These ten entries are recorded and available here
Open Journal #21
Traumasexuality by Peter John Schouten
Clearly I am late to the party. As I am with most things to do with all of this. The Mentor mentioned it, mentioned it in such a way that I paid attention. Thought I would get a copy and have a read. I really don’t do this, you will never see my bookshelf with its own section of self-help books or theories on this or that. Not my thing at all. I like the Malcolm Gladwell 10,000 hours/Tipping Point shtick, but that’s practically pop culture. Whatever he thought he was doing, he became one of those zeitgeist moments at the turn of the century.
I’m a novels, literature, and autobiographies reader. On a beach, a train, waiting around in a hotel lobby, I will always have a book to hand. Martin Amis, John Irving, Douglas Adams, Michael Chabon, David Sedaris, Tintin — that’s my normal view across the bookshelves.
I feel duty bound to warn you against going straight to the publisher, as I did. Maybe it’s the only way to get a copy nowadays. It was expensive to start with and then more again with postage and import taxes. It’s Dutch, so maybe the translation bumped the price. I decided it was about equal to an hour of therapy, so probably worth it.
Yes, I used to live there, yes, I can speak a few sentences, but they are firmly in the ordering of beer and thanking the beer-bringer school of linguistics.
So this was a departure for me. Very much an academic book, and it feels more aimed at therapists than casual survivors. I’ve read it through once and I intend to read it again in the next week or so. I read a bit fast and have a tendency to skip stuff.
I don’t want to say too much because it is one of those things that works best if you read it open-hearted and willing to engage, and me offering a watered down version isn’t fair to the writer. If you have read it, or heard about it, or chattered about it in the chat rooms, then I’m sure you get the general idea.
One second at the start where the abuse explodes in your body and does its damage everywhere. And then a whole book about that and the repercussions. Well of course I’m being flippant — I’m hardly going to write the whole book here am I.
I read that first section about the one second almost breathless. It slotted into me like I had been waiting all my life for someone to explain it that way. A framework for what I always instinctively believed about abuse and what it does to us. I locked into that idea immediately. I was completely receptive to what he was saying.
Often over the years, enough that I know I say it, I have commented that I was lucky I didn’t really notice puberty. No embarrassing voice changes, no acne or spots, hair growth subtle and gradual. Everything so gradual that I assumed I barely noticed it.
And then I read this:
Sexual development is accelerated, halted and influenced. You do not experience or only faintly experience puberty. Your tempo has been raised and as a result you miss the step-by-step discovery of your own sexuality with all its details and refinements that are important for your development.
One line. Now I understand. What kind of harm has that done? Is it the key to other things? Have I ended up in confused places with my sexuality because of that one second? Well obviously. But was I always unwittingly describing the repercussions of the one second? I just didn’t know to call it that.
I am very shaken by the idea of his sexuality being imprinted on me, which the book talks about. I described it recently to The Mentor as if I had a memory chip implanted in me. He taught me sexual things, programmed me to respond and do sexual things. The imprint idea is stomach-wrenchingly accurate to me.
It goes a long way to explaining my sense of sexual identity confusion. I could never explain it. I could never find the right words. Labels never worked. I have always struggled to answer the question what am I. Now I know why. I’m not straight, gay or bi. I am him.
I don’t like that one little bit. I not only identify with that, I feel it completely and utterly. The disgust I feel at that concept extends directly to the disgust I feel about myself. About my sexual feelings. About the things I sexually engage with.
Before coming here and talking to you lot, and that’s a term of affection, I was adamant I had very little use for a therapist. I have shifted slightly on that stance, just a small step to the left, would never step to the right. If I could find an English-speaking therapist trained in the ways of Traumasexuality I would book them tomorrow. Yes don’t worry, I am working on it. I have even considered slipping over to The Netherlands and doing some kind of crash course.
In the meantime, I am perfectly happy to wear the label Traumasexual. To be entirely accurate, if my friends are to be believed, my full title should be MetroTraumaSexual. Now who do I know with a badge maker.
. . .
Open Journal #22
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
. . .
Open Journal #23
I wasn’t talking about this to anyone. Never have. Would never. Had no need.
I started talking to The Mentor about it. Well, because that’s what I do now. I think I started to understand it was at the root of some stuff, and keeping it secret wasn’t helping anything. These are some of the typical scenarios I told him about. I thought maybe if I wrote them here, it would feel less like a secret and more like something I needed to deal with.
