Perpetually Healing

Justice is Coming Part 1

2022-09-27T19:45:00.005-06:00

Justice is Coming

(Part 1)

These last few years, I have silently begun to work on myself, to regain my humanity from the angry animal I once was. I have begun to ask myself, "how can I put the rage, the triggers, the flashbacks and all that comes with it to the side, and find out what it means to be a normal human? What does it mean to be someone other than a bleeding hulk of fleshy fury?" These last few years, I have become less focused on the details of the abuse and what circumstances caused me to be prey. As a result, I have been able to calm down. I think I know all I care to know. It was abuse, it was purely sexual, it was rape. it was ritualistic, religious and evil. It took place over several years. Wayne Pendelton did not feel remorse for his actions and New Creation Church was complicit in allowing this to occur. The final thing I have learned is that it wasn't just once. It wasn't just a few times, it was week after week, month after month, year after year, totaling at least (by my calculations) over ONE HUNDRED TIMES!!

I now know that it was the refusal of my mother to guide me into adulthood that caused the abuse to occur. It was her refusal to listen, to advise, to form a relationship with me during my childhood. It was her fear that without a male rolemodel in my life that I would become what she viewed as a homosexual abomination and I would be damned to eternal hell. This opened the door for the monster behind the aluminum curtain to use his power and influence against me.

These revelations are difficult to know, and to be sure, it has taken me a very long time to calm down. Rage was my driving emotion. Rage at the act, rage at the neglect of those who promised and failed to care for me, rage at those who promised and failed to protect me. Rage at my biological family, my church family, and the leadership that looked the other way as I walked into the building, walked past the offices and into AFB's clutches.

I have written about some of these times here in gory detail, and how I have tried to cope with each new detail, each new sensation and each shocking recovered memory. These things should never have happened! I can only say that if I could forget the whole thing and go back to amnesia, block it all out of my memory I would do it in less than a heartbeat.

It wasn't just me that suffered these last few years as I learned of the horror of my abuse. My family suffered as well; my wife, my children, my relationships with others and more that I may not even be able to name. They suffered as I tried to heal, as I tried to comprehend the incomprehensible. They suffered as I felt the ghostly body memories, they suffered as I remembered it over and over during dinner, at the movies, at the park or driving to school. They got the sharpness of my confusion and I deeply regret my behavior. I wish that I could have coped differently, behaved more gently and lovingly toward them. I only hope that one day I will forgive myself as they have forgiven me.

There is one thing missing, one thing that I cannot let go of. It is a pang that never ends. It is a constant yearning that I cannot find relief with anything that I have tried. My soul longs for it, like an emaciated junkie craves his next fix. Everyday, I wake up with the same desperate heart longing. It is an emptiness and aching knowing that this one desire is just out of reach. I desire justice.

The search for Justice

In the beginning of my journey, after the first recovered memory, way back in 2011, I went into the garage where I spent that month reading about love in the book of John. I made a call to the Longmont Police to report the crime of sexual abuse by AFB. They told me at the time that because of the Statute of Limitations (SOL) I would be unable to file a report and that the case was closed. They told me that I had seven years from the time of the abuse to file a report. It was devastating to find out that crimes like this have an expiration date. I was infuriated that AFB would never serve time in prison for what he did to me.

I even tried the "Christian" thing to do and wrote a letter to him, his church, and my former pastor in Colorado Springs to set up a meeting of reconciliation. I provided my information, the police reports and news articles about other victims to substantiate my claim. AFB confirmed that it was him. My pastor and his pastor were overwhelmed by the grace of the actions, but ultimately, his pastor's church board wouldn't allow it because there was too much liability. Not even a "Christian" resolution - what I was supposed to do - would result in closure. No justice. Still thirsty.

Years later, I tried for a civil suit against AFB, I reasoned that if I couldn't pursue criminal charges against him that I would try to sue, take him for everything he had, his car, his house and his career. I would try for something to quell the dry-mouthed thirst for justice. I had no idea where to search. Perhaps one of the ambulance chasers that advertised on TV would take the case. Someone like Frank Azar, one of the Sawoya team or even Saul Goodman.

One day, while scrolling through social media, I clicked on an advertisement that promised to bring civil restitution to survivors. It was a large firm based in Texas. I sent them a request for more information and after a few exchanges of email, they agreed to take my case. Painstakingly and painfully I described my story and the details of the abuse, they promised to get back to me after they compiled a case. I was hopeful that my time had come.

Months later, I received an email. My heart leapt for joy as I selected the message and opened the attachment. It was not the news I was hoping for. The law firm informed me that due to the SOL, there was nothing that they could do for me. They told me that the time frame for civil suits in my state was ten years from the crime. Since it was at least thirty years from the crime there was nothing they could do. They thanked me for my time and wished me luck.

I was broken. It felt like the justice system was biased against survivors and favored the powerful. There was no justice for Joel, no justice for survivors, no justice for children. There was only pain and loss. I felt small and unimportant. I felt unseen and unheard, just like when I was growing up after my father died. Invisible.

After that, the longing in my heart only got worse. There was nothing that could be done. I needed justice, yet, anything I tried to do legally was denied. I had run out of options. I couldn't report the crime because of the SOL. I couldn't sue because of the SOL. The Statute of Limitations was limiting my ability to find peace. My only remaining choice was to do something outside of the boundaries of the law. I thought about my next steps. I wanted to burn his house down, slash his tires and his neck with the same knife. Destroy him like he destroyed me. Walk into his church and cry, "That man, raped me! He is a monster and deserves the hangman's noose along with the endless torture of hellfire and burning sulpher!"

As I considered my choices of violence or humiliation, patience or peace, I thought over the following weeks about the possible consequences of my next actions. Would I know vengeance? would I be satisfied as his blood dripped off my hands and into a large pool on the floor? Would the screams of his family pleading for mercy be enough? Would I have the courage to go through with it? I knew that if I listened to the rage and bloodlust in my heart that I would immediately turn myself in and confess to my crimes of hate. If I did that, I knew that I would never see my family again. I would never know the comfort of lying on the couch and watching a car show on TV. I would never be able to kiss my wife and children. I would never know freedom. I questioned, "Was malice worth the cost?"

I felt that if I went through with it, with how unfair it was that the justice system would prosecute me and not AFB , the price of violently entering the criminal justice system myself, would be simply too high. Not only would I destroy my life, which, by my estimation, was already destroyed, that jail time meant nothing to me. I would destroy the lives of everyone around me and that was just unacceptable. It was the love of my family, my wife and children, that prevented me. Love prevented me. I chose patience. I was going to wait until I was given an opportunity to try again.

Years later, in August of 2021, another attorney promising compensation (justice) for survivors of sexual abuse. I immediately sent him an email inquiring if he could help me. After a few days, he replied back telling me that in the state of Colorado the SOL would end in 2022. That would provide a "lookback" period for victims of past crimes to make civil suits. We only have a year to act. It was now. Now I needed to seek justice. We met and reviewed my case. He said something profound to me. This was not just the evil act of the individual, but the negligence of the church where all of the abuse occurred. We may not be able to incarcerate Wayne Pendleton. We are going to sue the church.

iamnotbubba

Remember?

2020-08-23T14:14:00.008-06:00

I miss normalcy. Remember? The time before the amnesia lost its power. Oh how I miss that. The blessed innocence that kept the forgetting from remembering. The blessed innocence that was a comforting hypnosis that nothing horrible was done. No monsters. No abusers. No pain, anguish or fear.

I miss normalcy. Remember? The time before the forgetting lost its power. The times when I worshiped my pastor like he was the anointed spokesman from God himself. The times when I learned about God's love and His desire that good things happen for me. The times when my pastor shared communion with me and I felt the love and soft glowing light of the divine.

I miss normalcy. Remember? The time before the forgetting lost its power. The ignorant happiness that evangelical churches were safe and predators only lurked behind the pomp and fancy robes of the Catholic faith. The altar boys the only ones being raped by men claiming God's authority.

I miss normalcy. Remember? The time before the forgetting lost its power. When she chattered about everything and nothing all day. When she was a just a liar and a thief. I couldn't remember the true depths of her depravity and selfishness.

I miss normalcy. Remember? The time before the forgetting lost its power. When, bad things happened to others. When the statistics of 1 in 6 boys have been sexually assaulted, I was the five and not the one. When the stories of broken souls reborn applied to inspiring others. When the longing heartache of justice denied was felt by the others.

I miss normalcy. Remember? The time before the forgetting lost its power. The time before Pastors, Fathers, Mothers, Siblings, Boy Scout leaders, Teachers, Babysitters, Millionaires, Billionaires were all safe. They all protected the lives and innocence of children.

I miss normalcy. Remember? The time before the forgetting lost its power. It's all lost, the black void of missing timelines. I know it all. I know what happened. I know who did it and when. I even know the secrets that I haven't shared quite yet. The grief is still too new. There is nothing I can't remember.

I miss normalcy. Remember? The time before the amnesia lost its power. I must move forward, I must continue to heal. I must be Perpetually Healing. I have no choice. The burden of healing from something I didn't ask for weighs on me like a cold wet blanket full of mold and worms. I miss the time before, when all of this didn't happen.

But it did.

iamnotbubba

The Isolated

2020-05-06T21:13:00.003-06:00

So it really struck me today, the deep isolation of children around the world due to the COVID-19 virus. Experts say that predators like AFB look for children that are isolated from family, friends and schools. They look for children that are not connected to any social group in order to prey on them and use them for their own needs. I got to thinking today about my own experiences at Loveland Christian School. After my father died when I was eleven, I was taken out of public school where I had friends that I had known and hung out with for years, and put into a private school twenty miles north where I was completely alone from everything I knew. Although the school was very small, I was the only child in my class, I was the only person my age, I was the only one to start late.

I still remember the pattern my tears made on the raw wooden desk I was assigned to. I blankly stared at the lessons in front of me and wept for the life I once knew. It was up to me to motivate myself to do my work, to study, to pass the tests.

Now, I see my own children struggle with some of the same losses that I experienced long ago. My oldest daughter, Zoe, has come such a long way healing from the bullies in her schools in Florida, She has started to let friends into her heart and over time; she has become close to a very select few. Now with the world in quarantine, she constantly says that she wishes she could "Duct tape them together, so that they will never be apart."

My son Liam is another part of the same story. He struggles with the work, He looks at the screen where his assignments are and becomes overwhelmed to tears. He sees the total number of items in the list and tells himself that he will never get it done and that it's too hard. He feels alone in the fact that he is not at school with his friends to laugh and play with, and his teacher to motivate and inspire him.

As the weeks go by during this quarantine, I am proud to see them cope and talk to friends online or hang out at a social distance. Yet, I worry that it is not enough, that the virus will take so long to fade into memory that like most long distance relationships the close bond they once felt will slowly disappear into ambivalence. I worry as that happens their vulnerability to predators will go up. I cannot let that happen, I will not let that happen.

As I write this, I cannot help but worry about the countless children all over the world, isolated, alone in apartments, houses, or shelters. Their parents are lost in worry about the next meal, a job or whether a loved one might die of the pandemic. Children struggling to find meaning and purpose. Children struggling to find answers in study, Children struggling to find a place to hide from a raging or lust-filled parent or caretaker.

It overwhelms me as I think of this. I cannot bear to think that children could be abused this way, at home, where things should be safe and loving. A place to be free to be true to themselves and discover what life is about.

I am not sure what my point is by writing this. I just want all children to feel safe, to feel free to discover and play, to become who they want to be. I suppose if I cannot save them all, I can save one.

Please stay safe everyone. We will get through this together.

iamnotbubba

Perpetually Healing (49)

2020-02-24T15:54:00.000-07:00

My heart is breaking, bleeding and racing out of control, I am in pain and the tormentor is as familiar as my own battered flesh. My heart is breaking and I am so very over it. I want to live a normal life. A normal life, what the fuck is that? Everybody has pain and trauma they tell me. Everyone hurts, that's why there are so many psychologists, counselors, and antidepressants.

But MY HEART is breaking. I can't stand the pain anymore. The scars are overlapping and my wrinkled gnarled heart is no longer recognizable as the beautiful and useful organ it once was. God gives you only what He thinks you can handle. The fuck does that mean? He? God? The divine entity of perfect love and omnipotence? God gave me this pain? Fuck that, God is a complete asshole. Fuck you for suggesting that.

My heart is pulsing in rage and confusion. I don't know what to do. I want to hide under the table in fear like a small child fearing the punishment of a parent that just discovered crayon drawings on the kitchen wall. Yet at the same time I wish I had the courage to scream on the highest mountaintops, a deafening YOP YOP! He hurt me! My pain is real! YOP YOP! It hurts and it is not going away! Still I cower like a coward, I don't write. I don't blog, I don't tell my story. My pain is my own and I won't share its shame.

My heart is weak and diseased; it has been broken too many times. There is no recovering from the damage done. Nothing will cure the pain I feel. I feel the pain over and over. I claw at my flesh to feel a different sensation but there is no respite. The familiar comes back to torture my soul. I bleed, I bleed, I bleed no more blood to bleed. I am lethargic and dying, lying on the carpet a pool of crimson surrounds me.

My heart beats its last, I reach out, one last effort, pain my only companion.

My heart heals and I feel joy again. I feel the love of my family. The pain that was such a constant and overwhelming presence a few weeks ago, fades into a distant mist of memory. Hugs and kisses from my children and spouse keep me present in the moment and I am alive.

My heart gladly pumps its life sustaining elixir. They love me and it is all worth it. Warm light from the yellow sun lightens and energizes my being. Let's go play at the park. Let's go explore our world, wiggle our toes in the cold glacier streams. Let's plant flowers in the garden and dedicate its fragrant beauty to happiness and joy. Let's snuggle close and watch a stupid movie while the thunder of a summer storm crashes outside.

My heart is light and glad. The world is all right and I am content and safe. I can't imagine life any other way. I close my eyes at the end of the day excited to skip and play the next day, sounds of my childrens' giggles echoing in my ears.

My heart is broken. The unknown, unspoken nightmares kept me from resting. I am angry and perplexed. It was such a good day yesterday. What could have possibly triggered me? Fuck it, I've played this game before; there is no good ending. Just more memories of my past. More pain. No good medicine to ease the discomfort.

My heart is fractured, I am raging and out of control. JUMPING SCREAMING, JUMPING SCREAMING! Got to calm down, write, exercise, clean, got to do something to calm the spirit inside me that wants to burn the whole place down.

My heart is pumping fast, like a racehorse on too many steroids. This rage is wearing on my body and I sit and stare, no desire for healthy alternatives. I am waiting for the pain to fade, yet it is familiar and almost comforting. I plaster on a smile and greet my children at the door as they walk home from school. I tell them that I am happy they are home. I am not happy. The familial bliss I felt has long been forgotten. Once again, I pick up the phone, "I need help," I tell the voice on the other end of the line. They answer, "Ok, Joel. We can help. Tell me what's going on?"

The circle is neverending.

There is no cure.

It is perpetual.

I am still healing.

Iamnotbubba

The Sunday Me (48)

2019-08-28T20:21:00.000-06:00

Sunday Me

I fucking hate Sundays. One day out of every seven days of the week, four days of every month, 52 days every year for the past 32 years, a total of 1,662 days of my life that is a constant reminder of the pain of my childhood. Like Chuck Todd always says at the end of his show, "If it's Sunday, it's Meet the Press." For me, "If it's Sunday, I am angry and in pain." It's been that way for the last 32 years, and I am sure it will be that way for the next.

Dear reader, please indulge me as I start from the beginning and and try to describe, and perhaps process, why each week is so painful.

My parents were both Christian God-loving people. We attended our local Assemblies of God church each Sunday morning and evening. Each Wednesday evening we were there. Holidays, like Christmas, Easter, and the 4th of July were of the utmost importance in our life. We were heavily involved in children's activities. My father and I were active in Royal Rangers (A Christian version of the Boy Scouts) and my mother and sister in Prims (also a Christian version of the Girl Scouts).

During those times we were happy and proud to be a part of our Assemblies of God church. Our Pastor, James Miller, spoke passionately about the Bible and masterfully taught the principles found inside. To my recollection, he was well respected in the church and in our small town of Longmont, Colorado.

Everything was normal, happy, safe, comfortable, and predictable. Sunday mornings were spent in the children's wing of the church. We sang songs like "Jesus Loves Me," or "This Little Light of Mine. We even sang my mother's favorite, "This is the Day the Lord Hath Made." I remember fondly that as a child she would wake me up singing that song and usher me down stairs where breakfast was made.

After a few songs, we would split up by age and learn a Bible story, like how a tax collector named Zaccheaus climbed a tree to get a better look at Jesus through the crowd. Or, how Noah built a giant boat and rescued his family before the flood came. After that, we would do a craft based on the story we had just learned. By then the adult church was over and it was time to go home. Slacks, shirt, clip-on tie, muddy black shoes. Routine, safe, and all encompassing.

Sunday nights were spent in adult church. My father, mother, sister, and I would sit together and sing songs from a hymnal and then listen to our beloved Pastor Miller teach from the Bible. At the time I found this incredibly boring and I would try and stay quiet while picking out shapes in the rock wall behind the platform. Other times I was not successful in being quiet and my father would take me outside and discipline me. I didn't understand everything, but I knew the message was important and that I should want to understand what was going on.

Sunday nights were also for prayer and baptisms. I was baptized on a Sunday night, because as I understood it, baptism was the next step after giving your life to Jesus. It was a truly special experience. The entire church watched as the Pastor dunked me into a pool of water. It was described as an outward demonstration of the choice I had made a few Sunday mornings earlier. I was ten years old. When I emerged from the water I truly felt like the church and God had accepted me. God would hear my prayers.

Throughout the year if a member of the church became sick, or were experiencing hardship of some kind, the church would take time to gather around that person and pray for them. After my father became ill with pancreatic cancer, the elders of the church called him to the front so that they could pray. Dozens of men and women surrounded him and began praying. I heard shouts of "BE HEALED IN JESUS NAME!" intermingled with the mumblings of prayer. I also prayed fervently, wishing nothing more than for the same healing everyone expected for my father. Unfortunately, a few months later, Pastor Miller and all the elders and members of the church attended my father's funeral. I was handed a carefully folded American flag commemorating his service in the Air Force. I didn't understand why the prayers didn't work when God had accepted me. I must have done something wrong or disappointed Him in some way.

Wednesdays were my favorite. As the church expanded during the early 1980's, they began purchasing homes in the surrounding neighborhood. The boys group I was part of, The Royal Rangers, would gather in these homes and we would learn about knot tying, gun and knife safety, how to camp and survive in the wilderness. We also had a Bible story or a memory verse that we had to memorize by next week. I continued to go because I felt connected to my dad and I thought I would be closer to God.

