The Path from the Past
*** TRIGGER WARNING***
Also, this is personal and I speak only for myself in this posting.
New Years, but even in that, it’s a new New Years, since it’s the Lunar (Chinese) New Year. New Year, new home, new life, new everything. It almost wasn’t. At least, not for me. And where and what would J and the Kiddo be doing if that were that the case?
On top of my numerous surgeries and the statistics therein, I’ve twice written a suicide letter with the full intention of ending my own life. Even now, in writing that down and admitting to that outside of a therapist’s office is a hard thing. It fills me with shame, admitting that. Shame that I could think that, but also that I could leave Kiddo and J that way. Or my family.
I’ve been in and out of therapy my entire life, starting when I was a teen. Only, I couldn’t or wouldn’t be honest with the therapist. You can only get so far in that situation. There can be no healing without repair, but the key to repair (usually) is blunt honesty for a situation.
It’s hard to admit, especially at 15/16 that you were raped and sexually assaulted as a Freshman in school. And then bullied and ostracized because of that. And then, as you raise every red flag you can think of because you can’t find that word to say HELP ME or I WAS HURT or I WAS RAPED and those red flags are either ignored or told that’s it’s not that bad and you can’t leave or get away or change things to alleviate that.
As a late teen or early 20something, that was hard to deal with. Hard to reconcile. And then again 20 years later after life altering (and life saving) surgery that had me feeling similar amounts of shame and body disgust with myself. Only, the second time, I couldn’t just become a raging drug monster, I had a wife and kid to think about, but also, I was older and wiser and recognize that lashing out didn’t work in high school.
Obviously, I didn’t. Obviously, if I’m writing about this, it’s something that has been worked on and will continue to be worked on. I’m also, obviously, an external process person.
That darkness, however, is something you don’t forget. There is no light. No hope. No comfort. There is nothing. Pure void. What is death compared to that? At least death is movement, even if it’s the last movement, and that is better than the hopeless void of despair that you are living in. A dark that no light can penetrate or pierce.
The internal dialog, the unending monologue, and the torrent of self doubt and unanswerable questions. Why me? Are my medical problems related to this one act that then spiraled deeper and deeper? Was my colostomy due to those long ago actions? My cancer? Was my lifestyle caused by my trauma which caused the same? Or the heart condition? The drug problems and alcoholism? Did those cause the lung problems? The heart? The stomach?
And it never stops. It doesn’t end.
You wake up and it just got darker. Lonelier. Each breath takes an effort. And the voices get louder, the dark gets darker, the shame grows until Jack and his beanstalk are dwarfed.
Is there… Is there balm in Gilead. Tell me. Tell me, I implore.
Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore.
And there is never enough. Drugs, drink, sex, risk, speed, harm, hurt (both self and others)…. The only thing there is enough of is shame, regrets, despair, hopelessness. The only thing that drowns out the voices are allowing those voices to tell you how easy it will be and how you can finally have silence, but you just need to listen and watch. And the voices go quiet and all you can see is the way out. The answer! Listening to the voices quieted the voices who have shown you the answer.
I would have destroyed J and probably the Kiddo as well. My death leading to theirs as well? This gives the voices more ammo. What a worthless person you are, how can you care for these people you want to destroy, you drag them down alive; That might be the same dead, but alive you CERTAINLY drag them down. So take your out or watch yourself slowly drown them in your darkness and fear and inability to even advocate for yourself.
Once you find a way past that, then the real fun starts.
You get to find a way to try to heal. You talk about it. You reopen wounds that are decades old. Rancid, rotted, festering wounds that are nausea inducing that need to be faced head on. You need to talk about those things. You need to accept them. You need to push the voices away. You need to know you are good, even in all the bad.
You get to justify the bad. It’s not my fault. You’re just a product of your life and situation.
But, what about my brother’s broken hand and finger? The girls I abused? The guys I fought? The drugs I pushed on others? On myself?
Oh, I was angry and confused and hurting. She made her own bad choices and could have left at any time, you were both young, it's not like you held her at knife or gun point like happened to you.
And even that is all bullshit as well.
I was a monster. I hurt people. Badly. Threw away relationships without care or thought.
But, if I can’t change what happened to me, what broke me, what brought that darkness, then I can’t change who and what I was. I need to just accept that. I’ve apologized to those I could in every way I could imagine. I can’t change how they feel. I can only accept and move forward. Focusing on what I can control.
Suddenly there is a pinpoint of light. Kiddo. J. Before that, it was a hope for the future and a girl named Rachel.
And I’ve made it. At least, I’ve made it 44 years. To Bangkok. I’ve been public about my meds, my want and seeking therapy, the struggle that is mental health. Twenty years from now, I may feel all these feelings again. I can’t say. All I know is that I need to be vigilant and honest with myself.
Because it’s ok to hurt and be afraid. It’s ok to have emotions and feelings. But, I must be the master of those feelings, not in service of them.
I’ve seen bad. I’ve been bad. I’ve journeyed to my personal hell and back. I’ve been others personal hell.
There is nothing that can or will ever change that.
Only I can change. And I have. And I continue to do so. Understanding that we are not static people in a static place, but ever changing people, constantly adapting to the life situation that is ever changing.
I will continue. Maybe that is my fate. Maybe it is a destiny. Maybe it is because I am strong enough to overcome my past and break through to my future. Maybe it’s all just luck or chance. If I was smart enough to know that, I would have taken my rightful place as a god a long time ago.
Everyday has a tomorrow. One of these days, tomorrow won’t include me. But I’m determined that my last today won’t be tomorrow and certainly won’t be by my own hand. I’m stronger admitting that I’m weak. I’m tougher admitting I’ve been hurt. I’m better knowing I’ve been worse.
As time passes, things change every day
But scars still remaining the same
I’ve got my scars from walking through those flames and battling those battles. Those scars serve to remind me, not bind me, like they have in the past. I no longer have cancer in my bones. I no longer have a colostomy. But I have those scars. Mentally, I have scars as well. Like my physical scars, they serve to remind me… Most importantly that I have won those battles.
And here is the most important thing. Here’s the thing most people can’t or won’t admit. Certainly very very few men.
I AM A SEXUAL ASSAULT SURVIVOR.
And that doesn’t make me special. That makes me… Me! Living in Thailand. With my wonderful wife. My even better Kiddo. Learning and experiencing. Growing and accepting. Teaching, most importantly, teaching myself; to be stronger. The Kiddo to know how to speak for herself. And now all of you….
The past can’t change itself, but we can’t let it change our today. The past is the path we walked to get here. It shapes us. It can’t shape our next steps unless we let it.
Let’s go, J. Let’s go, Kiddo. Hand in hand in hand. You are both my light and my loves and I want to see today and tomorrow with you both. Forever.
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