allowed to be in such a public forum where children and young adults will be? Was his jail sentence the sum total of his debt to society and to his nephew? What could the police actually do, if anything at all, if I did call and explain who he was and the circumstances?  I also wonder about Little Brother and how much of Big’s influence contributes to the deepened challenges he has faced all of his life. Only Big’s victims will ever know the extent of they price they paid. But as far as I’m concerned Big himself has not paid nearly enough for his crime..for stealing innocence, for stealing trust, for causing  sickening sleepless nights and the angst of anticipation that he might show up again, or worse, make good on his threats leaving his victims blaming themselves for his behaviours, just as he wants them to. Theirs is a lifetime sentence. Trust me on that one. I am fortunate that I live a very good life in spite of how it could easily have been. I made a choice too, but only from a desperation so deep it could have cost me everything. There are so many of us.

There are good people in this world. Enough to make a real difference. We cannot afford not to ask the hard questions. Nor to keep the secrets. If there is someone in your life,...there is help, and others who will walk beside you every step of the way to it.

[supermanonesie-blog]

the brain of a crazy bitch

First thought: Why do people share? Why write and then invite others online to read what you have to say? For me, it’s a matter of de-stigmatization. Bad stigma causes undue social shame. That’s unnecessary. I often forget what my mother told me a long time ago—one of the many valuable things she has taught me over my twenty-six years of existence (along with how to use a toilet, which has come in handy truly countless times, as you can imagine). She said, when you think you’re the only one in the world who feels the way you do, remember the billions of other people on the planet—and it’s SO unlikely you’re the only one. (I think we’re at about 7 billion right now.)

This idea was one of the few sentiments I heard as a child that defied the theme of “you are special and unique and there is nobody like you”. It also, now that I reflect upon it, aligns with a common trend in my thinking which is that of statistics of large numbers—another occupational side effect—although numbers in the billions are quite small compared to numbers that deal with atoms and molecules vibrating and whooshing around in the air and water and other phases. Damn, Avogadro. Your name sounds like avocado, and you really nailed it with 10^23. Two things that make you awesome. And for those of you who are like, ummmm excuse me, it’s actually 6.0222 blah blah blah? Fuck off, those decimal places are a joke.

As usual, I have digressed. Although, statistics of large numbers is quite on point—perhaps more so than you may know. The reason is this: I think that intellectually, we can understand that other people feel the same way we do about a given subject. However, because humans are cursed with the overwhelming phenomenon of emotion and the unfortunate skill of emotional analysis, when overwhelmed with a certain feeling, it is nearly impossible to remind ourselves that we are not broken or fucked up or so different or too much or too little or wrong in some way. It is SO hard to remember that you’re really fine to be whoever you are. If you fall somewhere within 5 or 6 sigma of the Gaussian average of humans, you (no matter how much you fight or deny this) care a great deal what people think and how far you fall from your conceptualization of what is “normal”. Now, depending on who you are, you may range from caring to what one person thinks of you to what 7x10^9 people think of you, but you fucking care. It will greatly calm your overall emotional existence to care MORE what you think of yourself, but I do think this is a common struggle.

Here, I ruminate on my experience with men in the lens of this theme. Unmistakably, this applies to a crazy number of women. Not 10^23, but a lot. As a woman (and you fuckers who are like, ugh gross, she’s going to go on a rant and she’s a man hater – shut up, I love men – A. LOT. and I don’t hate most of you, just the uninvited pussy grabbers and feeling-shamers). Okay, so as a woman who is 26, I have lived a lot of my pre-teen to adult life receiving direct and indirect messages from guys that they would like me more if I were different. I could reach perfection if I could just get rid of a fewwww things about me. And furthermore, that I am some level of unworthy of respect, appreciation, attention, time, whatever—because I care, am engaged, interested, emotional, aggressive, confident, insatiable, curious, intense, and my favorite: CRAZY. 

But if I lose my center and start focusing more on how he might think of me and less of what I think of him, then the only thing I am doing is playing games (potentially just with myself) to make me feel like I am desirable and in possession of the upper hand. This is one of the most challenging things to avoid in my personal life. This might be singularly the only challenging thing in my personal life. This leads me feeling shitty, alone, undesirable, WEIRD, CRAZY, STUPID….the list goes on. 

When did I become like this and why? How did I fuck up so much? 

It’s been like this since I was something like 12 years old at camp and my initial reaction to having a crush on this boy (a whole year old than me!!! Omigod) was the thought that there was no way he would like me because I was not as pretty as other girls. (Side note, total bullshit because I was adorable and way thinner than I thought I was, and objectively very cute.) From that point on, I garnered so much anxiety from feeling like I had to act like the “ideal girl” that I spent a stupid amount of time trying to look like it, talk like it, act like it, etc. 

This worrying was and is made a thousand times worse by the fact that 1) I have – as one of my best guy friends has put it—the eye of Sauron. Meaning, I notice and interpret the subtlest nuances of physical, facial, and inter-personal behavior roughly a million times better than the average human. (Comment on this: it in no way means that I respond in a smart way. In fact, it’s about 40/60 idiotic/smart. I’ve thought about this a great deal, and I’m convinced that it’s more amusing to do unpredictable things and see how the other person reacts. It’s fucking masochistic. And also endlessly interesting.) 