During the summer months we would go camping somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, or on the plains east of town. There were several campouts during the summer, The longest of which was a 5 day "Pow-Wow" where all of the Royal Ranger Outposts from all of the Assemblies of God churches in Colorado would gather for competitions like fire starting, relay races, compass courses and first aid during the day. Then at night, we would gather around a huge bonfire. The leaders would dress up in frontiersman style clothing and tell stories of how the west was won, and at the same time relating it to a biblical principle. It was during those nights I was the happiest. I loved watching the sparks rise from the wood pile and flames jump up to meet the starry sky above. I never felt more connected to my church, my God, my friends, and myself than in those moments.

I'll never forget, there was one night before the bonfire began when I asked the leaders if they would pray for my father because he was at home, too sick to be there. I knew all of the leaders respected my father because of his involvement in the Royal Rangers over the last 10 years. They called me down to the front where the fire was about to be lit. Almost 100 men and boys gathered around me and prayed that my dad would recover, and they would see him the next year. After they finished praying, I knew God had healed him and I would go home the next day and see him happy and healthy like before.

It was September that year that my father died. God failed to answer my prayers, or was it that I had failed my father because I didn't pray hard enough. Perhaps it was neither of those things. I was just eleven years old.

We continued going to church every Sunday, and every Wednesday after dad died. After all, that's what you do on Sundays. In the weeks following the funeral, I was bombarded with messages of condolence and encouragement from the church members trying to help ease the suffering of a little boy.

"You are the man of the house now," they would say

"The Bible says to take care of the widow. That's your job now Joel."

"Are you going to go out and get a job and take care of your mom?" they would joke. It wasn't a joke to me. I took those gibes seriously.

I was confused, and depressed. What was I going to do now? The minimum age for employment was 16. I was too young for a job. I tried mowing lawns, but that was only a few dollars a week. As my mother told me over and over, she needed at least ten dollars an hour to survive. The money I earned wasn't going to cut it. My mother didn't help me realize that I was just a boy and that I didn't need to be a man. She never told me it was okay to grieve. She never let me just be a kid. She looked to me to fill the shoes of a man that was a legend to all of us, perfect in every way. I was expected to fill her emotional void, to be her new friend and companion.

After services on Sunday, my mother would tell me that since she was a widow, that the church was supposed to take care of her. She worried that since the church wasn't fulfilling God's direction according to the book of Exodus, Deuteronomy and First Timothy, it fell upon me to take care of her. I was going to have to become her substitute husband, minus the intimacy. It was a role that I begrudgingly acquiesced to fulfilling.

For years we continued going to church on Sundays. Each week I would put on my church clothes--slacks, shirt, black shoes and a leather tie. We went to Village Inn or ate roast beef afterwards. And then our beloved Pastor Miller unexpectedly died. He was the anchor of the church community, providing a safe haven and spiritual leadership for us. He was kind and truly loved his flock. For months afterward, the church struggled to find its way until they agreed upon someone who had years before been the youth pastor and was later moved to Indiana to lead a church there.

The first Sunday evening as pastor, AFB began teaching about loyalty and being united with church leadership. I remember watching him pace the aisles looking at each and every person in attendance. He walked and talked that evening for a very long time, until he came to where I was sitting with my family. He called me over to him. I stood up and walked to where he was standing. I really wasn't sure what was happening because I wasn't listening to a word he was saying. I had tuned out a long time ago. I was 15 years old at the time.

I snapped to attention as he placed his hand on me and began to pray over me. He prayed that I would forgive God for taking my father away from me. I didn't even know how he knew about my father because he wasn't a part of the church when it happened. It perplexed me. I wasn't mad at God at all. I had moved on. I missed my father to be sure. I thought maybe the spirit of God had told him. I was in awe that the new man of God would take the time to single me out and give me a word straight from God. I was 15 years old and more concerned about dating girls than getting a word from God. It struck me as odd that God would reopen a closed wound.

Sundays and Wednesdays, week after week, month after month, year after year. Slacks, shirt, black shoes, leather tie, Village Inn or roast beef. It was during this leadership transition that I grew into my mid and late teenage years, and I began to hate going to church. I began to hate and distrust anything Christian. My mother and I would drive to church together. She would go and find a seat ,and I would slip out an opposite door and walk to the park across the street where my friend was waiting. We would smoke cigarettes and talk about how stupid church was. Even though she was dating my best friend, I really loved our friendship and secretly hoped that she would fall in love with me instead of him.

On the way home each week, my mother would openly worry that I needed a male role model. She thought that she couldn't raise a boy, and that I needed a man to raise me or else I would become effeminate, or worse, a homosexual. She wanted me to go to heaven, and according to First Corinthians 6, I wouldn't inherit the Kingdom of God if I were gay. We would pray together in the car that God would bring me a male role model. I didn't know what I needed, but I had no reason not to trust my mother. All I knew was that the church had become devoid of the safety and security that cradled my childhood.

After I graduated High School I felt aimless. I didn't know what I wanted to do. So, I took a year off from school and worked at the local gas station full time. I still went to church. It was just what we did on Sundays. Slacks, shirt, black shoes, leather tie, Village Inn or roast beef afterwards. Another dear friend worked at Village Inn and I enjoyed seeing her there whenever I could.

In 1990, my mother had found her dream job working as an executive assistant in a large church outside of Columbus, Ohio. She decided that she was moving there, and I was going with her. I hoped that the change of scenery would help me get over my aimlessness. Maybe I would choose a career path and begin enjoying going to church again. I would begin trusting Christians again. I would quit smoking and become the man my mother wanted me to be.

We packed the house in Longmont and drove the 1500 miles to our new home in Groveport, Ohio.

The Ohio church was huge. It was bigger than I had ever seen, with bright television lights everywhere, loud music, and thousands of people in attendance each week. It was something I had never experienced before. Our quiet Assemblies of God church was nothing like this. It was a well orchestrated event that let emotions be on display, and God was the star. The level of professional production and strict adherence to unspoken rules was like watching a Hollywood movie. The truly spiritual and elite people of the church were clearly identified and held in the highest regard. They were to be respected and held up as the standard that the rest of us were meant to live up to.

It was still stupid, only louder. I missed my friend that I could smoke with. I missed my friend that worked at the Village Inn. I missed my best friend that I grew up with since we were babies. He was getting married to the girl I hung out with in the park across the street. Sunday after Sunday, slacks, shirt, black shoes, polyester tie, Perkins or roast beef afterwards. Time passed and I began to forget my childhood friends. I began to forget my childhood. All I had remaining was church on Sunday, slacks, shirt, black shoes, Perkins or roast beef afterward.

I started going to community college after a failed attempt at breaking into the radio industry. Three years in community college taught me that I was no good at math and it was time to try something else. I decided to try Bible College. All of the men I knew and respected in my life were Christian God-loving men. My mother told me that my father wanted me to go to Oral Roberts University in Oklahoma, but World Harvest Bible College was good enough. She thought he would approve. Even though the college was just formed a few years before, it was fully accredited. Years later we found out that It was not accredited in any way.

The amnesia was complete, I began enjoying going to church again, I had quit smoking, I began trusting Christians, and Sundays were becoming less of a chore. Slacks, shirt, black shoes, silk tie, Olive Garden or roast beef afterwards.

In the next three years, I learned everything I could about the Bible. I loved going to school everyday. I read and studied its pages from cover to cover. I read and studied everything I could. It was a treasured time in my life that I do not regret. I wanted to be part of the elite, the spiritual leader that my mother and the ghost of my father would be proud of. I wanted to be a pastor, to lead people to the Jesus I was now falling in love with. But, I didn't really like people.

One day after classes, I began studying about communion. First Corrinthians 11:17. I was sitting at the kitchen table, my Bible and my class notes in front of me, something happened that I could not explain. I began to feel aroused. Out of absolutely nowhere, my penis became fully erect so much that I couldn't ignore it. Afterwards, I felt shame and disgust with myself. Masturbation was something I had struggled controlling. I had thought it was a sinful practice and everytime I needed to repent and resolve to never touch myself again. I felt that I had disgusted God and that He would never anoint or bless my ministry if I did that again. I believed that I would never be a pastor, never be like the men I listened to preach the gospel. I so desperately wanted to be like them; they were my male role models. Rod Parsley, Tom Bender, Oral Roberts, Lester Sumrall, even AFB. I emulated them. I wanted to be them. If I masturbated, then I would fail at what God had destined me to be. I believed that the people I was destined to help would never know Jesus, and be cast into hell forever because I didn't have the willpower to stop cumming into my hand.

After that day, Sundays became difficult, no matter how hard I tried to cover up my anxiety, rage and uncontrolled sexual desire. It was always there. I tried to keep my eyes on the ground so that I did not show my lascivious gaze. I couldn't control where my eyes looked if I raised my head. I would be always searching for a glimpse of something so that I could rush home and sin into a sock. Slacks, shirt, black shoes, silk tie, blood intermixed with cum in hand, shame and dry roast beef afterwards.

I couldn't stop, and I felt like a failure. I would repent on Monday, only to do it again a few hours later. I could never wait until next Sunday. What was it about Sundays that made me feel so horrible? What was it about Sundays that made me feel so dirty, shameful, sexual, out of control, concupiscent, orgasmic and angry. Even back then, while going to Bible school, learning to preach and minister the gospel, I wanted to skip Sunday and go right into Monday because of the pain and confusion I felt.

I thought that after I graduated I would get better. I thought that after I became ordained, I would get better. In 1995 I graduated from Bible College and was ordained to minister. That didn't help. I was still out of control and God was not answering my prayers. I tried my best to cover up my shame with piety and service. If I could serve the church more, perhaps I could be a better person.

I became a leader in the church. I visited people in the hospital and prayed over them. I stood at the platform and prayed for people every Sunday. I taught the Bible on Sunday nights to the boys who were a part of the Royal Rangers. Nothing was helping. I was helping others and I was sinking deeper into desperation.

Searching for answers while reading the Bible one day, a scripture began rolling into my head that would ultimately cure me of my problem. Mathew 5:30 "And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and cast it from you; for it is more profitable for you that one of your members perish, than for your whole body to be cast into hell."

I began thinking that if I cut off my penis and gouged out my eyes that I would be worthy of God and He would finally bless me and the ministry I was trying to develop. I had seen God bless others in my class. I was sad and disappointed that God was not blessing me. I began thinking that if I followed the directions given by the words of Jesus, if I could just gain the courage to remove the sinful body parts, God would finally love me and bless me.

That only made it worse, I didn't have the courage to remove a body part (thankfully). I needed to find another way. If I could just grit my teeth and pray more, serve more, wear a more expensive suit, God would love me enough to help with my sinful addiction. Suit, silk tie, cordovan shoes, Bob Evans or roast beef afterwards.

I married my wife just before Camp Meeting. it was love at first sight. I knew she was the one when while, on our first date, driving from Columbus to Millersburg Ohio, she quietly looked out the window at the trees going by. She didn't talk at me. She was just okay being in my presence. When we did talk, it was insightful and fun. She laughed at my jokes. She didn't know my struggle.

We decided that we were being led by God to plant a church in Las Vegas, Nevada. After we moved there, we found a home church, and I began praying about starting a church. We were going to call it "Judah Triumphant Tabernacle." It lasted three weeks. I failed God, or God failed me. I wasn't sure which. If only I liked people more, if only I wasn't so sinful, if only that strip club didn't exist that tempted me so much, if only porn wasn't so awesome.

Sunday after Sunday. year after year, the same struggle. We had moved back to Colorado and then back to Colorado Springs. We became youth pastors at a small Assemblies of God church east of town. I thought now God was going to heal me. He was blessing my ministry. I was teaching every week. I was respected and loved by the people I pastored. Eyes down, FUCK! it's not working! Don't look! I can't control my eyes. Any other day of the week, I was fine. It was Sunday specifically that I couldn't control my gaze. We attended that church for several years, for two years we were pastors. Suit, silk tie, brown shoes, tuna salad sandwiches or baked chicken afterwards. The instability I felt was becoming more and more noticeable. I was trying my hardest to keep everything together.

Shortly after we adopted our first daughter, I lost my job. It was one that I really enjoyed and to this day I consider the people I worked with, friends. I had a history of losing a job, and then losing months at a time staring at a computer endlessly searching for porn on the internet. I was determined that I was not going to do that this time, so I sought prayer and counseling from the associate pastor. Once again, God failed to answer my prayer, or I failed to have enough willpower. I am not sure which.

Some time later, we left that church and began attending another independent church nearby. The AG pastor saw that I was spiralling, but I needed to keep prying eyes at bay. I was becoming unstable and angry to the point that my wife was wanting to leave me. Please read Emotional Hostage. I was determined to find the solution to this pattern of behavior and sought help from the pastor of our new church. Although as described in this blog and countless stories illustrated here, Sundays have always been difficult. I haven't shared these struggles because they have been centered around my religious upbringing. I have wanted to keep most of that part separate. I am realizing now that perhaps the two are not separate but a part of the same trauma.

The countless Sundays in this story after AFB returned to Longmont were all the same. Anger, hatred, confusion, lust out of control.

As Chuck Todd would say, "If it's Sunday, it's fight with your wife."

"If it's Sunday, it's out of control anxiety."

"If it's Sunday, it's obsess about porn."

"If it's Sunday, it's masturbate until its raw and bleeding."

"If it's Sunday, it's rage and make everyone feel small."

"If it's Sunday, it's self loathing and depression."

"If it's Sunday, it's wish it were over and I was dead."

To this very Sunday, the feelings of rage, confusion, and anxiety affect my core being. It affects my family. My children walk on eggshells around me on Sunday. My wife is unhappy. Yet, I try to reclaim the day and do something fun with the family. I am not always successful and I regret my behavior very much. I just don't know what to do. We haven't gone to church in years. I don't even feel safe when on the rare occasion my family tries to attend. I have banned all talk of church or religious tradition in my home, unless I am trying to prove a point to an online "Christian" than no longer demonstrates Christian values. Everything God related repulses me. My family comply with my wishes, but nothing, not even this, stops Sunday from coming.

It all started on a Sunday, when AFB picked me out of a crowd because I was vulnerable and alone. I was destroyed on that Sunday. I am forever a new person because of Sunday. I need to destroy Sunday. It's not who I am or who I want to be. The Sunday me.

iamnotbubba

Finding Me (47)

2019-05-06T12:27:00.001-06:00

Finding Me (47)

I still sometimes struggle with the reality of my abuse. I used to think that if I don't remember every little detail, then it didn't happen. Or, if I am not still angry about it, then I am overblowing its effect on me. If I am not triggered and blowing up in a fit of rage at every little thing I see on TV that reminds me of what happened, then it truly didn't happen. It’s just no longer the case. It did happen. I was abused. Life has continued.

After the flashback in Tampa on our way to Homestead Florida, life continued. It had to, we needed to resume our journey to our new lives in the tropics. I was apprehensive about our new place. After all, even though we had flown out a few weeks before to look at houses, we had never seen the house that we were signing the lease on before, and we were trusting our realtors that they had found a good home for us to move into.

I forced an excited rendition of Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” and entered Interstate 75 south toward our new life at the end of the road.

Later that day, we arrived in Homestead, a small town just south of Miami, Florida, I was excited to begin the process of unpacking and getting the children enrolled in a nearby school. They still had a few more weeks in the school year, and I wanted them to miss as little time as possible. With the lease signed and the keys to our new life in hand, I began the complicated tasks of enrolling, and unpacking, and learning to navigate a new city, and a new culture, and a new language and, and, and, and, and it all was very overwhelming. We quickly discovered that South Florida was in no ways like Colorado. I had to keep reminding myself and the family that, just because it’s different, does not mean it is better or worse. It is just different. I sometimes became frustrated with the amount of paperwork needed to enroll my kids in the school nearby. I kept reminding myself, “One thing at a time, then, there are no more things left.”

Finally, with the house was unpacked, the children enrolled in school, I was able to stop and look at my surroundings. I was thoroughly enjoying life in Florida. I loved waking up each morning to the sound of Blue Jays outside my window. I loved the strange alien forms of each type of palm tree, the way the seed pods grew, or the way the palm fronds grow straight up the middle of the trunk like a fresh stalk of grass. Living the majority of my life in colder climates, I really had never seen vegetation like this before. I took each day that I could see a palm tree a visual reminder that I was not in Colorado anymore. It was a reminder that I could be whoever, and whatever I wanted to be. I took the palm tree as a visual cue that I was no longer the small, timid boy in Colorado that was abused, or the silent substitute husband that was constantly reminded to be more like my father. I truly could become iamnotbubba, or more accurately, ME.

I won't lie, the cultural differences between Colorado and South Florida were extreme. It seemed as if everything took more effort than it should, and that it was virtually impossible to accomplish even the simplest of tasks correctly the first time. I tried genuinely to take everything in stride and repeat to myself over and over, “Just because it is different, doesn’t mean it is better or worse. It is just different.”

For the first few months, I was generally happy. I felt as if I had successfully put the issues of my mother away, and I was beginning to find out what a “normal,” or post trauma life might look like. I even wrote in my journal, “Is this what it is like to go from being a survivor to a thriver?” Each day I would drive my children to school, I would come home and drink coffee, read the news and then go someplace exotic like Key Largo, Islamorada Key, Biscayne National Park or Everglades National Park. I would sit on the shore, write in my journal and deeply breathe the salty ocean air. I enjoyed searching my smartphone to find out the names of birds I had never seen before, like the snow white Ibis with the curved orange beak or the jet black anhinga bird. Some days, I drove into the keys and I would discover a new bar and have a beer along with a Grouper fish sandwich. I loved traveling to different places looking at the ocean and wildlife. I was in awe of how vast and far-reaching the the ocean is. It gave me a calm sense of peace that allowed me to reflect and heal. I would go on “hunting expeditions” looking for alligators, crocodile, or the gentle sea cow manatee.

At least once a week, during summer vacation, I would take the children to a public park just south of Key Largo. They would swim, and I would write. “Today I feel. . . .”

As the summer wore on into late August, my mood began to change. I began to experience a new level of anxiety and anger that I hadn't felt in a very long time. At first, I focused all of my anxiety on the hurricanes that had lined up in the Caribbean and the Atlantic. I saw the devastation in Houston, Texas after Harvey hit. I became frightened that Miami would be next, and I began binge watching the local news hoping that the rest of the storms would travel into the colder waters of the North Atlantic and miss Florida entirely.

