I thought I would focus on a couple of things my therapist discussed with me during our time together. Face to face, I mean. That latest session was full of moments where I saw things clearly for the first time. Subjects I had touched on before, here in chat and with him — snippets of conversation that had made me curious, or caused me to ask questions, or to ponder things. Being together and having the time to ask questions and follow things to their conclusion meant I had the opportunity to explore and understand stuff properly. Until I really grasped it. Until it shifted my thinking.
When we first started, he talked to me about dissociation. He explained that it was okay that I did it. That I had developed this skill to protect myself. It wasn’t something to be ashamed of, or to hide, or to worry about if it happened — even in the middle of talking or an exercise. Let it happen. Relax. He would wait. We would pick up when it had passed.
It helped me so much to have it treated as a normal part of me. Gradually, I managed to not be self-conscious about it. By the end of the week, it was hardly happening. I could feel it nearby, but I didn’t feel the need of it. Trusting someone helped a lot. The sense of him understanding what it was, and me adapting to the idea that it was nothing to be ashamed about, made it feel normal and okay for the first time in my life. I haven’t needed to dissociate since I left his side — the longest I have ever gone without doing it. Almost scared to mention it in case I break the spell.
I feel like it’s there if I need it — but I also feel a calm confidence that I don’t, that I can manage without it. And if it happens, it happens. It’s okay. It’s what it was designed for: to protect me and keep me safe.
The other thing we talked about was a little more complicated — and I’ve been fascinated by it since. I keep returning to it, playing with the concept. I see it in others. I see it from different angles in myself. One day I asked him: what about the eternal question, ‘why me?’ Why did my abuser pick me? Was it how I looked? Was it that I was flirty, giving out the wrong message? Did I look likely to succumb? Was I naive, easily seduced? Was I just an idiot who couldn’t spot what was happening? I’m sure every one of us has asked a form of that question.
Our natural instinct is to blame ourselves. We struggle to look over our shoulders and understand what it was they saw in us. And we look through adult eyes, forgetting how we behaved and reacted as children.
His answer — and this is just my impression of it, not a direct quote — was simple: an abuser can spot an unprotected boy. If a boy is raised in a loving home — with love and support, where things are discussed openly, where sex and sexuality are talked about honestly and safely — then if an abuser touches that boy, he knows it’s wrong. He challenges it. He goes back to his parents and asks for help.
But an unprotected boy — a boy without love, a damaged boy, a boy alone — is an open target. In the absence of love and support and care, he is vulnerable to being seduced — offered love and hugs and affection. Things he craves. Things he hasn’t had.
It was like having a bucket of iced water poured over my head. It made perfect sense. The absolute clear reason why it had happened. It wasn’t about what I did or said or how I behaved. It was about what had been done to me. And what had not been done for me. The things that should have been said. The things I should have been taught. The years of absence from all the things a boy needs to feel nurtured, loved, protected.
Unprotected, you are vulnerable to attack. You are susceptible to the attention of people who know exactly what they’re doing. With laser-like precision, they spot the unprotected boy — and they move in like wolves. And we don’t stand a chance. Because we don’t even see it coming. Unprotected.
This concept helped me so much. Simple and clear. It explained why I could never make sense of it. Why it always baffled me. The boy I was had been shaped by all the absence, all the lack — and it was obvious to anyone who knew what to look for. An unprotected boy is an obvious thing. And they move in for the kill. We don’t hear them coming. We don’t know what danger looks like. We are at a disadvantage. We are unprotected.
Being a survivor is a weird thing. Sometimes a little piece of information like this can have a huge impact. It kind of fits into your understanding. It slides into place. It alters the whole picture. Sometimes it’s about hearing it at the right moment, being in the right frame of mind, or just applying it at the right time.
This one stayed with me for weeks. I keep seeing it in others. I keep wanting to explain it to people. It feels like a key to so many things. Once you get it — once you see it in your own timeline — it stops that endless questioning in your head.
It contributes to that most important realisation of all: oh… not my fault.
a blog less ordinary 