full collection links 1- 10 . 11-20 . 21-30
Six weeks. I clicked on a link six weeks ago yesterday. A life-changing, line in the sand, never-be-the-same-again click.
I have never had so little sleep. I can’t seem to focus on anything else. It feels all-encompassing. There’s nowhere else I want to be, nothing else I want to think about. Considering how little I have said about it for so long, it feels a bit weird. Takes a little getting used to.
I seem to have acquired some friends. I’m not really sure how. I mean, I have friends, it’s not as if I’m unfamiliar with the concept. As a general rule, they took longer to achieve and it was a more painful process. I was more cautious, more mistrusting of people out there in the world.
Here something strange happens. I find myself talking about dark, intense, intimate things that I would never say elsewhere. To people I have no idea where they live, what they look like, what they do for work. It matters not a jot. For some reason, we just dive right in.
Maybe the survivor thing is a great leveller. Maybe we all start at the same place so it’s easy to assume certain things. They are going to understand. I can tell them because they will tell me a similar story. There’s no shame in our shame, no fear in our fears. Everybody here is the opposite of everyone out there. Here they get it. Nobody ever got it like they get it. Ok, I get it. Dive in.
I do wonder if I will ever stop adding things to the list of what’s wrong with me. I have found comments in reports from years ago where professionals agreed on some of the conditions I have. Never told me. I know I was a child but it might have been nice if they had mentioned it at some point.
Talking about all this abuse stuff means I have been triggered, had nightmares, and less sleep than at any other time in my life. I decided not to stress about it. That would just make it worse. I assume, in time, it passes and things return to normal.
The Mentor is a welcome addition to my life. The dictionary defines a mentor as an experienced and trusted advisor, and I can confirm that both are true. Not quite sure how we fell into this relationship.
On the face of it, just another hello, a chat, the odd question. Maybe it’s in the way I answer questions. The obvious need for help and guidance. The slight confusion barely hidden in every response.
There’s something about this relationship that bothered me for quite some time. On the face of it, there are questions and lots of discussion. A lot of emotional upheaval as I face things. A steep learning curve that meant I was battling a bit of panic. It took a while, but I think I understand what it is now.
There’s nothing he has done at all. If anything, he is beyond reproach. Patient, understanding. He will produce another angle if I don’t quite get something. He very quickly understood me. Stood right where I was and built my confidence. Kept pace with me. Pauses when I need time to meander and explore. Knows when I’m done with something for now.
The father I never had. Not in a boy searching for a father figure way. Not some weird, twisted emotional need. Just that. The father I never had. A better version. Patient, caring, teaching, nurturing. Everything he should have been but never was.
It took me a while to see it. Slowly it became obvious what I was doing. I’m responding to somebody taking the time to teach me. As I understand something, I grow in confidence. I start to believe that I can learn about this and that it will be ok. I feel nurtured. And I don’t think I ever saw nurture often as a child. It’s a new experience. And not only am I learning and changing — I’m enjoying it.
It’s the inner young teen that’s responding. It’s him that has a need for this kind of attention and care. Him that yearns for someone to bother, to explain, to encourage. Yesterday, pulling on the thread of a thought, I remembered where I had seen this before.
At my school. In the middle of all the abuse and the sex and the trauma and the damage, there was this man. My English teacher. He wore a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, could fly a plane, drove a fast car, had passion, taught me how to really love books. He sparked my imagination. Encouraged me. Believed in me. Taught me to yearn for things, to improve, to grow. I wanted to do well for him. I wanted him to be pleased with me. I wanted to improve. I wanted better for myself.
He would scrawl comments all over my essays with a fountain pen filled with green ink, always encouraging, florid, full of good things. He was just my English teacher. But he was so much more. He fed things in me that nobody else ever bothered with. Things that stayed with me all my life. I have groaning bookshelves because of him. I read books and watch films and want to be the characters, fall in love with their stories — all because he taught me how to do that a hundred years ago.
So, you see, I had this once before. I recognise this relationship because I had one like it many years ago. The same boy has the same need. The same desire. The same anguish. Please teach me. Please show me everything I need to know. Please help me understand so I can be the best version of myself.
And for reasons I can’t begin to fathom, my Mentor just stepped up and started to show me the way
and so it begins
The Open Journal archive can be found here
a blog less ordinary 