Sadly, on August 30th, 2017, a storm formed that would eventually cause my family and I to run to a safe evacuation location. As it grew into one of the fastest growing and most intense storms in recent history, I, like the rest of Florida, began making preparations to evacuate. We had to secure our homes, pack the necessary supplies and cover the windows with metal shutters for the storm’s strong winds, rain and storm surge. It seemed as if everyone knew that it was was going to hit, and that it was going to be bad.

By September 5th, my wife was traveling for her work, and I was alone with the children. A normal day in our family, yet a hurricane was coming, I needed to be strong, confident and fearless for them, but at the same time, I felt out of control, abandoned and alone. A storm with the ominous name of IRMA was coming and we all were going to die.

Along with all of my neighbors, I placed the provided steel shutters over all of the windows and loaded my car with food, blankets, and other emergency supplies. I watched the forecast models every hour hoping against all hope that IRMA was going to change course. It was headed straight for Miami. We were in the “mandatory” evacuation zone. We were close enough to danger that it was wise to evacuate and go north out of the path of the storm.

My wife’s company had a few empty dormitories available east of Tampa that were used to house migrant farm workers. We, and several of her staff, fled there. Amy and I helped the site staff make ready for the impending doom. Then, during the night the storms trajectory changed again it appeared like the Tampa area was going to suffer the worst of IRMA, and Homestead was going to be spared.

We had to evacuate again thanks to the change in the storm’s path. We decided to drive back to our house and ride out the fury there. IRMA made landfall as we entered the city limits of Miami. We were the only ones on the highway as we continued south at close to 100 miles per hour. As we arrived, the winds were already howling and the rain was beginning to fall. It was eery to drive along an abandoned highway that is normally bumper to bumper most times of the day.

The storm raged for several hours. The children and pets stayed in our closet in our room. We were blessed to have electricity throughout the storm--one of very few that did. It sounded like wild beasts scratching and gnawing at the windows and walls. The high pitched scream of the wind was like listening to a witch cackle and scream. We snuggled and sang songs, watched movies, and ate our “hurricane snacks” that we normally would not eat. There was little sleep that night.

IRMA passed, and all that was left was oppressive humidity, heat and downed trees everywhere. I began the work to clean up, help where I could, and try to bring normalcy back to our home. Weeks passed and normalcy did return. The kids went back to school, and I went back to . . . No, honestly I sat down. I didn't feel like leaving the house and exploring Florida anymore. I didn't want to go outside, I couldn't see the beauty around me to take pictures and put them up on Facebook. I was exhausted and depressed.

By October, a week had gone by and the only time I left the house was to pick the children up from school. Florida had lost its appeal. I had slipped back into my old habits of hibernating in a darkened room, staring at a computer screen and waiting for the pain to go away. Like always the pain only continued, the depression only intensified, the uncontrolled and racing thoughts became louder and louder. By November, I was nearly suicidal.

I had heard of an agency called Mujer. It was a place that helped all survivors of rape and abuse, as well as other community services. It was different from the Wings Foundation in Denver in that Mujer was a more inclusive agency that helped those from the initial crisis to court dates and prosecuting perpetrators to counseling the survivors as well as survivor led support groups. It was time to get help. I didn't like feeling this way anymore. It was a stark contrast to a few years ago when I didn't like feeling happy. Now, I didn't like feeling depressed.

I made the call and told the woman on the other end of the line that I wanted to make this Christmas season without being suicidal. She agreed that this was a good idea and that I needed to come in to the office and complete an intake. I was assigned a counselor and scheduled my first appointment.

It really was very confusing to me. I was in paradise. I was a few short miles from Key Largo, a place so beautiful that the “Beach Boys” sang a song about it. Nobody ever sang a song about East Denver, or the high plains of Colorado. Why was I feeling this way?

After my first counseling session, my wife asked me about it.

“She is young,” I replied. “I am not sure if she has the experience to deal with an old guy like me.”

“Perhaps she will have a fresh perspective that you hadn't thought of before. I think you should stick it out.”

The next week I came back to see her. Then the week after that, and the week after that. I kept thinking that she was too young to understand what I was going through. Then, at the survivor led support group I was also attending, I had a breakthrough.

There was a woman there that described her various experiences as “rape.” She was a survivor like none I had ever seen before. She was ok with using the “R” - word, whereas I always tried to describe what I went through as “things escalated,” or “it got bad from there,” or “My pastor was a monster.” I have used a countless words to describe the act of forced sodomy. Most of which you can find here in this blog. But the word “rape,” that was something that just couldn't leave my mouth as a word I was comfortable with.

The night of that group meeting I wrote this poem,

The R-Word

I just said the R-word and I feel like shit.
I just said the R-word and I feel dirty
Covered in the slime of his disgust.
The R-word The R-word The R-word
Why can't I say the R-word?
I can describe it in a myriad of ways like
He danced with me, we started wrestling,
Things got bad from there.
What the fuck does that mean?
Things got bad from there.
Abuse, abuse, abuse. I can say that word all day.
“I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse”
But I can't say the R-word.
The R-word, The R-word, The R-word.

--------

Fuck it, I will just say it,

He . . . . . R. . . . . .

He . . . . .RA. . . . .RA. . . . . .

He . . . . . .RAP. . . . . .RAP . . . . . .

He . . . . . .RAPE. . . . .RAPED ME!

The Goddamn motherfucker RAPED ME!
My GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING PASTOR RAPED ME!
He did it over and over and over again. He had no remorse.
There, I said it. FUCK YOU! No word is gonna control me.
Does that mean I am healing?

------------

Ya, I still feel like shit.
“Things got bad from there.” Now that’s more comfortable.
It was just a bad experience.
It wasn't that R-word

Just a bad experience.”

I think, just saying the word was enough to let some healing into my soul that wasn't able to occur before. It was after that, I was able to accept the advice given to me by my therapist. We soon became teammates that had a common goal of healing. I spoke more candidly after that and I began to feel hopeful again.

For the real first time, I did the work. I was healing. I was finally feeling free.

I was optimistic about my recovery. I had made great strides in learning how to cope and thrive in spite of what had happened to me. In fact, we even discussed taking a break from counseling for a while. Therapy Graduation! I was living my life in a way that made me happy. I knew how to avoid or navigate around the worst of the PTSD triggers. When they came, I was able to quickly identify and recover from them, by writing, or visiting the ocean, or by playing with my children in the backyard chasing lizards or frogs.

There was a level of not simply surviving, but thriving.

But, during my greatest time of healing, my family was suffering in Florida.

STFU

2017-11-30T13:47:00.000-07:00

I have told this story before, about how I wanted to kill myself at Christmas time. I left out an important detail for the sake of trying to keep my biological family together. I feel that it is time to share with you, my dear reader, the full truth.

Oblivious Idiot,

I never set out to be this way. Do I frighten you? If I could have chosen to be someone else, I think that would be nice. To be strong and fearless like the image you present. Callus and disconnected from reality like the others in your world. Oblivious.

Do I frighten you? Does my pain cause you grief? How can I, your son, comfort you? Comfort your betrayal? Comfort your disappointment in how life has worked out? How can I comfort your hurt when I am bleeding out and nearly expired? You cover up your own wounds with the bandage of too many words. Your fears are cloaked with endless babblings as if you were an infant child that is enraptured by the sound of her own voice. Do you ever get tired of talking? I am chronically exhausted of hearing your voice. Each time I sit down to hear you talk at me, fatigue saps all life out of me. I can't do it anymore. I can't talk to you. You don’t listen. Ever. Since I was 11 years old you haven’t listened to me. You talk and talk and talk. Now, 30 years later I am shutting my ears to you. It’s my turn to speak. Then we will be done.

JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Did you hear me? I am speaking now. Mom, you are such an oblivious idiot! So focused on your own mirror you can't see when your own flesh and blood is drowning in the shit you caused! Can you hear me? Did you hear me? Will you listen to me? FUCKING LISTEN TO ME!!! JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!

Your incoherent babble, like static on the radio, it’s unintelligible. My only wish to tune to another frequency.

Shut the Fuck UP!!!

Listen to me! Can you hear me?

Shut the fuck up!

Your husband died 30 years ago. I am sorry for your loss. He is not ME!!! Don’t you remember? My name is Joel. I am your son. You were there when I was born, weren't you? Perhaps you were too busy impressing the doctor about your first pregnancy to show up to your last one? Must I introduce myself? FUCK YOU! My name is Joel! Your husband, Harold, is in the ground. I loved him as well. Time ticks on. You didn't. Instead you found me to become your husband. You transferred all of your shit onto me. I was a boy! I couldn't take it! Your shit was too heavy. My back is broken. I am crippled and in great pain.

Did you hear me? I am Joel. I am your son. I am not your husband.

Shut the fuck up!

Listen to me! Can you hear me?

I am me! I am not him!

I am Joel. I am me all by myself.

Shut the fuck up!

Since I was 11 years old, you talked at me. you didn't allow me to speak. I learned very early on to tune you out. Just as you did to me with your endless worries. At long last, when I thought I had heard it all and there was nothing more to say. You start all over again. Or manufacture something new.

Shut the Fuck UP!!!

Listen to me! Can you hear me?

I am me! I am not him!

Hello, My name is Joel. I am me all by myself.

Shut the fuck up!

What are you afraid of? Are you afraid of me? Do you think that if you pray real hard and deny traumas existence. That it will go away? That I will go away? That has never happened and will never happen. Faith and denial do not work the same way. Instead as you have wished, I am going away. I won’t hear you anymore. Your vanity has pushed me away. You thought you could hire others to raise me by sending me off to private schools. You thought that if I found a male role model, he could be a father in proxy. You thought that if I could find the right man, I wouldn't turn out effeminate, gay or worse. Don't you think you could have raised me? Don't you think your presence, your love, your confidence would have done a better job? Don't you think you could have done a better job than underpaid teachers and a rapist? Each day, you remind me of how utterly unsafe and devalued you treated me as a boy and now as an adult. Your selfish constantness remind me how little you think of me.

Shut the Fuck UP!!!

Listen to me! Can you hear me?

Shut the fuck up!

I am me! I am not him!

Shut the fuck up!

Hello, My name is Joel. I am me all by myself.

You said I needed a father-figure. What the FUCK was wrong with you? Couldn't that be YOU? Instead, I got the message that I wasn't good enough for you. Instead, I spent the last 30 years trying to prove my worth to your absentia. Instead, I spent the last 30 years trying to earn the respect, love and attention that I deserved just for being me, your son! Instead, I spent the last 30 years trying to earn your presence rather than your presents. The stench of your gifts are rotten in my nose. The faecal odor of your gifts are covered in grimy strings that are connected to a false sense of gratitude, obligation and love.

A male role model. A male role model! You said I needed a male role model! What the FUCK was wrong with you? Perhaps if you would have cared enough about me. I wouldn’t have been ass raped by the man you said I needed. Instead you cared more about your stupid wallet. For one millisecond if you would have just shut the fuck up, perhaps I could have told you before he put his dick in my mouth. If you would have cared enough about me to raise me your own damn self. I’d be just as fucked up and oblivious as you.

Shut the fuck up!

Listen to me! Can you hear me?

I am me! Your son!!

I raised me. You paid commitment.

My name is Joel. I am me all by myself.

Shut the fuck up!

Why do you project all of your shit onto me? As if I can cure your hypoxic cancer. JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!! Listen to me! You did this to you! Don't blame me! My life is my own. I am not responsible for yours. Perhaps if you shut up you could breathe on your own and wouldn't rely on others.

Shut the Fuck UP!!!

Listen to me! Can you hear me?

I am me! I am not him!

I raised me. You paid commitment.

My name is Joel. I am me all by myself.

Shut the fuck up!

If I open my mouth to speak these words, Will you shut yours and listen?

FUCK! YOU TALK TOO DAMN MUCH!!!

If I speak, will you open your mind to what I have to say?

You pushed me away! Away! Could you not bear me?

You pushed me away! Away! Could you not raise me?

You pushed me away! Away! Could you not see me?

Your abandonment. It wounds my flesh as if I were a cut with a thousand acid soaked blades.

If I open my mouth, Will you shut yours and listen?

My name is Joel. I am me all by myself.

My name is Joel. I am not Harrold

My name is Joel. I am not you.

I am not your savior, I am not your rescuer. I am not your husband.

I am your son. I am Joel. I am gone.

I wrote this letter to my mother after a week of being under constant suicide watch. Then for the next three years I consciously put off healing and dealing with what AFB did, to seek counseling and work on my mother and the abandonment I felt after my father died. We talked endlessly about how I felt when she was around. We talked so much about her that I feared my therapist was getting tired of hearing the same stories.

During that time, I learned the word “Narcissist” but it never really struck home with me until after the presidential inauguration in February 2017. I suppose it was because I was disconnected from the President that I was able to observe and learn what it meant to be a narcissist from a distance. I took what I observed and I applied it to my own situation and strangely enough, what I was seeing on the news everyday was an illustration of how I felt. The constant confusion and debate of whether or not what was said was true or not. The news channels endlessly discussing the sanity and fitness of the 45th president.

It was an eye opening macrocosm of my own reality. Over the next several months I began to realize that the man in the White House was just as sick and mentally ill as my own mother. I began to understand that what he was doing to the country, my mother was doing to me.

I began to realize that the only way to be free. The only way to find sanity is to cut her out like cancer from the breast. Normally, the Christmas season is very hard for me, the obligatory time spent with her causes me to feel desperate and suicidal. So far this year, I am optimistic, it is my goal to get through christmas without any idealizations of a life without me.

With this post, I want to end the time healing from the abuse suffered at the hands of my mother, I want to resume healing from CSA rather than just coping with it.

A dear friend of mine has sent me several articles about how to deal with, and cope with a narcissist. I would like to share them here.

https://psychcentral.com/blog/archives/2016/09/27/6-tips-for-cutting-off-contact-with-narcissistic-family-members/#.WaLHWvW9gdM.facebook

http://ideaspots.com/the-secret-language-of-narcissists-sociopaths-and-psychopaths/

http://www.slate.com/articles/life/family/2013/02/abusive_parents_what_do_grown_children_owe_the_mothers_and_fathers_who_made.html

iamnotbubba

Tiny Ball of Shit (46)

2017-06-20T18:43:00.001-06:00

It has been a long time since I have written a story. To be honest, my treasured reader, I have struggled to find something interesting to write about. The last year has been rather ordinary. For that I am very grateful. I have continued working on healing. I have gone to therapy every two weeks and have discussed many different topics ranging from how to be a better father, a better husband, to politics, and the classic freudian discussion about my mother. I couldn't have asked for a better therapist. She sincerely took the time to listen and give wise advice when I really needed it. I know that I am a better man because of her.

I have come to writing this page thinking of all the stories that I could tell you about. For example, the time after my total knee replacement in August 2016, while at physical therapy, I experienced flashbacks that were so very intense and real that I layed on the table and openly wept for over a half hour. Tears streaming down my face because during that moment I felt like my body was no longer my own. I was not in control of my body. I could tell the story of how I found myself in jail, a week before Christmas because of an expired driver's license. I kept putting off the minor inconvenience of getting it renewed because I just didn't want to leave the safety of my house and comfortable couch to get it.

I could write the story of how I continue to fight within myself each morning to wake up and go outside rather than stay hidden in a dark room where it is safe and quiet. I could even tell you about the time this past holiday season I was able to step inside a church building. The victory I felt that evening was as if I had won a congressional medal. I must admit that I was armed with a very stabby and sharp pocket knife. Part of the victory was not going through with my baser desires and stabbing the pastor for no other reason than he was a pastor.

The last several weeks, I have attempted to write several stories about my old tattered sofa. How I would clench its cushions until my knuckles turned white and eventually went numb. Yet, somehow, the story just wouldn't come out right. I wanted to tell you about all the good times and all the hard times in its soft embrace. Like the time I received news that I was going to be a father for the second time, shouts of profanity emanating from the bathroom down the hall as my wife discovered she was pregnant. Something the doctors said would never happen. For now I will keep those stories close and perhaps I will write about it later.

This year (2017) so far, has been full of transitions. Earlier this year, my wife accepted a position as Director of Property Management by a small non-profit low income housing company south of Miami, Florida near Homestead.

In February, we traveled from Denver, Colorado to Miami to find a home to rent. One that would be close to her job in Florida City. In March, we packed all of our belongings that we could fit into a shipping container and sent it on its way. Just two weeks later my family and I loaded the remaining items into our car and drove over two thousand miles from Denver, Colorado to Miami, Florida. Thanks to the kindness and help of those around me, and especially my therapist in Aurora, I felt comfortable enough to put my agoraphobic fears away for the moment and do what was necessary to accomplish the task. Here is the story.

A New Start

With a thud I slammed the overfilled trunk closed, climbed into our Chevrolet Impala along with my wife, two kids, a cat, a dog, my treasured bonsai ficus named “Freddy”and all the things that accompany a five day drive across the North American Continent. We were excited, nervous and numb to what we were doing. We were pulling up roots from everything we knew and moving to a new town, a new state, a new climate, a new culture. Everything was going to be strange and different. We were embarking on adventure that none of us had experienced before.

It wasn't long before the Rocky Mountains faded out of view in my rear view mirror. The car was quiet as we were listening to one of our favorite old time radio programs “The Jack Benny show” on XM. Occasionally there was a chuckle from the back seat as the scenery flew by. It was night fall as we approached Kansas City. I remarked to Amy that it seemed as if the highway through town went a different way than it did some 15 years earlier, the last time we were driving this way. A few hours later we made our first stop at a hotel on the outskirts of Columbia, Missouri.

The next day after a brief detour in St. Louis to see the Arch and the Mississippi River, we began the journey south toward our next night in Chattanooga, Tennessee. After that we headed for Tampa, Florida. It was during this time, as Colorado became further and further away, that I began to feel hopeful that I honestly could make the transition from being a survivor to a thriver. Perhaps in Florida I could create a life free from the depression and rage that consumed me in Colorado. I could be free from the me that is constantly fearful of his life by navigating between the triggers and flashbacks day by day. I could finally be the one who just lets them pass by as if they no longer caused the deep pain as before. In fact it had been several months since I had experienced a severe flashback.

As we approached our hotel for the night, We decided that after three solid days of driving that we would spend an extra day in Tampa to rest from the road and let the children see the ocean for the first time. Not to mention that we were all very tired and irritable from being in the car for so long.