It (my worrying) is also worsened by the fact that 2) I have generalized anxiety. It wasn’t called anything until my therapist said it aloud about 4 years ago, but looking back on my life, it’s something that has influenced my behavior and choices in one way or another since I was about 12 years old. The first time she said it, I came in (like a wrecking ball, if you will or if you won’t – lol) with alllllllll sorts of judgement about what this meant, and how I felt like I had to pretend I didn’t have this, and how it meant I was different and messed up, blah blah blah. But basically, it’s what I’ve inherited genetically, I can’t change that it’s there, and it unfortunately means pretty much what it sounds like. I garner anxiety from generally everything, plus or minus some things depending on what my anxiety has me nervous about. It’s taken me through absolute rock-bottom hell, which I clawed my way out of with the unwavering love, patience, strength, and kindness of a dear friend (and two amazing doctors). After two straight years of what I would classify broadly as SHIT, I found something that worked for me in order to live my best life and as much as possible diminish this blanket anxiety. I don’t think I toot my own horn a lot, but god damn, that is something to be seriously proud of while getting a PhD. 

I bring this up because I think that over the years, my anxiety latched onto this phenomenon of being the ideal woman (in the eyes of men). The problem was that as I set my goal to summit this mountain, and gain the ultimate freedom from feeling not good enough and having to pretend I was someone different, I picked the wrong summit towards which to climb. I – rather unknowingly, I think – decided that if I was to be free from this, I would be SO amazing in the eyes of men that I would be desirable to them all, and not be under their control. THIS – THIS IS INSANE. For so many reasons. This also DROVE ME INSANE, because, DUH, “men” are not identical humans with identical tastes and identical values. This makes this mountain, well, insurmountable, sets up a totally unhealthy power dynamic, and fuels anxiety. It’s a fucking positive feedback loop sort of nightmare. 

But why is it so hard to kick this habit? One, because when you do something for a decade, it’s always a practice to change. And I fuck up. A LOT. I am stupidly good at chasing boys off. And it makes me kick myself in the head, because then it becomes totally unclear if they are assholes, idiots, whatever, or they are totally thrown by my erratic fluctuations between when I decide to play the game (so tempting) and when I decide to be totally open and when I decide they’re a jerk (the fallback).

It’s also hard to kick this habit because it’s become all-too common social standard for women to be classified as “too much”, “too talkative”, “too into talking about feelings”, and on and on. I would like to say that women and men are wired differently. Of COURSE women talk. We are wired to be good at emotional communication. We also have higher body fat content that is not so easy to decrease. AND NO, CHILDREN, it’s not just in our tits and asses. Women’s magazines somehow are all about instructing us to get the Brazilian Booty, Kaley Cuoco’s abs, Give Him the Sex He Dreams Of (thanks Cosmo, you actually say the weirdest shit), what to eat to be skinny, how to be happy having three almonds every four hours because you’re too fat, spend time deciding Who Wore It Best, shame Kim Kardashian because OMG she has cellulite on her enormous ass (honestly, how is she supposed to tone that whole thing? It’s the size of a planet), shame women and not men for making sex tapes, tell women that they’re only pretty if they look young, make sure that we don’t have pubic hair even though we grow it... the list is so long. It is insane. And it is 90% about how to be more appealing to guys, even many things under the guise of “how to be your best self”. But tbh, magazines, part of being MY best self involves not torturing myself and wasting my time reading your bullshit. 

So, that’s why it’s hard to get rid of the anxiety. Even for women who are lucky enough not to be generally anxious.

I’ve been lucky enough to have many romantic relationships. Roughly 40% of these guys have in large part not been good to me, and I’ve stuck around, trying to be the person they wanted. Luckily, I am not longer in one of these. Actually, I’m not in any romantic relationship. They make me fucking nervous because I’m convinced I’m going to ruin it or they’re going to bail. 

I don’t regret the unhealthy relationships because – as with all things, the bad doesn’t make the good any less good, and I always absolutely adore the times where the physical or emotional connection was so insane, I literally felt like I was on drugs.

I also am so grateful that I have had relationships spanning 3 years and then 2-ish with men who adored me and respected me and made me feel safe. They loved and love that I am fucking nuts and spontaneous and say and wonder about deep things and stupid things and immerse myself earnestly and unselfconsciously (when it happens) in all curiosities and the fun of life and being an animal (some feline variety, duh). They also, through their confidence in themselves, have the ability to appreciate that people are imperfect, and that was unavoidably contagious.  

It’s almost two years of being single – the longest I have ever been single since the start of my dating life at 15 (wuuuuut??). I sometimes feel old habits emerge, and the judgment that stems from that perturbs my hard-won confidence into an oscillating unstable disaster.  

I know I can’t explain all of this to someone I like who I’ve just met because, well, it’s baggage, as all people have, and you can’t just bring your whole big bag of shit and dump it on someone as they’re just establishing that you’re potentially pretty cool and they really want to stick it in your ear (Yeah, I said ear.). But oops, I just did it again, Britney Fucking Spears style. And the guys who spaz, the hypocrites who are allowed to do their version of crazy while I swallow it and stick around? They should probably grow a little. I don’t even want to say “grow up”, because this isn’t something that necessarily comes with age. It just comes with life and realizing that the low-hanging fruit isn’t all that stimulating-- it’s actually pretty boring. And sometimes you gotta take some weirdness to get the juiciest peach higher up on the tree. 

So, it’s fun to fall down the rabbit hole. I want to have a bunch of moments where I feel like I can be free and open, and meet people who are interesting, open, anddddd can throw down and retain their confidence and not get swayed by some minor aspects of you because well, you’re a human, and you have a history, and you’re imperfect. But with that will inevitably come many men who peace after I drop a bag of my anxiety on their toes by accident. It feels sucky, but saying “that was a sucky thing” instead of “I must suck” took a long time, and I wish I had learned to do that earlier in my life. 

You don’t have to be perfect; you don’t have to meet his expectations. You need to meet yours. And if you’re a fun kind of crazy, go be your fucking fun brand of crazy, because that’s why you love yourself after all.