The next morning after breakfast we all piled into the car sans the animals and the ficus. I unlocked my phone and set Google maps to navigate to the nearest beach. When we arrived, it was a beautiful warm day as we began to lay out our towels on the white shell covered beach. Excitedly, the children ran out into the water and began to play and splash. They would later tell me that they thought it was “mind blowingly big.” The water was very shallow, and even though they were 10 feet from the shoreline, they were only ankle deep. I felt safe that they wouldn't be eaten by a rogue shark or washed out to sea.

After our towels were laid out and sunscreen was applied, I ran out to join the children already laughing and playing in the warm Tampa Bay water. It was a picture perfect day of familial bliss. I was happy to see that the children were taking to the water so well. There is something spiritual about seeing the ocean for the first time. After a while, I decided to let the children play on their own and I would go back to the towel and relax. I closed my eyes and let the sounds around me hypnotize me into a half sleep. It was a hard fought dream come true.

Abruptly, like a suicide bomber exploding in the center of a public gathering, blood, bodies and shrapnel flying outward in all directions, chaos and screams of the realization of what had happened begins to set in. I am play wrestling with AFB on the floor of his office. I am pinned to the ground and his sweaty, salty, hairy nipple rubs against my lips. I am repulsed and absorbed by the past. My skin no longer feels the sea shell covered beach, but instead I can feel the rough industrial carpeting causing a painful rash on my elbows and upper back as I struggle to get free. His weight compressing my lungs and I can't breathe. For him it wasn't just play. I am pinned to the sand, I am crushed against the cheap maroon carpet.

“It's not now. It's not now. It's not now.” I mutter to myself. I am fighting to regain control and come back to the present.

Suddenly, I am arrested again and I find myself taking communion with him as he instructs me to take off my clothes and place them neatly by the door.

“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Why now? Why now? I just want to be happy for one fucking moment in my fucking shit life. Why does this fucking CSA shit come at the most inconvenient fucking times?” My grounding tools were not working so I closed my eyes and accepted the flashback. Perhaps, it was here to tell me something.

Blackness covered me like a heavy shroud made of thick corn syrup and stinging angry bees. I can't see. I can't move. There is a deafening annoying buzzing in my ears as the only sensation I feel is a tiny ball of shit moving back and forth inside my anal cavity. At one point it felt as if it would fall out of my anus, yet there was something in the way. Some large cylindrical thing inserted that was preventing it from falling out. As it rocked back and forth inside me, I remember thinking that I wished the tiny ball of shit would disappear so that I wouldn't be able to feel him raping me over and over again. It was all I could think about as it moved toward the sphincter then away from it. I began to visualise its path in my head and question, was the tiny ball of shit round like a baseball or was it oblong like a football? What did it look like? Did it have different shades of brown? Was there undigested food stuck in it like the yellow corn on the cob I ate night before?

The tiny ball of shit was all I could think about. Why was it there? Did I not wipe properly? Am I dirty and deserving of this punishment? Could he feel the tiny ball of shit against his penis? Should I be embarrassed because of it? Will he not like me any longer because I have a tiny ball of shit inside my asshole? Will he abandon me like everyone else?

The noise of static and buzzing slowly faded into a strange sound of “Unnngh--uh-Unngh-uh” and the tiny ball of shit moved much more freely after that, as if some lubricant or perhaps vaseline had been inserted. I could feel his entire length and girth after that. As he slowly pulled out, I prayed he wouldn't notice if the tiny ball of shit left any brown marks on him.

“See you next week?” He leeringly smiled in my direction as he began to pull his pants up around his waist.

“Sure,” I said. I was relieved he didn't notice the tiny ball of shit that had now fallen out of my colon and was resting on the carpet where I stood. I quickly picked it up with my bare hands and exited his office just as he sat down at his desk and began writing his Sunday sermon again. I walked by the receptionist as she waved and called out to me “Tell your mom hi for me.” I didn't reply.

I left the church building and began to walk north toward home. I had almost gotten to the street corner on third avenue when I realized I driven my car . . .

------

“Fuck, I can't have one happy day!” I turned to my wife, she was fast asleep and peaceful. I would have to try and calm down on my own. I didn't want to disturb her just yet.

“It's not now, It's not now, It's not now, It's not now, I am safe, I am in Florida. I am on a beach. It is 2017. I am safe. I am safe. It's not now.

I look around me and notice the cloudless blue skies.

I am safe. It's not now.

I look to my left, and it looks as if the nearby restaurant might serve an awesome burger and beer.

I am safe. It's not now.

I reach down and search the sand for the sharpest shard of shell I could find and jab it into my palm. As the skin in my hand began to separate, I heard a familiar voice next to me, “Sorry, I fell asleep. You ok?” my wife inquired.

I am safe. It's not now. I thought once more.

“Yes, I am fine, just some CSA shit. I am better now. Have a good nap?” I put the shell down, got up and went into the water. There was a buoy in the distance I wanted to walk to.

As I walked to the far and distant point in the shallow ocean, Liam was holding my hand jabbering about how we were going to touch the “butt.” I began to understand that even though I was now two thousand miles away from where the scene in my head occurred, I was still going to suffer from the effects of the abuse. I was still going to be me. The PTSD was not going away.

I took a deep breath and touched the “butt.” AFB was a looooong premeditated drive away. I needed to be here with my family.

Later that day at the hotel, the children weren't quite ready to stop playing in the water, so we decided to let them go to the hotel pool. As the children laughed and chased each other around the concrete edge I began to write.

“Fucking flashbacks. I guess it really is called “Perpetually Healing” for a reason.

iamnotbubba

Sunday (45)

2016-12-19T20:19:00.001-07:00

Cold wind howled outside. Snow was quickly accumulating on our front doorstep from its sideways trajectory. The weather forecast was for over a foot of wet, heavy Springtime snow. It was the kind that broke tree branches, toppled carports, and sent 4x4 SUV’s careening into ditches and ravines everywhere. The blizzard was forecasted, but its vehemence still took me by surprise. Thankfully we were all locked inside, snug and warm.

The next day, the deep azure sky and warm temperatures quickly melted the snow leaving only a brief whisper of the dangerous blizzard the night before. As I went outside to survey the damage, I observed that tree branches up and down our residential street were broken under the weight of the wet, heavy Spring snow. My beautiful sugar maple tree was no different. High above me was a branch approximately 3 inches in diameter that had split down the middle and was pointing down rather than up. I knew that the many children around the neighborhood loved to climb my tree, so I needed to trim the branches right away and make sure that the tree was as safe as possible so that the child shaped squirrels would not be injured, or possibly worse.

It was Sunday now. The mud around the tree dried making the ground around the tree more stable. My wife and two children put on their finest and left me at home so they could attend church. Although my family desperately wanted me with them, we found that it was safer for us all that I stay home and try to control my emotions without the embarrassment of a public outburst. I had always found Sunday triggering. For some reason, for as long as I could remember, Sundays would cause me deep anxiety. I would be happy and calm the other six days of the week until. . . the world would become a million times more intense.

I would wake up and my heart would climb out of my chest cavity and furiously beat in my throat. Every syllable of every word was as if it were a 12 gauge shotgun blast next to my ears, or a high pitched car alarm that wouldn't shut off. Time would slow to an agonizing crawl and nothing would occur fast enough. I could feel every moment so deeply that everything down to the color of my toast in the morning was a personal assault against my core being. It was as if each week I was transformed into a hyper-sensitive time traveling Frankenstein monster that was always 30 minutes ahead of the rest of the world.

While Frankenstein was warring with time, there was the lecherous pervert that was also warring for control over me. The leering beast inside of me would be looking, side-glancing, ever searching for a glimpse of something that was hidden by the righteous ladies’ finery. My eyes had a mind of their own and were out of my control. My inner beast was consumed by lust. Because of this, I often wondered over the years if I was in fact demon possessed from the time I was 10, when my friend Mark showed me his Playboy magazine underneath his treehouse. I had been taught that these feelings were not normal. My beast was awakened and had taken over.

Even more, there was that me that was a normal Christian. I loved church as a child. I loved worshipping, and the entire experience. I wanted to go to church each week and learn more about God from the pastor, to sing songs like “Amazing Grace,” or “Jesus Loves Me.” I wanted to teach my children about Jesus, and to be a leader in the community and teach others what I knew. I wanted to be an anxiety-free, fearless person that people respected and loved like I was before I knew.

Yet, my fractured, trifurcated soul was causing an unbearable, insufferable punishment week after week after week for as long as I could remember. It haunted me back and back since before I was married, before seminary, before college, even into High School. 52 weeks a year for almost 30 years I suffered over and over. Orcs and elves and men warring together inside of me. Each one ebbing and flowing in victory over the span of two hours. Each one leaving the ME battered, bruised and battle-torn. My knowing made it impossible for me to endure struggle that was church without lashing out at the ones I loved. AFB had taken the ME from Sunday and left the cruelty of nothingness in his wake.

My therapist, Sheena, and I had spoken at length about this uncontrolled internal struggle that was crippling me. It was her brilliant suggestion that I try to “reclaim Sunday for myself,” to do something that I want to do rather than trying to fulfill a role that caused me such pain. Her idea was to Reclaim Sunday from AFB who would manipulate me from the pulpit. Reclaim Sunday from fear, from anxiety, from the monsters at war for my sanity.

It was that Sunday, the Sunday after the big snowstorm, that I had decided to not allow the war to rage any longer. I grabbed hold of my six foot ladder and my bow saw to trim some of the branches that had broken. I climbed high into the tree and began to saw away at some of the branches. Suddenly, my footing gave way and I fell to the ground breaking three bones and dislocating another bone in my left foot. As I layed there on the ground, I texted my wife, “I am hurt. Need help.” She didn’t believe me. She thought it was trick to get her home. I don’t like her going to church. I needed her with me to feel safe.

The weeks that followed were spent on our old rugged couch recovering from the broken bones. I remember watching the Sunday news programs as the spectacle of the 2016 election cycle unfolded into a circus of twitter wars and insults. As I got better and it became easier to walk I made sure to leave the house and try to do something fun, like going to the mall or visiting Rocky Mountain National Park. I made a point to laugh and tell stupid jokes even though I wanted to scream and cry.

As I write this story I suddenly awoke to the realization that the furious agony; The weekly torture of over 1,500 sundays had quietly subsided like that brief whisper of the Spring storm. I looked for the imminent annihilation of who I was, fearing that all had been lost, but like my sugar maple tree, I was just broken, not destroyed. My work, the time spent in therapy, my time with my family, my decision to “trim the branches” was clearing the way for Spring buds. Although church is still off limits for now, my Sundays are my own.

iamnotbubba

The Broken Me / Cut it Off (Pt 3)

2016-08-28T19:41:00.000-06:00

“If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell.”

Matthew 5:29

Things are not going as I had hoped. The idyllic life that I had dreamt of in Seminary was fading farther into darkness.

I had hoped to become a successful pastor in Las Vegas. I had hoped to find freedom from the lustful, leering, burning desires in my soul. I had hoped to be free from the trappings of “worldly” life and live the “holy” life of a Christian Elite. I wanted the life like the pastors I grew up with. As a child, I saw the love and respect that James Miller had, the deep following that AFB had, the cheering crowds and passion of Rod Parsley. I was feeling as if God had abandoned me and that what I had believed He told me to do was a lie. The time spent was wasted.

The distance was increasing between me and my God. He was my friend who spoke loving things to me everyday during school, who inspired me to study the bible endlessly for three years. My friend who told me to learn everything I could so that I could teach it to others. My friend who called me to stay away from dating so that He could be my love. My friend was gone. His soft loving touch was replaced by the harsh jagged edges of reality and the endless guilt surrounding my uncontrolled secret behavior.

I failed Him in Las Vegas, Nevada. I was failing Him in Colorado Springs, Colorado. I was lost. My God-friend was silent and distant. I turned to my mistress more and more frequently as the only way to cope with the emptiness. The guilt I felt regarding my behavior was overwhelming and soul crushing. If I could pray more, read the bible more, tithe more, volunteer at the church more. If I could act like the Christian I wanted to be, then one day I would be the Christian I claimed to be, my addiction to sex would be healed and I would be OK. I needed to do something,

I had lost another job, I was fired for another reason that was preventable, I spent another summer completely adrift in a world of fantasy and eroticism. Before I knew it, another season was spent looking at a computer screen searching, looking, watching, waiting tor the perfect moment to find release.

On the way home from dinner one day, I turned to Amy. “I miss Jesus. Let’s try and find a church to go to.”

She agreed, and a few weeks later we were attending an Assemblies of God church on the east side of Colorado Springs. We liked the pastor, he seemed genuine and caring. He even took us out to dinner and patiently listened to us as we confessed our sins to him.

Almost every week after that, I found myself pleading with God to heal me, to take the wild and unchecked lust from me, to heal me from the unending compulsion for internet porn. Each Sunday, I also found it strange that while in church during the songs, or during the sermon, I became compleatly overtaken with erotcism, unable to control my wandering eyes as women would walk by. I felt deeply guilty, trying to hide my remorse as I sang old hymns like “Amazing grace” or “Jesus Loves Me.”

I just wanted to be free. I wasn't free. God was ignoring me. (If He was there at all.)

The simple act of going to church wasn't changing me. “Time to up the game.” I thought. Perhaps, if I became a member of the church, then become a volunteer, I was willing to scrub toilets so that God would hear me, He would answer my prayer. Soon after membership classes, an opportunity arose to become the church's young adult pastor. Amy and I were excited to finally do what we thought God had told us to do. To teach the Bible and Pastor people. I was excited that God had turned to me and was about to heal me.

The next Sunday, I put on my best three button black suit, a crisp white shirt and pink tie just for a splash of color. As I nervously read from my notes I was elated that I was finally teaching what I had studied so diligently. Soon, our small group grew and we moved our meetings to a larger room. Each week, I happily prepared each lesson while at work answering the phone for a major cruise line.

As I taught about the sermon on the mount, the passion week, or about the crucifixion, I hoped that God would favor me enough to bring the freedom from the overpowering lust that I desperately desired. Freedom eluded me and after a few years, I lost interest in teaching the gospel. God was not fulfilling His end of the bargain. I couldn't stop, I couldn't control myself.

After endless heartfelt prayers, after teaching the Bible, after sharing the gospel at work and seeing lives changed for the better, seeing God answer the prayers of others, my one supplication was left over looked. I felt that God didn't care and that perhaps the only solution was the strength within me. So, I determined to grit my teeth and resist. Resist my deep longing to view images on the internet, resist the lustful gaze at church.

No matter how hard I tried, I could only withhold for two weeks. I was frustrated and confused. Why wouldn't God free me? Why wouldn't He help me? He answered my prayers when my truck wouldn't start. Each time I prayed, then turned the ignition it would start, He answered my prayer when the sores on my hands were healed and fell off one by one. He answered my prayers and gave me an awesome wife. Yet this one tortuous behavior I couldn't break. He wouldn't help.

The chasm between me and my old friend was widening. I wasn't getting better. The guilt and shame, the unworthiness I felt was overwhelming and possibly translated into my job. Eventually, I was fired, again.

I knew that as soon as I could, I would be on the internet, staring, waiting for the images to load one by one. I knew that hours, days, weeks would go by and I wouldn't even notice. I would be so hypnotised, I would forget to move, forget to eat, forget to breathe. I didn't want to do that again, I wanted to be free. I needed to be free. I wasn't free.

Desperately, I sought counseling from the only place I knew, the assistant pastor of the church. Perhaps, he might be able to convince God to free me from this addiction. I confided in him like never before. He quietly listened to my confessions and prayed. Sadly, God ignored him as well. I was not free. It looked like I would never be free.

I enjoyed my job at the cruise line and I even thought about starting my own travel agency, but I decided instead to focus on being the best father I could to my 10 month old daughter. While she slept I simply gave up on resisting. I gave into the desires of my broken soul, downloading megabyte after megabyte. I sat in my chair in front of the screen hardly moving, barely breathing, at full attention watching the images dance before me.

“Fuck it.” I thought to myself, “This is the only thing that makes me happy”

“Fuck it.” This is the only thing that makes the day go by.”

“Fuck it, This is the only way to fold laundry, by watching people fuck.”

“Fuck it, Why leave the house? Everything I want is right here.”

I was not a negligent father during this time, I made sure she was well cared for, but it was while she slept I took advantage of “me time,” three hours in the morning, and three hours in the afternoon. While she was awake, I was downloading, the blue bar slowly going across the screen filling up my hard drive.

We eventually stopped going to church. I really couldn't fight anymore. I felt horrible about myself. I was a failure.

After my son was born, things got really bad. What had started out as a “fuck it” became a “What the fuck am I doing and why the fuck can't I stop?”

How do I fix this? All my mind could do is run through the cycle of thoughts like a song:

I just want to stick it in.

Stick ma dick in it!

but it's far too risky. I am just so frisky!

A coke bottle, A vacuum nozzle

These feelings have my mind in a boggle

I just want to stick it in.

Stick ma dick in it!

but it's far too risky. I am just so frisky!

Craigslist, or an afternoon tryst

All this confusion! I am just so pissed!

I just want to stick it in.

Stick ma dick in it!

but it's far too risky. I am just so frisky!

Oversexed, undersexed

Why I act this way I'm so perplexed!

I just want to stick it in.

Stick ma dick in it!

but it's far too risky. I am just so frisky!

Need help, nothing is working

I am always lurking, always searching

I just want to stick it in.

Stick ma dick in it!

but it's far too risky. I am just so frisky!

Cut it off, cut it off

It offends me everyday

But it's far too risky. I am just so frisky

How do I fix this? What does the Bible say? Cut it off???

CUT IT OFF! I could feel the warm blood flow over my stomach; at last I was free. The offending member disconnected from my body in my left hand and a dull pocket knife in the other. I wasn't free enough. Gouge out my own eyes so that I can never be able to see the wickedness of pornography again. Darkness encompasses me, but the images are not gone. The desire is not gone. CUT IT OFF! There is nothing left to give. CUT IT ALL OFF! My brain, my body, all that I am offends me. They are working together to conspire against me. CUT IT OFF! My God, My God, WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME? You turn your back while I bleed and die just to be holy. FUCK YOU, GOD! You cut ME off. I offend you. YOU are not MY friend.

iamnotbubba

Body Count (44)

2016-05-19T17:08:00.001-06:00

Body Count

I look up from the shirt I am folding and notice that it is 3:20 PM, time for my children, Zoe and Liam to be walking home from school.

Just then my phone rings, “Daddy,” Zoe asks, “can I go to Annabelle’s house to play?”

“Sure, is Liam going with you?” I asked.

“Yes, he can play with Andrew.”

“Ok then, just be safe. You are safe there right?”

“Yes, Daddy, It's safe.” She immediately hung up the phone before I could enquire any further.

I really do think she gets tired of me asking if she is safe. Liam hasn’t caught on just yet, but I think, just like Zoe, he will get tired of me asking if he is safe sooner or later. I placed the phone back down on its charger and took a deep breath.

“Fuck, I hope they are safe,” I muttered to myself. I’ve only met the dad once for a few moments last week and I was so triggered I couldn't form any coherent thoughts.

I went back to folding laundry and watching my favorite movie, “Zombie Stoner.” The actions of AFB were weighing heavy upon me and it was all I could do to focus on a stupid movie with no discernible plot or dialogue. I had to trust my daughter's word that she felt safe at her friends house and that no harm would come to her or her brother. I had to allow my children to be children, to play and laugh, to make mistakes and learn in a safe environment. I chose to trust, even though my instincts were to lock my children in the basement so no one could get at them. I chuckled at the sight as some poor zombie boyfriend gets his brains blown out into a pool of pink and brown pudding on the floor.

Later that evening, as is our annual Christmas Holiday tradition, the four of us would gather together to watch the Star Wars movies in succession together. We were watching my favorite episode, Episode Four “A New Hope.”

The movie played and I was in familial bliss beneath a pile of bodies. All of us on the same couch, Amy’s head rested on my left shoulder, Zoe sitting on my chest, Liam on my left arm, and finally the dog at my feet. I thought to myself that life really couldn't get any better. An epic lightsaber battle raged on the screen in front of me. I was lost in thought thinking about all of those times in the past when I was raging against the feelings of vulnerability and loss. Things broke so easily back then--jumping and screaming, anger ripping through my body and flooding out to those around me pushing them all away so they would not hurt me. I thought about that week in the suicide ward, how things became so desperate that I truly was on the brink of ending my life. I remembered the dream of the three tornadoes after which I chose to allow AFB to live. I remembered the words of my wife from not-so long ago, “Joel, the children are afraid of you. They don't know what daddy they are going to get from one moment to the next. Stop holding me emotionally hostage! I am walking on eggshells around you. I don't know what is going to set you off from one moment to the next!” I remembered thinking that because of this uncontrollable rage I was better off alone, and that in order to protect my family from anymore damage caused by me, that I should leave them.

Then I looked at this glorious scene around me . . . Star Wars, Amy, Zoe, Liam, and the stupid dog. I was warm and comfortable on my old ragged couch. The children felt safe enough to snuggle in close. My wife was …… was she snoring? My wife was safe and asleep. It was worth it. The rage, the pain, the work. All of the work. EMDR, support groups, writing, blogging, meditation, the week in the hospital. It was all worth it to get to this point . . . beneath this pile of bodies watching Star Wars.

Christmas Eve I conceded to attend the candlelight communion at the church near our home. It was what the children wanted, it was what the wife wanted. I wanted to try again, to reclaim that part of my youth that was so important to me at the time, going to church on Sundays. Over the past five years I had made multiple attempts at church services and each time AFB was right alongside me, whispering in my ear, “You wanted this,” or singing about the deer panting for the water. I even felt him touching me on the left shoulder flashing me back to the times he would bend me over his desk and I would read his sermon notes.

This time I wanted to be strong; I wanted to be brave. I wanted to prove to my family that CSA did not control me. I had the tools to conquer PTSD, to prove to myself that I was whole.

We got into the car and the first thing that came into my head, “ This is happening.”

At the stop sign, “Churches are NOT safe.”

At the stoplight, “As the deer panteth for the water, so my soul longeth after thee. . . . . .”

Accelerating to 45 miles per hour, “Churches are not safe.”

The next stoplight, “This is happening. You wanted this. Clean that up. See? You liked it.”

“Not safe, not safe, Churches are not safe!” My mind was racing out of control. “Not safe, not safe, Churches are not safe!!!!”

IamnotsafeseeyoulikeditasthedeerpantethNOTSAFEcleanthatupthisishappeningNOTSAFEIamnotsafeseeyoulikeditasthedeerpantethNOTSAFEcleanthatupthisishappeningNOTSAFEIamnotsafeseeyoulikeditasthedeerpantethNOTSAFEcleanthatupthisishappeningNOTSAFEIamnotsafeseeyoulikeditasthedeerpantethNOTSAFEcleanthatupthisishappeningNOTSAFEIamnotsafeseeyoulikeditasthedeerpantethNOTSAFEcleanthatupthisishappeningNOTSAFE.

Until, finally, we drove into the church parking lot. I took a few deep cleansing breaths. I tried to remind myself that It was 2015 and I was not being abused at this moment. I got out of the car and walked with pseudo confidence toward the church building where a Christmas carol was playing from the loudspeakers placed in the open window on the second floor. I walked up to the door, shook the greeters hand and stepped inside.

NOT SAFE!

Panic hit me like never before and never since. I wasn't safe. This was not the place for me. I immediately turned around on my heels and fled. I ran at full speed toward the car. I couldn't get away fast enough. I got inside and locked the door. I told Amy that I would be back to pick her up and I drove away. The next hour and half was spent grounding myself, breathing, reminding myself that it was not happening right now.

Amy was not upset with me. The kids didn’t really understand, but they weren’t mad at me either. I felt like they should be as upset and disappointed as I was for not being able to conquer my fears. I wanted this for my family--for myself. The car ride home was a blur because I couldn’t focus on anything but staying on the road. I don’t even remember what Amy or the kids said on the way home.

After we put the children to bed, I told her what was happening to me during that time and told her that I was very sorry. That night when we went to bed, I turned out the light and she plopped her head on my chest. I knew right then that everything was going to be ok. The weight of her anchored me to the now. One by one my kids came into my room and crawled in bed with me. The body count was getting bigger and I knew I was safe again in their love.

iamnotbubba

The Broken Me / The Club (Pt 2)

2016-05-08T19:42:00.001-06:00

The Broken Me / The Club (Pt 2)

Out of all of the cities in the United States that I could have chosen to start a church and begin teaching the bible, Las Vegas, Nevada was perhaps the least wise choice I could have made. My addictive personality was quickly taking control, and as a result, my marriage was failing. My wife and I argued and fought all the time. The only time we weren’t fighting was when we were drinking and gambling.

I must admit, I blamed her in part for the church not going anywhere. She blamed me because I was not living a “Christian” example. Mostly, I felt like a failure beyond compare. I failed everyone I knew, including myself. I failed my wife because I embarrassed her; she didn't approve of my gambling and drinking while at the same time trying to start a ministry. I failed my mother because I was no longer working toward starting a church, that was all she wanted me to do. She even told me of a dream she had that I would be guest preaching at a large church in Columbus, Ohio. I failed my God because people were no longer attending my services. God obviously didn't approve of me or else the church would have been more successful.

Failure and disapproval was all I knew. Shortly after I gave up on the church, I was fired from my job. I then began to think, If God didn't approve of me, If my wife didn't approve of me, if my mother, if my employer, and everyone else didn't approve of me, then fuck it. I was living in Las Vegas! “Sin City!” I will just give in and give up. Give up on my dream to be a pastor, a christian, a good person. It was time to see what Vegas really had to offer.

My first excursion into the night was when my wife had taken the Greyhound bus to visit her mother in Colorado. She didn't tell me at the time, but she was going to find a job and leave me in Nevada. With her gone for that week, I wanted to see what was behind the red velvet curtain.

It was one of those rare Las Vegas nights--the air was thick and heavy with fog and light rain, lights of the city reflected back from the clouds above in an orange otherworldly glow. I was excited to see my first topless revue on the Las Vegas strip. It was the famous Crazy Girls show at the Riviera Casino.

A line of chorus girls came out on stage kicking like the Rockettes in New York. I had never before seen anything like it, the girls took off their tops and everyone around them was ok with it. I had seen stuff like this on the computer screen, but not in real life. I was hypnotized by the flashing lights, music and all of the pretty girls dancing on stage. It was more than I expected, yet, not nearly enough. I wanted more, more, more!

When the show was over, I awkwardly walked out of the casino, my hands were deep in my pockets trying to hide the prize. I had just found my favorite drug and I was not satisfied with just one rail from that train. My body was vibrating with erotic euphoria as if I had experienced cocaine for the first time. As I drove out of the parking garage, I thought of how to get more of my new drug. Then, I remembered, there was a place I would drive by on the way to work all the time that flashed with bright red colors, “No Tops, No Cover, Open 24 Hours.” That was where I was headed next, I could hardly contain my nervous anticipation as I drove into the parking lot of an old shopping center. My hands shook as I anxiously fumbled with the ignition keys to turn the engine off.

“Just be cool, Joel,” I told myself as I got out of the car.

The parking lot was dark as most of the street lights had long burnt out in this forgotten area of town. The humidity in the air was thick with caustic diesel fumes from the truck stop and interstate highway nearby making my eyes and throat burn. It was as if a fresh line of snow was dripping from my nose into my throat.

“Just be cool, Joel, you can do this.”

To my left was a check cashing place that promised cash loans to anybody with a paycheck. A solitary shadow smoked a cigarette by the door.

“Just be cool, Joel. No one will find out.”

To my right was a torn red awning with white lettering promised the same thing as the sign I saw from the highway, “No Tops, No Cover.” My knees went weak almost to the point of being unable to support my weight as I walked toward “Larry’s Villa.” The rush of the high suddenly coursing through my blood veins.

“Just be cool, Joel. Act like you’ve done this before.”

Underneath the red awning, waited a man to check my ID, he then grunted and let me pass through the door. Through the curtain, Into the flashing purple and amber lights, I took a deep breath, my lungs burned as I inhaled stale smoke and cheap perfume. I was in euphoria once again. I found an empty stool on which to perch and let the drug course through my veins.

A raven haired dancer just slipped behind the curtain. Her set was over and over the loudspeakers boomed, “Anita is next, pull out your dollar bills for Anita Mann!” The men around the club watched her dance around the bronze pole, but it seemed no one was in a tipping mood.

Music thumping, lights flashing, I averted my gaze for a moment and surveyed the room. The flashing colored lights were of plastic balloons hung from the ceiling indicating that the “Party was here,” yet the dust and grime creating a muted lighting effect told a different story--he party was long ago. I was late. The booth across from me was occupied by a dark skinned man smoking a cigar while two girls giggled and kissed on his neck. A few other patrons stood at the bar with their backs turned to the stage discussing and laughing about something I couldn't understand over the loud music.

Eventually, It was time to leave, the waitress told me that if I wasn't buying drinks, then I couldn't stay. I had just spent all of my money on a Vegas show. I left the establishment so deeply ashamed and embarrassed. As I drove home I wondered what was so compelling about my excursion. Why I felt that I was almost on autopilot. I had everything I needed at home, yet somehow, it was beyond curiosity, the impulse felt as if it were unchangeable like I was on autopilot.

When Amy got home from visiting her mother, she told me that she had found a good job as a property manager. She was moving to Denver . . . I could go with her, or stay here. I had a choice to make. She gave me a week to think about what I wanted to do.

I spent the week thinking about what I should do. Weighing the pros and cons of ending the marriage or moving to Colorado, I debated with myself if I should give into the bright lights and false hopes of gambling, booze, and strip clubs, or try to make a better life with Amy.

For some reason, I have always been able to envision my future when I come to a crossroads. One day, while listening to a Rose Royce outdoor concert under the bright lights of Fremont Street it came to me. It was a vision like no other, and I could not ignore it. The future I saw in my mind's eye not the life I wanted. (Please read Power for the details of that vision.)

At the end of the seventh day, I told Amy that I would be going to Colorado with her and that I wanted to give life with her another try. As we drove the U-haul out of the city, I had hopes that the experiences of the one rainy night in Las Vegas would be over and that I would be able to put it behind me. Little did I know that the drug had already taken root…...

iamnotbubba

The Broken Me / The Dream (A)

2015-12-19T15:43:00.000-07:00

The Broken Me

My dearest reader, thank you so very much for reading Perpetually Healing over the past few years. I hope you have found as much comfort and support by reading these stories as I have found by writing them. With your permission, I would like to start a new series and tell some stories about the “Broken Me.” The time before I began to recover the memories of childhood sexual abuse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The Dream~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning started and I took my first breath; my eyes opened to a day with hopeful promise. The early morning sun shone brightly through the blind slats in my bedroom. My mind whirled as the same strange recurring dream of a cheap no-tell-motel on the westside of town drenched with the stink of stale whiskey and cheap cigarettes filled the my waking senses. Cockroaches didn't even bother with waiting until the lights were off to scuttle along the floorboards. Cold rain outside the motel room was splashing in mud filled puddles in the dirt parking lot. In my dream, I was selling myself as a gay prostitute, and I was allowing men to do perverted things to me. From oral and anal sex, to letting them beat me to near death. Some nights they would cut out my tongue so I couldn't tell anyone what they were doing to me. This night was especially gruesome as the recurring dream ended with my dead body lying in a pool of crimson blood. My penis had been severed and the man had taken it as a souvenir. I physically shook the horror out of my head. I was a Bible college student now . . . a young man full of faith and anointing.

“It was just the devil trying to steal my joy,” I told myself.

I arose from my bed and I could still feel the cold terror as the man came at me with a knife. “No, no, no,” I pleaded with the man, “I’ll do whatever you want! I’ll even let you put it inside me! Just don't cut it off! How will I live without it? I have other men who pay me! I’ll be destitute! Please let me keep it!” I watched him exit the motel room into the dark rainy night. My penis in his hand, I was bleeding out and dying.

I opened my Bible, with a bowl of Life cereal by my side, and began to read the book of Romans. “Now faith is the evidence of things hoped for…..” I took a long drink of the milk at the bottom of the bowl. Then, I put my winter coat on and climbed into my blue Toyota pickup and started the engine. Strangely, I could still feel the warmness of my own life pouring out of my body and down my legs into a crimson pool on the floor. My first class, “Old Testament Survey” with Kevin Marr was in thirty minutes and I wanted to get there early for coffee and to hang out with my friends.

Murray was there already, “Joel, how are you today?”

“It's a great day to be alive in central Ohio,” I replied. “Do you think OJ Simpson is going to be found not guilty?”

“Aw, I don't know, I really don't watch the news.”

We continued talking and laughing while the choir rehearsed the songs that were to be introduced at chapel that afternoon. Soon it was time for class, we said our goodbyes and parted ways.

The next night was the same dream; the same routine. I was pleading for the man to leave me be while was blood pouring out of the hole where my penis once was.

“It’s another wonderful day in Central Ohio,” I said to Murray, secretly wondering if I was going insane. I desperately wanted to go to the bathroom and make sure everything was still in its place.

---

In my amnesia, there were plenty of strange things that make sense now that I have recovered the memories of my youth and what “Asshole Fucking Bastard” had done to me.

One afternoon, just before it was time to leave to go to work, I was sitting at my mother's kitchen table studying the communion sacrament in First Corinthians, and the verses I was reading caused me to feel such a heightened sexual energy that I couldn't focus on anything but the vibrations between my legs. Shame and confusion enveloped me as I walked down the hallway to my bedroom to take care of the need. My heart was still racing as I exited my bedroom and went back to my studies.

“What happened to me?” I thought to myself. “There is nothing in the least bit sexual about this scripture.” The shame I felt was overwhelming, It was crippling, torturous. I began to think that I was so deeply perverted that God could never love me or promote me in my job or at church because of what I was doing. “Nah, it’s just the devil trying to steal my joy.”

The next several days I spent in prayer pleading with God to heal me from this shame. No answer came. Each day the same dream. Some nights my penis would miraculously grow back just so that the man could cut it off again.

“It's just another wonderful day in Central Ohio,” I lied to my friends. I wondered if God was going to strike me down because I was lying to my friends while we were studying the Bible. If only I could find the source of my sin, then God would answer my prayer to heal me of this sexual addiction.

It was Wednesday, the day of the week for chapel and a guest speaker. He was talking about holiness toward God and that is was easier for God to meet our needs if we would live a holy lifestyle.

“Come on down here to the front if there was something in your life that is not holy, so that God will open the windows of the storehouse and pour out a blessing for your life.” The man pleaded.

I wanted that. I wanted to be blessed be God. I wanted to be free of this burden, the dreams, the overwhelming and uncontrollable desires. I was frozen in my place. If they knew what I was struggling with I would be ostracized from my friends, and God would hate me. I bowed my head and prayed for the strength to resist and the ability to be holy in front of others and in front of God.

The prayers did not work. Perhaps if I had the courage to go up front, perhaps that is where God was, I would be healed. He certainly was not three rows back where I was sitting.

I needed to be free from the daily onslaught of shame, embarrassment, and fear.

If I prayed more, God would answer.

If I gave more in the offering, God would answer.

If I fasted more, God would answer.

If I volunteered more, God would answer.

If I acted more Christian, God would answer.

If I listened to Christian music, God would answer.

If I moved to Las Vegas and became a successful pastor, God would answer.

If I gritted my teeth and had more discipline, God would answer.

God didn't answer.

It always confused me how deeply distrustful I found all Christians, yet, the pastors, the elders, and the other lay ministers were held in such high reverence. They were almost as God himself. I was just a lowly insect in comparison. Even when I had attained the role of “Pastor” my own bewildered self loathing was indescribable.

I felt that it was my calling or destiny to become a pastor, to become the very person I detested and worshiped. After graduation from seminary, my wife and I packed our things into a small UHaul trailer and traveled the two thousand miles from Columbus, Ohio to Las Vegas, Nevada. I would start a church and pastor a group of Christians whom I distrusted and hated merely because they held the same beliefs that I did.

The first Sunday, we met at the clubhouse of the apartment community my wife managed. I considered it was a success because four people were in attendance. They all sat on couches arranged in a semi-circle. I was happy to be fulfilling my destiny. Two weeks later attendance had dwindled down to only me. I was devastated. If I was called to be a pastor, why could I not even get my own wife to attend?

I ended the hopes of a church in Las Vegas. I couldn't line up the idea that I was destined to be a pastor, yet I had such an unnatural love/hate war within me. I coped with this devastation by renewing my love for anything and all things erotic. This became my drug of choice. I had to convince my wife to watch pornography with me just so I could have sex with her. Even during the “dawn of the internet age” I found my drugs on websites full of women in various states of undress. Looking at these women was the only thing that could make me feel whole. I couldn’t see the vacant look of despair in my wife’s eyes when we were being “educational.” I didn’t care.

Soon, I lost control, sex was all I could think about.

iamnotbubba

CSA Shit (43)

2015-08-05T18:39:00.001-06:00

CSA Shit

2 AM, vivid memories of my spirit looking down upon a familiar looking boy completely unclothed, The boy was struggling to gain stability and read whatever was written on the pages in front of him. A tall man, was behind him with pants around his ankles, vigorously thrusting back and forth into the small boy. The man then placed his hand on the boys right shoulder for better stability. As my spirit leaned in to get a closer look, I could see exactly who it was. It was the boy’s pastor. The boy was me.

The scene suddenly changes and my spirit enters the naked boys body; seeing what he sees I struggle to focus on the scripture scribbled on blue lined paper in front of me. Fighting against the back and forth motion all I could decipher were a few letters at a time. Was that the letter “R?” Could that be an “O?” I think he is going to talk out of the book of Romans on Sunday.

As quickly as before, I am transported outside of the small boys undulating body. Looking down on the unnatural scene from the drop-tiled ceiling. I was caught like a video stuck on an endless loop with the same sequence repeated in my dreams over and over.

The last few days of July were spent desperately trying to cope with the chaotic cycle of sorrow, anger and fear inside my pounding chest. The neverending loop of the same horror of a pastor raping a small innocent me. Because of this, it seemed as if the very air were laced with an acidic concoction that bit at my flesh and infecting every open wound. Each morning for the weeks prior, I woke up wiping the sleep and feelings of disjointed smallness out of my eyes like a nightmarish terror of years past. I was loosing my desire to fight.

July 30th, I arose out of bed and splashed cool water over my face, brushed my teeth and quickly pulled my jeans on. I needed to drive my wife to the train station so that I could have the car if I needed it. Perhaps I would go to the gym and try and exercise some of these confusing emotions away. I’d then relax in the spa and focus on my breathing. Perhaps there I could put the incessant night into day-mare visions of the small boy getting ass-raped further away into the recesses of my own memory.

“Nah, fuck it.” I thought to myself. “I’ll just go home and hide my head between my knees. I don't have the strength to heal anymore. I hate you, Wayne.”

That’s just what I did, or at least tried to do. I am not quite as flexible as I used to be, and after a while my children needed some attention. Snacks, then lunch, laundry, straighten the kitchen and living room, sweep and vacuum the floors, fold the laundry. Try to act like everything is normal so that my kids and wife don't suspect that I am struggling with all this damn, fucking CSA shit again.

By the end of that afternoon, It was time to retrieve my wife from her job. While waiting for her, I desperately fought to put a smile on my face and greet her with a loving kiss. “What had he written there? Why can't I read it?” I questioned to myself as I watched her come out of the tunnel that went under the interstate and led to the light-rail station.

I physically shook the questions out of my head and pressed the button that unlocked trunk so that she could put her backpack away. She opened the front passenger door, “Hey sweetcheeks. How was your day?” I chirped as I painted a smile on my face and gave her a light kiss on the lips to welcome her home.

“Good, I got another budget done, and a new manager starts tomorrow. I am finally getting things back under control. How was your day?”

“Eh, same ol’ same ol’.” I replied. “Same day, different number.” I flashed another smile hoping that she would talk to the kids and would not press for any deeper answers. The children in the back seat then began to talk all at once about how their day was and how much fun they had playing at various houses in the neighborhood. We arrived home and the children loudly argued as to who was going to play with the newest toy from Chik fil A . I turned the stove on and prepared a quick dinner of ham and cheese omelettes, with toast and iced tea. (Why breakfast is only once a day I’ll never know.)

After dinner, we all sat down on the couch to watch the latest episode of “America's Got Talent.” I made fun of Nick Cannon’s ruby red slippers. Soon, it was time for the children to go to bed. Naturally, they complained as the finalists for the live shows had not yet been announced. After “five more minutes,” I had had enough. I didn't want to be strong anymore. I needed the kids upstairs and asleep so that I could be in a dark room with my knees to my chin and listen to John Stewart rant about income inequality or some stupid thing Fox News said.

The children weren't moving fast enough. My youngest was crying because he had accidentally bumped his toe on the table. I lost my composure and began to loudly lecture him as to how I needed him to stop acting like a 3 year old and begin acting his age. I was tired of him crying all the time. At that point he really began to cry. I looked at his fearful face and tears streaming down his cheeks. I gave up and stormed out of his room, slamming the door, and went downstairs where my wife was waiting to tell me what I was telling him was inappropriate.

I argued back that I wanted him to be strong and that if he could just act his age he would be less likely to experience what I had gone through. She told me that, “he is only six and that he is doing well.” And that, “If you continue to treat him this way, he will be more likely to be victimized.”

I didn't want to be wrong, but I knew she was right. I kept to my point, “I just don't want him to get ass-raped like I did.”

“Joel, when you are triggered like this, you have a tendency to take it out on him. I don't know if it’s because he looks like you or what, but you need to stop doing that.”

“I will protect my son, even if it’s from you,” she continued. “You are an awesome father, but when you are triggered, you focus your anger on him, and it is not fair.”

Damn it! How did she know I was triggered! I looked at her for a moment. I took a breath and in that breath I thought about what she had said. I knew what it was like to grow up without a father. I knew what it was like to have a grieving and absent mother. It was not a life I wanted for my son. I thought about what would happen if I just gave up on healing. I was so tired of thinking, and dreaming about what AFB had done. In that moment, I honestly wanted to give up and let the pain take control. I wanted to let the rage burn. Instead, I fortified myself and determined to make this better before it got any worse. It was time to be honest. Honest with my wife and honest with Liam, my only son.

“You are right, I am triggered. I was trying to keep it from you because it’s not fair that I burden you with this CSA shit all the time. I am just so tired of healing……” I then began to explain all that I had been experiencing that day, the dreams and flashbacks from the night before.

“I understand Joel; I am your wife. I am here for you, I love you and I don't ever want us to be apart. You cannot expect a six year old to behave like an adult, to process things the way you want him to. He loves you so much and he is going to copy your behavior. He is seeking out your approval. If he can’t get it from you, he will be open to get it from someone else,” she said.

“How do you make someone strong?” I didn’t know how to answer her question.

“How do you make someone strong?” she persisted.

I knew the answer, but I was afraid to say it because it obligated me into doing it.

“How do you make someone strong?” she said again. “By supporting them and loving them,” I finally said. My wife took a deep breath of relief knowing that I had the right answer. “You need to apologize to him and let him know that he is not the source of your anger. He feels like he is right now. How would you feel if you were him?” My heart sank knowing that I was doing damage to my son, which was the last thing I wanted to do. I shook my head in agreement.

I looked at her and told her that I loved her. It was time for bed, and as she rolled to her side, I felt her sleepily place her hand on my shoulder. I knew everything was going to be ok. I was going to get up tomorrow and fight again.

The next morning, after she had gone to work, I turned off the T.V. and called Liam over.

“Liam, it’s time we talk,” I said to him, fear and tears welling up in his eyes.

“I have been yelling at you a lot recently haven’t I?”

He nodded his head yes.

“I am so sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.”

A tear slid down his left cheek.

I continued, “A long time ago, just after my dad died, when I was eleven years old, a very bad man did very bad things to me. I am still angry about that. Sometimes, I take it out on you. I shouldn’t do that. I am very sorry.”

“What did he do daddy?”

“He broke my heart.” I then pointed to a scratch on his hand. “When you got this scratch, it hurt. Right?”

He nodded his head.

“Now it’s healing and doesn’t hurt anymore. Soon, you won't even know it was there.”

“There was blood and everything!” he said.

“What this man did, cut me to the very center of my being. Sometimes I get very angry about it. I feel like my heart won’t heal like your scratch and that makes me sad. Do you forgive me?”

He looked at me with love and compassion in his eyes. “I forgive you daddy.”

“Do you have any questions for me?” I asked.

“So, it’s not me? You’re not mad at me?” My heart welled up with sadness. I knew I had hurt him, but i also knew I was making amends and would be better to my son.

“No, It’s not you. I am just mad at this very bad man.”

“Ok, I love you. Can I go to Branden’s?”

“Yes, go on then.”

As he ran off to play, I was left feeling vulnerable and exposed. Yet, somehow like I had taken giant leap to heal a rift that threatened to divide a father from his son. “I must keep going,” I thought. “I must keep going, for his sake. It’ll be worth it in the end.”

iamnotbubba

Routine (42)

2015-04-21T19:39:00.000-06:00

Routine

At the morning alarm I quickly pulled a T-shirt over my head. Still deeply feeling anxiety from the night before, I rushed downstairs to make my two children breakfast. “Jessie” was blaring on the TV. I knew that if I was to calm down, and anything was to be done without my screaming and tears, the TV needed to be off. It was a morning like every other morning. Routine.

Soon the pleasant odor of cinnamon raisin oatmeal and freshly ground coffee filled the air. Zoe and Liam finished breakfast, brushed their hair and teeth, and then put their shoes, coats and backpacks on. It was 8:30, time to go to school. I put my coat and slippers on, and we headed out into the winter morning. It was colder than I thought, and I really should have spent the time to wear warmer shoes. Both children holding a hand, we walked over the ice and snow the two blocks to the school. Routine.

Upon arrival at the school, I gave them both kisses and told them to be safe. I turned around and quickly walked home. I was excited to get home and drink a steaming cup of coffee. My feet were really very cold. “Tomorrow I will make sure to wear shoes before I leave in the morning,” I thought to myself.

The hours both kids were in school was my quiet time to process the events from the day before and do some writing or straightening around the house. Dishes needed to be washed, laundry folded, the floor swept, vacuuming. This day was dishes and laundry. I savor these quiet times when there is no one around me to distract from my thoughts or task. Soon, it was time to take a quick shower before I needed to walk back to school and pick my son up from his half-day kindergarten class. Routine.

As I headed up to my shower, I climbed the stairs into another time and place. The tan carpet beneath my bare feet turned to gray concrete.

I put my hand into the cold stream of water, the frigid temperature bit at my skin just enough to push my mind further into its dissociative state. “Go home. Take a shower,” I heard him say to me. I stepped inside and let the warm water pour over my skin. “Use soap this time,” he ordered me once again. I slowly looked around and found the white bar of Ivory soap on a shelf to my right. I began to lather myself washing his stink and semen off of me. It was too much effort. I stumbled to the rear wall of the small shower cube, fell to the floor. Routine.

I blacked out. The warm water slowly washed away the suds in streamlets down my naked body. I can't say how long I was on the floor. Just as the water became cold again I awakened, stood up and wrapped a towel around my waist. I wondered why my fingers had become wrinkled as if I had been in the water a long time. It only seemed to me that it was a few moments. Routine.

I wanted to feel rage. I was comfortable with rage. I wanted to scream hate-filled profanities in AFB’S direction. I wanted to cry. I wanted to release the emotion in some sudden and energetic burst. I knew how to use anger, rage, shock, or disbelief to energize myself. I could control that wild fury and clean the house. At the end I would be too exhausted to be angry. I would feel better that I was able to accomplish something. That was my routine.

It was different this time. I was different. There was no energy in me. I felt deep loneliness and depression. It was as if I were in a different gravitational field. Each movement and breath took more effort than I was willing to give. After I finished brushing my teeth, I fell on the bed desperately trying to catch my breath. I needed to find something left in me and walk the two short blocks to the elementary school and retrieve my son from kindergarten class. The only thing I could do was to put the experience away, to hide it deep inside so that I could function in my present day world. As I determined to stuff away the experience in the shower I was able to rise up and continue the rest of the day. Lunch for me and the boy was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Liam had his PB&J with mustard, ketchup, and ham. He then had me cut the concoction into ten tiny triangles. We laughed as I uploaded the video to Facebook.

After lunch, we sang the ABC’s and practiced writing the letter “F”

“F” for Fur

“F” for Fox

“F” for Fix

“F” for FUBAR. I am Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.

“F” for Fluffy

“F” for when the fuck am I going to get free from this shit?

“F” for factory

“F” for fuck it

In exhaustion from trying to put on a happy face for Liam, my head fell with a thud on the kitchen table. “I can't do anymore. Please go upstairs and play.” I shut my eyes and listened as he trotted to his room.

“Fuck, this sucks. I hate being a survivor. I don't want to be a survivor anymore. I don't want to heal, its too much fucking work.” I muttered to myself.

I moved over to the couch and pulled my knees into my chest and tried to focus on my favorite Canadian television program “The Trailer Park Boys.” It wasn't long before I had forgotten about the shower and the day continued like every other day. Routine.

I suppose I put it away too far, the experience disappeared from my waking memory. The energy was gone from me. It wasn't until 6 months later. …

iamnotbubba

Some Days

2015-03-22T13:36:00.000-06:00

Some days I just want to be free, free from the hurt and constant nagging agony of childhood sexual abuse. I want to be free from all of it and go back to the normal life prior to the recovered memories that have overtaken my life these past four years. To wave my hand and AFB never existed. The pain never occurred.

Some days, I feel as if my only way to find freedom from what he did to me is to shoot him in the face. To see the terror in his eyes just as the copper wrapped lead round pierces through his forehead and explodes out the otherside. The words “vengeance is mine” repeat in my head. I look at my happy children playing in the dried creek bed without a care in the world, and I think that I couldn't abandon them. I look into the concerned filled eyes of my beautiful wife, and I think that I couldn't do anything that would turn her away from me. AFB lives another day.

Some days I loathe the prison I am in. I despise this cage I have been unjustly placed in. Curled into a tight ball of depression and fear; my heels pressed closely into my body; my face buried in between my knees. I try not to cry as the joints in my body scream that I am too old to be coping in this way.

Some days I am calm, I am happy. I step out and enjoy the sun and the cool mountain breezes. I am filled with more love than I can humanly express. Something brings me back and I am filled with rage. Rage that I was abandoned by my mother and left to be abused by the one who claimed he was my “father figure.”

Some days, I wake up screaming, my throat is sore from the dreams I had. She didn't hear me even in my nightmares.

Some days are uneventful. I close my eyes at night and I am grateful for the day.

Some days medicine helps take the pain away if only for a moment.

Some days medicine doesn't help and only serves to make the heartache worse.

Some days I am motivated to heal. I happily go to my support group. I happily sit on the couch and tell my story once again.

Some days I am grateful for the pain as someone from out of the blue tells me they have found hope and healing from one of my stories. They inspire me to write more.

Some days my ass hurts for no reason at all.

Some days are all of these days.

Most days I am moving forward. I open my life for others to see. I share my story and I am whole.

iamnotbubba

Pastor

2014-12-23T17:31:00.000-07:00

Pastor

It was a warm Sunday afternoon; birds could be heard chirping near my open bedroom window. Robins, finches and the occasional sparrow liked to perch on the television antenna that was bracketed to the outside wall over the garage. I remember a few years before my father died I spent one weekend with him twisting and turning the aerial back and forth just so that he could get TBN on channel 57. Sadly, when that didn't work, he ended up using aluminum foil wrapped around a set of “Rabbit Ears” perched on the back of our 27” Zenith television set.

This day, I was quietly playing church on the hardwood floor of my bedroom. My sister had left a few dolls in my bedroom from the day before. I proceeded to line them up in a half-semicircle. It was to be a small, but attentive congregation. Even though one doll had no clothes on, I promised that she would be accepted anyway. I reached to my left for the portable cassette player and plugged in the small plastic microphone. I then threaded it through the bottom of my shirt and out the top so that it could be used as a lavalier.

I cued the cassette tape just past my last sermon from the previous week. Then I simultaneously pressed the play and record buttons. I began to sing “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound. . .” The dolls raised their hands as they began to sing along. “That saved a wretch like me. . . .” Then after a rousing rendition of “Jesus Loves Me” the dolls opened their Bibles to the book of Joel. It was my favorite book because I was named after it. Quietly anticipating what I had prepared, the dolls enthusiastically listened to my every word. At the end of the sermon, the naked barbie gave her life to Jesus. All of the other dolls celebrated and eventually left my bedroom in search of roast beef and baked potatoes--the traditional Sunday feast.

Years later, I walked across the graduation stage before thousands of admiring eyes. A proud graduate of World Harvest Bible College and a lay leader in my church. A few years after that, my new wife and I had sold everything we owned excluding a few dishes and my growing library of theological textbooks. I carefully placed all our possessions into a small U-Haul trailer that was towed behind a green 1995 Dodge Intrepid. We were going to drive the 2,000 miles from Columbus, Ohio to Las Vegas, Nevada. I was going to be a pastor. I was going to be someone important. I was going to change lives.

I stood before a small group of people in the clubhouse of my apartment community, my Bible opened to the text I was to read that Sunday. I was a Pastor. It would only be a matter of time before there would be enough members to rent the empty storefront space next to the Lucky’s on Tropicana Blvd. After that, we would build our own church building. TV cameras and a Sunday morning program on the local FOX affiliate. Soon after, I would make a name for my self as the one who preached the sin out of Sin City. Suddenly, our building would be too small and we would need to build again. Somewhere near Henderson so that the entire Las Vegas valley could attend.

As gambling revenues declined the big casinos on the strip one by one would close. The whole world tuning in as I stood before thousands my Bible opened to the appropriate scripture for the occasion.

THREE. . . . .

TWO . . . .

ONE . . . . .

I pressed the large red button that had been affixed to my marble podium and with a thundering explosion the iconic Stratosphere tower came falling to the ground. A testament to the city transformed. I was going to be a pastor. I had always wanted to be a pastor. Since I was a small boy playing with my sisters dolls. I wanted to be like him, he was my father in proxy. He was AFB

Landmines (41)

2014-12-05T16:42:00.000-07:00

Groggily, I descended the stairway. My two children happily greeted me. “Good morning, Daddy! I love you! What’s for breakfast? “ They said almost in unison.

“What’s first?” Was my sleepy reply.

“Coffee.” They said in unison as the whir of the grinder pulverized the coffee beans into a fine powder. I then boiled some water and poured it over the freshly ground beans. The remaining hot water was poured into two bowls over some cinnamon and apple instant oatmeal.

With the children fed, kisses given and lovingly sent off to school, I began to reflect and write on the day before. “Fucking Landmines,” I muttered to myself. Daily life seemed as if I were walking through an unmapped minefield--only the flashbacks and triggers of a once forgotten past were the hidden explosives. I never knew what thing I would do or not do that would cause a memory or emotion to explode inside me. I spent each consecutive day tiptoeing around the explosives that left me drained of any remaining resources by nightfall. If I wanted to stay out of the hospital I needed to find a way to recharge my energies throughout the day.

My first line of defence against the minefield in my head was to write in my journal. I unwrapped the brown leather thong and opened the book to the next blank page.

“I fucking hate Sundays,” I wrote. Sundays were especially hard for me, I’m not sure if I will ever recover from the anxiety and rage I feel from the actions of my former pastor.

------

I had awoken full of anxiety and anger. I made my coffee and smeared cream cheese on my freshly toasted bagel, hoping that the routine would calm the turmoil within my soul. I sat in my comfortable leather recliner and began to check the messages from the previous night. Emails, facebook, how many clicks did I get on Perpetually Healing? What countries did they come from? It made me feel good that people all over the world were reading my work. I tried to focus on the good that I was doing rather than the pain I was feeling that was causing me to find the normal noises around me especially irritating like steel wool mixed with caustic acid against my raw tired flesh. The battle had already begun and its first volley was a sensitivity to noises.

The TV was blaring as Martin Short sang about the Cat-in-the-Hat flying in the Thingamajig. My children were playing loudly and running back and forth in the kitchen. BANG, BANG, CLOMP CLOMP, RATTLE, CRASH, “We can go, we can go!” exclaimed Martin Short. CLOMP, CLOMP, SCREAMING, “I know, I know!” BANG, BANG, “Daddy Look!”

Too much noise! My eardrums are going to explode!

I can't hear anymore! I need silence.

I tried to block out the noise by putting in my headphones and focusing on the music playing. Nicki Minaj was usually a good choice. I liked the way she used different accents and mid-beat inflections to make her sounds unique. With “Romans Revenge” blasting in my eardrums I put the laptop down and began to wash the dishes left in the sink from the night before. I knew from previous experience that if I could focus on one task and concentrate on one sound like the music in my earbuds, I could usually calm the feelings of anxiety and utter powerlessness. This day I was not successful.

I washed the dishes, wiped the counters clean and began to sweep the floors. I was desperately trying to focus on my breath, the feelings of the hot water on my hands as I washed a dirty plate, the smell of Odo-Ban on the countertops. It was if the air itself was ignited in heavy confining imprisoning fire. Somehow, in my mind, the dust and crumbs of various snacks littering the floor was more than I could take. I began to yell and scream that no one in the house respected me enough to clean up after themselves.

My children were my first target of frustration. “Is it possible to put food into your mouth rather than let it fall onto the floor?” I then screamed “Children, PICK THIS UP!”

“WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE THAT CLEANS UP AROUND HERE?” I shouted into the air.

“SOMEBODY BESIDES ME NEEDS TO PUT THE FUCKING LAUNDRY AWAY!”

I was triggered, but I was too overwhelmed to know it. I had lost control. Lost control of any capacity to understand what was happening. My breath shallow, heart pounding, eyes wide in terror filled fury. The entire house was vibrating as I barked orders and profanities in an attempt to soothe the pain I was feeling inside.

“Joel? What is happening?” My wife asked as she descended the stairway, her hair put up in a towel, bathrobe hastily wrapped around her still dripping wet body. “Why are you screaming at the kids?”

“Look at this house! I know I cleaned this place yesterday! Within a few hours, it has turned into a complete pigsty!” I screamed back. “And it’s only 9:30!” I added.

Thus began a one sided shouting match. Finally, she had enough.

“Joel, You are triggered as fuck. Go downstairs and don't come up until you are calm.”

“Then who is going to clean this mess?”

“Go downstairs and calm down. It will be here when you get back,” she calmly replied.

“And that’s the point! Look at that crumb over there! Who is going to pick it up?”

“Go the fuck downstairs and calm down.” She was beginning to get angry.

Reluctantly, I had been married long enough to know when to stop arguing. I complied. I descended the stairs to still the chaos in my soul. I folded a sleeping bag in half, placed it on the floor and sat crosslegged on it. I opened the app on my phone that gave me a twenty minute timer with a pleasant sounding bell at the end. The meditation app was opened next. Flute music and a light orchestra in the background. My hand in my lap, I closed my eyes and began to push the busy thoughts away.

Inhale, Floor needs vacuumed.

Exhale, I can do that later. Time for me.

Inhale, How can a child that weighs so little cause such a big noise above my head?

Exhale, Turn up the volume, focus.

Inhale, What kind of mess are they making now?

Exhale, Whatever it is, you can fix it later.

Inhale, Feel your breath fill your lungs. Each breath is new. This is a new moment.

Exhale, I hate Martin Short. His voice is so annoying.

Inhale, You are doing good. Keep breathing, ten more minutes.

I kept breathing until the uncomfortable emotions began to ebb into silence. I continued to breathe until the only thing I was doing was listening to the harp music and feeling the air fill my lungs. Feeling the air leave my lungs. Feeling my body weight press against the cloth beneath me. The bell chimed. Opening my eyes, somehow the house didn't need to be cleaned quite so urgently.

It was a beautiful day outside, blue skies and warm March temperatures begged us to be outdoors. The rest of the day was spent laughing and playing in the sun. Even though the landmines were still there and occasionally exploded before me, I was able to quickly recover before the emotions surrounding them threatened to hijack the remainder of day.

One of the things I learned in the hospital is that I needed to be a boy scout--always prepared. My wife thinks of it as being an emotional “prepper.” I know to carry a rock or a coin in my pocket when I need to be grounded. My wife and I have a safe word when we are out so she knows when I need to take a break and I am not just bored. I carry my journal with me in case a flood of thought overcomes me. All of these things are great and helpful, and I am grateful for them.

I still ask myself why. Why do I get triggered? Why do the memories and emotions from the past stutter my reality as if it were happening right now? Why does my body betray me and relive its trauma when I am feeling perfectly fine and happy? Landmines. Triggers. Hijacks.

Like many of you, I seek control above all else. I don’t have control over these. My wife has observed, much to my chagrin, that I retreat into negative emotions when I am feeling threatened with happiness. It is uncomfortable so I cling to what is comfortable. This is different. This is an unconscious revolution of who I am now into a whirling dervish of fear and anxiety that reveals itself in the form of anger. Everything is bigger, louder, more. It’s like going from regular TV to HD. I am so caught up in the moment because it is the only thing that exists. Logic does not exist. Fast, fast, fast. Swirl, swirl, swirl. Nothing to hold onto. Not in my control. I am not aware of this state of being. It just is.

How do I combat this? Be aware. How can I be aware when this is my reality? Find a focal point. How can I focus when everything is spinning? Find a catalyst and hope it is not too late. Breathe.

Today, I was triggered. I have been triggered for a couple of days. How do I know? My wife usually gets mad or frustrated because I am being a jerk and I realize I am not behaving as she expects. Today was different. I felt it. I felt my heart beating fast. I felt my mind begin to spin. I felt my skin start to crawl as anxiety pierced my flesh. I was aware. Did it make it better? Yes. I recognized that I was about to explode. I slowed down. I breathed. I took stock of my body and my surroundings. I focused on an unrelated task. I challenged myself with thought provoking movie. I overcame. It was good.

iamnotbubba

That Day (40)

2014-09-12T14:23:00.002-06:00

I have been home for awhile now. The sting of the hospital, dealing with my emotions related to my mother, dealing with life in general made me exhausted. I parlayed those feeling into a fake sense of calm and capitulation with my new reality of being more ‘normal’ for my family. I laughed more, engaged more, and sometimes even believed that I was getting better. Then, inevitably they would come.

The flashbacks are always unwanted and come at a time I least expect them or want them. Sometimes they come with painful body memories of feeling pierced from behind. Other times it would be a picture, a word, a glance at a past life that would be just enough to send me into a spiral of forgotten memory that would encompass me and hold me down. Living life through flashbacks is like looking through a glass heavily stained with dirt and soot. I could see what was happening, but I wasn’t really there.

Seized in this tumult of past and present, I was struggling to keep myself from going back to the hospital. My wife was extra vigilant, which in many ways made things worse because I felt the sorrow and pity she felt for me ooze in stunted pleas disguised as caring. In reality she was more afraid of me killing myself again than anything else. I could understand.

After a few weeks I had been lulled into thinking the flashbacks had subsided and that maybe I really was getting a grasp on using my tools to stay present. I even had sex with just my wife for a change. It was in one of those happy moments, where I was watching my children, and smelling yumminess coming from the kitchen, that it happened . . .

That Day

I asked him to be my father on Sunday. I was so very excited to hear his response. “I’d be honored,” he said with a lustful sneer. Peering deep into my soul with his callous eyes, I instantly wondered if that was the right decision. Something didn't feel right.

It’s what every fatherless child wants, to have a role model, to have someone to guide them on the way to adulthood. I told everyone I knew on Monday, looking for affirmation that everything was going to be ok. It was going to be ok. He was going to mentor me and be my father after my real father died.

My mother was so happy for me, she told me that’s what I needed, a patriarch to build a boy into a man. On Tuesday, I thought about all I would talk about with my new daddy. I even wrote a list of topics so I wouldn't forget. All my problems and loneliness would be ok. He was my pastor, he could pray for me. God would answer his prayers. God had answered my prayer.

Went to church on Wednesday; was it something I said? He walked right by me. Didn't even see me. Perhaps everything wasn't going to be ok. Why did he not stop to shake my hand? I know he is busy--so many other people to talk to, not just me. Tomorrow, I will get to see him. Tomorrow I’ll have him to myself. He will tell me it will be ok.

I couldn't wait to get home from school. I had my list with me. I looked it over again and again to make sure it was still there, to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. I think these six topics will be a good start to our first time together. Thursday would be the beginning of a new life. A life that would be ok. I would become a good man; I would become a man that others respected. A man just like my dad.

I was so happy, truly everything would be just fine. I told everyone on Friday how kind and understanding he was to me. I told my mother what a wise man he was and that he had given me good advice. She was relieved to know that I was going to turn out like my father because I had a new father. My father was my mentor. My father was my pastor. My father prayed, and God listened.

Saturday, I made sure to read my bible. I prayed that I wouldn't do anything to disappoint my new daddy. Made sure to be ready for church tomorrow. I was excited to see him again. It was all heading in the right direction. I could find the man hidden deep inside me.

I wore my best shirt, tan leather tie, new shoes and polyester black pants. I would see him; He would see me. Father and son at church on Sunday morning. I would feel special. My tie straightened as he walked the foyer toward me. My hand out to shake his hand, congratulate him on such a thoughtful sermon. Did I say something wrong? Was it the leather tie? He walked right by me; didn't even look at me.

My daddy still loves me, even though he didn't shake my hand. He is busy with all the others. He has a big church. I will see him on Thursday. We will talk more. There is a girl I like. I will ask him how to talk to her. I told everyone I knew that my new daddy would help me become a man. I told everyone that I was going to be ok.

Ok. I was going to be ok. I was going to become a good man. I was going to be a gentleman. I was going to be like my daddy who died. My new daddy would teach me. I was going to be ok. I told everyone I was going to be ok.

I ran to church that day, excited to see him again that day. He penetrated me that day. He broke me that day. His thoughtful sermon spread out on his desk. He raped me that day.

I told no one the next day. It was not ok.

iamnotbubba

Kisses (39)

2014-08-30T18:14:00.001-06:00

Kisses

I looked across the room and saw a deep darkness along the wall opposite from where I stood. It was a strange, otherworldly darkness, not because the room was poorly lit, in fact just the opposite. The room was almost too bright with several 100 watt light bulbs shining brightly from the unfinished ceiling boards. As I walked closer to investigate the shadow, it appeared as if it wasn't a shadow, but instead an absence of light occupied the space.

As I neared the other side of the room, I tentatively leaned in closer to see what was causing the darkness. Like dark oily diesel smoke being expelled by a powerfull Cummings engine, the ebony absence fled from my curious eyes. It was a revelation so horrific that it made me wish the smoke would return to mask the tragedy behind. Carelessly exploded against the dirty white walls of my home’s basement appeared a deep maroon liquid, with rivulets of crimson gore tracing wrinkled strands into a growing pool of blood on the floor in an abstract tangle of concrete and color. Intermixed with the red ooze were fragments of hair and shards of pale white bone. Also scattered among the debris, appeared to be small bits of a light grey spongy material that I could only imagine was . . . .

I didn't want to see anymore; I knew what had happened. I knew who had done this.

I went upstairs and gave my wife and kids a grateful kiss and walked out of the room. Confused eyes followed me as to what had caused such a spontaneous demonstration of affection.

The next day, the same scene came back to haunt me. Somehow more intense than before, I swooned in nausea as the black smoke stung my nostrils. Once again, I leaned in closer to find the cause of such evil blackness. I expected to see the molten flames of hell fire belching ebony toxins into the atmosphere. Instead, I found myself staring into my own hollow empty dead eyes--old and unseeing, forever staring at the one point opposite. Shocked, I stumbled backwards as I struggled to keep the contents of my stomach from spilling onto the grey concrete floor. The demonic fumes returned covering my own corpse in its haze.

I walked across the kitchen to where my wife was preparing our Christmas Eve dinner, gave her as passionate a kiss as I could muster, “I love you Amy.” I said looking deep into her azure eyes. “I love you too, Joel,” she mindlessly replied going back to chopping vegetables. I then kissed both children on the head and descended the stairs into the basement to meditate.

I found the meditative sounds app and timer on my phone, closed my eyes and began to focus on the present moment pushing the disturbing scenes from before out of my head. Twenty minutes later, the timer rang and I took the headphones out of my ears. I looked up and saw the piles of wrapped Christmas toys and presents ready to be torn open and played with the next day. I knew that I would not have wanted to miss the looks of joy and surprise on the kids faces as they opened their gifts.

My eyes then panned to the left expecting to see the unlit desolate fog that I was becoming familiar with in my waking nightmares. Thankfully, I only saw the unwashed white walls of a normal unfinished basement. Presently, the blackness began to pour in to the room from an invisible porthole in the wall. Hypnotized by the anomaly, I walked forward to find out what would be revealed behind the vacant haze.

Between the billows of the demonic tendrils, I saw my wife collapsed on the floor weeping uncontrollably. She was holding a lifeless body in her arms. I walked closer to comfort her and place my hand on her shoulder as if to say, “it’s ok, I am still here.”

Mumbling to herself, she began to compose herself and stood up, “Where is my fucking phone. I need to call fucking 911.” Then as she climbed up the flight of stairs to the laundry room and kitchen, I could hear her say “Fucking asshole promised he wouldn't do this to me. I’ll kill him.” The irony of that statement being lost in her grief. She collapsed on the staircase landing, wailing and cursing my name, “Damn you Joel!!!”

Unable to view this scene, I turned back to view my own mortal remains slumped in a corner, blood still pouring out the newly formed cavern in the back of the skull. The lower part of the jaw, attached only by a few strands of sinew and muscle, in the sudden explosion of firearms pressed into the mouth, dangled precariously above the blood soaked ground. This time my digestive system could not hold onto the dinner I had just eaten. It spilled onto the floor its putrid multicolored contents mixed with the growing pools of blood. The corpse began to animate and rise up. It stood tall before me with its lifeless coal black eyes peering deep into my soul.

My stomach heaved again, there was nothing left in my stomach to empty--only bile and phlegm dripping in long filaments from my lips. As I wiped the strings on my sleave, fire began to glow in the dead eyes of the body before me. The broken jaw let loose from the skull and fell to the ground with a splash into the pool of blood and partially digested oatmeal raisin cookies that had accumulated around our feet. Miraculously, the dead, jawless body before me began to speak. “Family Heals. Family Loves. Family Nurtures. Find Family.”

Shocked that a cadaver had the nerve to speak to me, a reply to this enigmatic statement escaped me. I was beside myself and all I could concentrate on was, “Family Heals. Family Loves. Family Nurtures. Find Family.” As suddenly as before, the dark haze funneled out of the room. The body before me vanished. I was left alone, the only thing that could be noticed was the soft whir of the furnace blowing warm air into the house above. Echoing in the quiet, “Family Heals. Family Loves. Family Nurtures. Find Family.”

---

The kitchen was warm with the stovetop boiling potatoes, fresh green beans and an apricot glazed ham in the oven. The smell alone made me ravenously hungry and I couldn't wait to start Christmas Eve dinner in a few hours. I walked up to where my wife was preparing a raw vegetable tray with deviled eggs in the center. She had her back to me and I began to tenderly kiss her neck. She put the knIfe down, “Mmmm, feeling better?” She asked me. “Yes,” was my reply as I resumed kissing her neck. “We don't have time for that! We have guests coming over soon.”

Dejected but not dismayed, I went to the couch, turned on the T.V and tuned it to “Charlie Brown’s Christmas Special.” The children, who had been playing upstairs in their bedrooms, came down and climbed on top of me. I pulled a blanket over us and we snuggled in close to hear Linus tell the story of how Jesus was born. Noticing the scene before her, Amy then slipped under the blanket with us. It was a moment I will never forget. One of the happiest moments of my entire life. Still the words reverberating in my head, “Family Heals. Family Loves. Family Nurtures. Find Family.” I kissed the tops of each head that was under the warm blanket with me. Amy, Zoe, Liam. “This is family,” I said out loud. “I love my family.” Then silently I thought, “ I will heal for my family. “

iamnotbubba

Not Dead (38)

2014-07-09T14:48:00.001-06:00

I learned many useful things while under suicide watch, and, during the requirement of my release, the three weeks of outpatient therapy. The most important lesson was to understand that there were relationships in my life that were a toxic poison causing such deep emotional distress that I had become unstable enough to be feared by my wife and two small children. Those people needed to be cut out for the sake of my own sanity and for the safety of my family. The only thing I could think of during that week was how I craved absolute silence; even the slightest noise would put me on high alert. The sounds of children playing or distant conversations were like steel wool and salt against my raw bloody flesh. My entire soul was screaming for quiet.

As I sat on my bed each day meditating, listening to my heart and feeling my breath go in and out of my body I started feeling the calming the physical effects to my agitated, unstable mental state. I began to narrow down who was causing such distress. Was it my wife? No. Was it those in my support group? No. The children? No, they are normal. It was me that was not normal. Then it came to me. Was it my mom? What role did she have to play in this situation I was currently in. I began to reflect on the years spent with her after my dad died--the years I was angry and sad, the years I was silent, the years I was abandoned to be abused.

I began to ask myself how did I feel during those interactions? How did I feel as she was talking and I was sitting there being told not to interrupt. In my minds eye I went back in time. . .

Sitting in a restaurant booth staring at my club sandwich, it was the same day as all the others only I had a reuben sandwich the day before. My mother sitting across the table from me was talking at me. What was she saying? I am really not listening. She is talking about the same thing as yesterday, and the day before that. I pick up a french fry, mindlessly dip it into the ketchup, then take a bite of the sandwich forgetting what I was doing a moment before leaving the french fry to soak in the small pool of red tomato sauce on the side of my plate. The voice of the person sitting across from me fading further into the distance.

I look out the window and I think that if I could get a job then I could relieve the stress and financial hardship she keeps talking about. I could pay for some of my own things and she wouldn't have to worry about me as much. If I were a little older, if I were a little bigger, I could get a paying job and help her out a little bit--perhaps she would not need to complain and worry about money so much. In a few years I will be able to help. In a few years I will be 15 years old and able to work. Perhaps I could work as a busboy or wash cars. I feel helpless, inadequate, and small.

My mind’s eye skips ahead in time a few months . . .

I am staring at the same sandwich, listening to the same person speak the same words in the same order. I open my mouth to speak about what happened that day at school. I wanted to tell her that Kimi had shown me the color of her bra. It was red! She interrupts me and continues talking, as if I didn't even make a sound, droning on about the latest city board meeting and how they nearly broke out in a fist fight. One person wanting to spend money to pave the streets and the other person wanting to repair a school. I shut my mouth and chewed silently, watching the light snow fall from the grey sky above. The tiny flakes were sparkling like diamonds in the light of the streetlamps. I sit opposite my mother. I feel alone, abandoned and lost.

Next, I have in front of me a small black and white tv. I am watching Wheel of Fortune. I wish she would shut up so that I could hear the phrase that pays from the small speakers.

As each month goes by I retreat further and further inside myself. I grow more silent as the days pass. She isn’t listening to me. She stopped listening long ago. A year passes I haven’t spoken a word. I feel insignificant, alone and abandoned.

I began to remember countless conversations where she lamented that I didn't have a father and that I needed a male role model so that I wouldn't become gay. She would pray with me in the car or at church that God would bring me a male role model to teach me how to become a man.

I sat on my bed with tears streaming down my face. I began to write, “She didn't think she was good enough to be my mother. It wasn't my fault that I was born a male and that she thought that she couldn't parent a boy. If dad hadn't died when I was eleven years old, none of this would have ever happened. He would have been the strong figure in my life instead of her noisy absence. If he was alive she wouldn't fear I would be gay and send me to a closeted gay pastor who repeatedly molested and raped me. Was I so hard to raise? Perhaps, I wasn't good enough for her. Perhaps it was me that she hated. So she pushed me away.”

I got up from my bed, tears dripping off my chin . . .I had a difficult decision to make.

The efforts she had made to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies was not lost on me. I don't want to trivialize those efforts in this work. At the same time the pain of rejection that I was feeling needed to be traced to its source. I needed to sever my contact with her so that I could continue to investigate and heal from the strong feelings of anxiety, rage, and infinitesimal smallness that I felt whenever I was around her. The poison of these feelings was pulsing through my blood and corrupting my core being threatening to hijack my healing process.

The first Wednesday night after my release, the facilitator of my survivors group gave the most important nugget of truth that helped solidify my decision to cut the poison out of my life. Since this moment I have been happier. I had just finished telling the story of how I had been put in a suicide ward and that I was happy that I was still here to continue my life.

The facilitator, Pouria, turned to me and said, “I don't think it was you that you wanted to kill, but that thing inside you that was causing you such intense discomfort. You felt as if the pain inside you would never end. Like everything in our world, nothing is permanent.” He then asked the group, “Why is it that when we are happy, we understand that this happiness feeling will fade away but when we are sad or in deep distress we feel as if it will never go away? Aren't they both emotions of equal validity? They are both equally temporary?”

I was happy to be back home with my family, I really missed them and I was deeply sorrowful that I had put them through so much stress. At the time I didn't understand that I was so very unwell, and as I reflect on it today the words my wife cried to the doctor, “I fear for my safety, my family’s safety. I fear for his safety,” reverberate endlessly in my head. I now know that I was a great deal closer to the ultimate solution than I thought. I must admit that I had a plan and that if I had not been rescued and placed in the hospital it would have only been a matter of days before I would have emptied my head of its contents.

It grieves me terribly to know that I would have missed my family’s future. That I would have missed my children growing up into the wonderful adults they are destined to be. I would have missed walking my beautiful daughter down the aisle. I would have missed my son become a proud father for the first time. I would have missed growing old with my best friend and wife. Upon leaving the hospital, the frigid December air bit at my exposed skin like acid upon raw meat. The sunlight glistened upon the fresh snow like diamonds in a field of blinding bright white. The landscape around me seemed as if everything had changed. Even though I had only been gone for a week, it was as if the world had transformed into something more permanent. I knew the world was always there, but somehow I was seeing it for the first time, experiencing it all over again . . . the cold air, the bright sunlight, the noise of the traffic and the light perfume of automobile exhaust. There was a new longevity in this new experience, as if my own humanity had finally become a part of me.

Although I was experiencing this new embrace to life, in reality I was still in a haze of surrealism. Everything seemed new and fresh, but it was outside of myself. I was floating in a Zen-like fog trying to understand how I fit into this new world. Being with my family was awkward at best. My wife was hovering over me and constantly checking in. I wanted my new state to be all my family saw and responded to, but they saw through the temporary veil of my momentary enlightenment. Maybe my outpatient therapy would make sense of all of this.

iamnotbubba

Power

2014-05-12T16:05:00.000-06:00

It was a crisp, cool morning. The sunlight of a new day opened my weary eyes to endless possibilities. I got up from where I had been sleeping and arched my back in a deep stretch, groaning as my muscles began to relax and go back to their original positions. I wipe the gravel and dirt off my bare back and climbed over the fence. I looked up as I scratch the debris out of my scraggly beard. “Fucking Lemmings!” I bitterly mutter to myself as I watch the people safely cocooned in their shiney automobiles travel the raised highway nearby on their way to work, meetings, or that “damned Starbucks.”

Someone had recently tossed a still burning cigarette onto the street. I picked it up and quickly put the smouldering, lipstick coated coffin nail to my mouth and inhaled deeply. It was just enough smoke for me to feel the nicotine invade the air in my lungs and send it through my body. It was going to be a great day; I just knew it. As was my custom, I walked the nearly three blocks to the Stop and Go where I had stashed my cardboard sign. I felt quite proud of what I had written on it. “Disabled Veteran. Gave everything to my country. All I have left is this sign.” It was a lie and I knew it. I had never served in the armed forces.

The previous day’s booty had been just enough for a Big Mac, small fries and half of a shared heroin laced joint. I enjoyed the way the marijuana mellowed the euphoria of the heroin. After searching a nearby bakery’s waste dumpster for some day old apple fritters, “The best in the city!” I declared holding my prize high in the sky as if it were a trophy. Greedily devouring my reward, I continued on to the corner where I had the most success panhandling, I-15 and Flamingo where I could usually make close to three hundred dollars on the weekend when all the traffic from Los Angeles and other cities in California came to Las Vegas to play. I am not sure what day of the week it was, but it was close to a holiday weekend due to all of the out of state licence plates from traffic piling up on the off ramp where I carried my sign. “Perhaps I will have enough to see my girl tonight.”

Walking back and forth on the broken pavement hurt my feet and made the arthritis in my knees and ankles swell. As the cars passed by I counted the money I had accumulated so far. The Californians haven’t been nearly as generous as they usually were on this day. A few hours more and I had enough money for a good meal at In-and-Out Burgers and possibly a strawberry shake. Honestly they are the only ones that do french fries correctly. If you dip the french fry into the shake, that’s almost as good as. . . (It had been a long time for that anyway, not sure what a good comparison would be.)

A few more hours, I was beginning to get hungry and I had to pee. I knew that if I left my side of the on-ramp to pee or rummage through a trash dumpster nearby I would lose my spot to some other bastard that needed some cash. I finally let go and I could feel the warm liquid of my own urine run down my right leg into my shoe making a small dirty yellow pool in the dirt beneath me. I really hated doing that. I was going to have to re-line the newspaper in my shoes. I had just gotten fresh paper the day before.

Not sure what happened after that, perhaps it was how I had soiled myself while everyone stopped at the traffic light watched. The floodgates opened and the money came pouring out of the car windows after that. Soon, I had enough for dinner, and a show. I would be able to see my girl at the club where she worked. As the fiery Las Vegas summer sun descended in the west, the casinos and hotels became illuminated in such a way that I felt as if I was inside heavens pearly gates. I took a moment to breathe in the view of gold and ruby red windows reflecting in the late day sun. The song “Hotel California” by the Eagles came to mind. As I began the long walk northward on industrial boulevard, I started to sing,

“Such a lovely place, Such a lovely face

Plenty of room at the Hotel California. . .”

By the time I got there, I smelled like stale sweat and rat feces due to where I had slept the night before. I needed a bath. There was a small hole in the fence surrounding a pool at one of the cheap hotels nearby. Sometimes it was easier to do that than try to clean up at a gas station. I was too anxious to see her. I skipped my usual pool bath, “Too many people nearby anyway,” I told myself. “Hopefully, no one will notice. My money is just as good as everyone else.”

As I approached the club, a sense of euphoria, that I could only describe as the same sensation as shooting horse, came over me. My steps were lighter and my pulse quickened. I knew that once I was inside, I would feel the numbing bliss of sexual excitement and family. Yes, family. This strip club, its girls, and the frequent patrons had become my family. Their familiarity gave me a place to belong without having to interact with them if I didn’t want to. We were all here for the same reason. This place was our drug.

“Is Candi here today?” I asked the bouncer working the door.

“Ya, She’s here. But you ain’t. Boy, you smell like shit.” He stood in the doorway using his girth to prevent me from slipping by.

I could smell the perfume and feel the cool air on my face, I was just so close and this dumbass was in my way. He was right, I had pissed myself earlier that day, I had slept in the sewers with the rats biting at my fingertips. I hadn’t even bothered to rinse off in the pool nearby. I smelled like shit because I was shit. Forgotten by everyone around me, I was that one that they used to know.

I was devastated that I was denied access to my home. It was another shot of rejection from another family. Feeling abandoned and knowing I couldn’t change the bouncer’s mind, I turned and walked away.

The highway hummed busily as the thumping music of Spearmint Rhino faded into the distance. I could just hear the announcer call Candi to the stage. I hopped the fence and walked out onto the busy interstate just as the panicked horn of an on-coming Kenworth announced its squealing his brakes as it rushed toward me. I was awash in bright white light. I could smell the brakes burning and watched in slow motion as the semi swerved as he tried to slow. The tires left long, hot streaks across the highway as they protested leaving their tread behind. I did not yell. I only knew what was coming . . .

I opened my eyes and heard the TV downstairs playing. A child was squealing, “We can go, We can go!”

“To the thingamajig!” Martin Short replies as if on cue.

I descended the stairway and find both children cuddled on the couch watching “Cat in the Hat” on PBS. My wife is making pancakes on the stove in the kitchen.

She turns around and looks at me with love, “Good Morning, sleep well?”

I had a cold sweat clothing my body--a leftover effect from my dream. This wasn’t the first time I had seen it. It was my “what could have been.” I had the place picked out in Las Vegas even before I knew what had happened to me.

I was asked by my group what revenge on AFB would look like for me. With the dream still alive in my senses, I realized that I was living my revenge. AFB didn’t care what the consequences of his actions would be for me or his other victims. He did not see beyond himself and his own base needs. I realized that AFB would never care if I was that homeless guy without a life or if I was what I am today.

My wife and I had a conversation about my healing journey, and as she always does (annoyingly) she helped me realize that a violent revenge fantasy would not matter to AFB because he doesn’t care enough about me to worry about my revenge. She told me that I had a victim’s mentality. If I wanted to grow from a victim to a survivor I would have to let the revenge part go. She didn't force me into believing I had to forgive him. She was helping me understand that in hating him and plotting against him, I was giving him all of the power. I was allowing him to have vengeance over me again. I need to learn how to take back my power.

iamnotbubba

juxtaposition

2014-04-25T19:13:00.000-06:00

juxtaposition

Curled into a ball I gaze out upon the world from between my knees. Distrust and fear, the world has become my snare. I never expected this to be true.

He was a good man. A religious man. A pastor, my father-in-proxy. Those poor Catholics, embarrassed by scandal. If they would be allowed to marry this could never happen. I went to a Pentecostal church. The leaders are allowed to marry. It won't happen in my church. I am safe in my church. There are good people in my church.

If I hold myself tight like this so I won't explode. The world won't be able to get me. I am unsafe.

He was just wrestling with those boys. He never did anything wrong. I am glad it wasn't me. I wonder where he is now. I am sure his resignation was overblown. Those poor Catholics, that could never happen in my church. The receptionist was right outside. She would have heard something. Those old church building’s made of stone and concrete. It would be hard to hear the cries of a boy. I saw him in his office once, he gave me good advice. He was a good man. Everyone respected him.

My body hurts from contorting myself like this. I don't understand my world anymore.

He wrestled with me and taught me how to dance. That’s not so bad. Father figures are supposed to teach those things. Those poor Catholics, the priest used religion and a false sense of fatherhood to manipulate the innocent boys. That would never happen in my church. The bible teaches against that. I don't think the Catholics read the bible anymore. If they read the bible, they would know that behavior was wrong and put a stop to it.

If I unfold a little bit to give my body relief, I can grasp onto the couch. I am vulnerable.

It was only a spanking. Fathers are supposed to discipline their children and correct bad behavior. I was smoking cigarettes, chewing tobacco, and hanging out with non-christians. I deserved to be corrected. I shouldn't have kissed that girl. Those poor Catholics, the priests must have been gay who raped those young boys, that is unacceptable. That would never happen in my church. Fathers who have wives and children are definitely not gay. My pastor wasn't gay. He wouldn't be allowed to minister if he was gay. None of the gay men I know would do something like that.

I pull the heavy blanket over my head, hoping the weight will give relief to the twisting muscles in my lower digestive tract.

My world has collapsed. Just like those poor Catholics. I have been brought down to sub humanity. He used his role as a father against me. He moved his receptionist further away from his office. He used religion against me. He covered over his sexuality and I suffered. He did this, not me. He did the same things to me as those poor Catholics.

I peek out from under my safety blanket. To observe the world around me.

He did this. It wasn't my fault. He did this. The world is an inhumane place.

iamnotbubba

Redirect the Shame

2014-04-21T15:49:00.002-06:00

Your shame was too heavy, so you put it on me.

Accustomed to your shame, like an invisible cloak, I hid from everyone.

Your shame became my shame.

Clutching it close like gollum's “precious” I became the shame.

My life, my love, all became one, the precious you placed on me.

In despair and desperation I cried out,

“It’s not mine! It’s not mine! but thine!”

Haven’t we all as survivors unknowingly carried the burden given to us by the perpetrator? The shame and horror I feel centers around something I had no choice in. I was innocent, I was a boy, an empty shell, a non-participant. The shame I felt kept this secret hidden from me for over 20 years until I was ready to discover what it was.

Because of the actions of others, shame is in us, it is a part of us, it creates part of our perception of the universe around us. It compels us to do things we don't want to do. Shame controls us. Shame is silent, Shame begs to be kept in the dark. Shame has power when no one speaks. Yet the shame is not us. It is not who we are now. It was placed upon us by those who were weak and cowardly.

I refuse to keep the shame that held me silent for so many years. I refuse to keep the shame that threatened to destroy my family and all I worked for. I will speak and speak and speak until the shame no longer holds the power over me that it once held. I will speak and speak until the shame is but a nightmare from a long time ago.

I believe if we as a collective survivor group can refuse the shame or “redirect the shame” back onto those who once placed it upon us, we will find strength we didn't know we had. We will find hope that was lost long ago. We will realize our dreams of happiness, love and family.

What does it mean to “redirect the shame”? Do not be embarrassed or afraid to tell your story. It is not your fault. YOU were not wrong and committed no wrongdoing. Do not be afraid to speak up when someone makes a joke about things such as rape or molestation that seems so commonplace in our society--it’s not okay. It is okay to not accept blame or responsibility or to hide what happened so you don’t embarrass others. Your victimization is not an embarrassment to you, but the person or people who committed the CRIME and allowed it to happen. If your house gets robbed, you don’t blame yourself. If someone steals your car, you aren’t ashamed to tell others what happened--you tell people without hesitation.

I believe that we as a collective survivor group as we learn to “redirect the shame” we will find independence from those shameful shackles that compels us to hide, to cover up and lie to others. I believe in redirecting the shame we will then create our own independence day.

I believe that we as a collective survivor group, as we find the lost voice and speak what could not be spoken we will heal from what could not be mended. By “redirecting the shame” perhaps one day we can end this scourge upon humanity.

Iamnotbubba

www.perpetuallyhealing.com

Supposed To

2014-04-14T09:05:00.001-06:00

Supposed to

I am so very proud of my children. Landmarks of development and growth occur every day. My son has started kindergarten this year. My daughter, is in second grade and wants to join the Girl Scouts. As a parent/survivor how am I to cope with this inherent almost primal desire to cut the parental umbilical cord and venture out into the world on their own? How am I to cope with a dangerous and gruesome world that cares nothing for the young and weak. How am I to cope with this reality without locking my children in the basement just to keep the boogeyman from doing to them what he did to me?

This week my daughter comes home from her first “Brownie” meeting. It was located in a church building near my home. As she began to tell me of all the fun she had, I looked at her solemnly and asked, “Did you feel safe there?”

Exasperated like the thousands of times I have asked her the same question before, she rolled her eyes at me, and said, “Yes daddy. You are supposed to feel safe at church.”

The words echoed in my mind. A question I just couldn't dismiss right away. You are supposed to feel safe at church. You are supposed to feel safe at school. You are supposed to feel safe at home among parents that are supposed to love you.

“Supposed to.”

Presumed to be true or real without conclusive evidence.

In my younger years I thought that as well. I was supposed to feel safe at church; supposed to feel safe with my pastor; supposed to receive safe counseling and guidance from the leader of the largest church in the city; supposed to grow into a whole, well adjusted human being.

I looked into my daughters bright, innocent blue eyes as she looked to me to confirm her preconception that churches are indeed safe places for girls and boys. I wanted to say “no” that churches are not safe. You should never darken the door of any church building if you want to stay innocent and trusting.

My heart sunk at the thought of what happened so many years ago. My own sense of safety stolen from me in a way I am not sure I will ever recover from. Churches are not places I feel safe. How do I tell my own flesh and blood, my daughter, that she is` “supposed to” feel safe in a place I can't even enter without terror and rage bubbling in my soul. Flashbacks of a betrayal and abuse by a man who should have been safe are always with me.

Instead, my reply, “Yes my love, churches are supposed to be safe. Yet, you must be aware of your surroundings at all times. No matter where you are.”

I hope I said the right thing. I just can only pray that she will be safe from the monsters that lurk everywhere, in churches and schools, in friends homes and dark alleyways. I pray my children will be safe. After all thats what you are supposed to do, right?

iamnotbubba