My father was always tinkering, fixing things, putting up fences, repairing the car. A common thing was him fixing the car — lying underneath, calling for tools. He would ask for the yellow-handled screwdriver. There would be three yellow-handled screwdrivers. I would pass him the one I thought was right. If it was wrong, he would get angry so quickly, call me useless, throw it at me.
Hit my head, hit my body — he didn’t care. Still no clue which one he actually wanted. Looking back, I tell myself he got angry because I was too stupid to ask. But I would never ask. You didn’t question him. Questioning him was a very bad thing to do. I was probably seven or eight. That kind of scenario happened a lot.
One of my chores was to clean and polish shoes — a lot of shoes. I had to do it by the shed door, inside if it rained. If he was inside and I was standing by the door, and he wanted out, he would just hit me around the side of the head to move me. Wouldn’t say excuse me. Wouldn’t warn me. Just hit me. It happened everywhere.
I was supposed to anticipate him, step aside, pass him something, take something — if I didn’t, I was a fool, and he would hit me. Always hard. Usually a punch. I would say I was treated like a dog, except I own dogs, and I don’t treat them that way either. So I don’t even know what I was treated like. Like I never mattered.
At one point his job was testing concrete on motorways. He would drive hundreds of miles. Sometimes he would take me along — supposed to be a treat. It wasn’t. If I said something stupid, didn’t pass him something fast enough, didn’t hear what he said — he would thump me. Arm, leg, side of the head. Always while driving at speed. I used to worry we would crash. Sometimes he would be lecturing me about some crime, and each point would be punctuated with a punch. I hated lists.
For many years, my father managed a big DIY store — smaller than a Home Depot, bigger than a hardware shop. School holidays and weekends, I would work there. Travel into town with him. Get breakfast. Go to the store. Before staff arrived, before the shop opened.
If, during that hour or so, I did anything to anger him, he would grab the back of my collar, haul me off my feet, drag me into the back warehouse, and punch and kick me. Wanted me back there so nothing in the shop would get broken. Just me.
All of it happened just him and me. Nobody ever saw. There was nobody to tell. I lived in constant fear of doing something wrong and deserving to be hit. It was my own fault. I should have done it properly. I should have listened. Paid attention. The pain was real. He hurt me every time. He did it for years. It only stopped when I left home at fifteen. But the fear stayed. Every time I was around him, even years later, I was careful what I said and did.
I was always bruised. Ribs, stomach, backside. Always places that couldn’t be seen. He was always ready with excuses — clumsy boy, fell out of trees, tripped over his own feet. I didn’t. I hadn’t. I wasn’t. I was beaten. That’s what I was.
I have no idea why I never spoke of it. It was just the way my life was. Even when I spoke about sexual abuse, I didn’t see this as abuse. It was always a footnote. I sort of understood that maybe it made me damaged, easier for an abuser to get to. But that wasn’t a thought. More like a vague shadow in the back of my mind.
Now that I’m talking about it, I’m dreaming about it. I wake up thinking about the dreams, and realise they aren’t dreams. They’re memories. Things I know. Things I remember. Things I don’t really remember, but now I do.
It’s a weird thing to talk about. It never really comes up in conversation. Now that I’ve mentioned it here, a couple of people have said they were also… what? Beaten? Hit? Abused violently? I don’t even know the language for it.
What do I say? He punched, slapped, kicked. Hit me with sticks, umbrellas, shoes, rolled-up newspapers, anything to hand. He came from a generation that believed that was how you raised children. That it was his right.
I have nephews, nieces, friends with kids. I have been a foster parent to teen boys. Never once have I even felt the urge to slap them, let alone punch them. I have no idea where that urge comes from in a father.
As a child, I never understood what I had done to deserve it. I still don’t. The crime was always small. The retribution always huge.
I think it destroyed my self-worth. My self-esteem. Probably my ability to trust anyone. I can’t be sure — I have nothing to compare it with. About twenty years ago, when making police statements, I was assessed by some professor who said I had PTSD. Recently I took an online test for CPTSD. Scored very high. I think that’s probably right. I think I could put money on where that started.
In which case, I’ve had it for a very long time. I suppose the next step is figuring out what I do about it. He’s dead and gone. There are no answers there.
I think I’ll walk with it for a while. See what else I remember. Try to understand. Walk around the edges, see how it feels.
Weirdly, I worry that dealing with it is going to hurt as much as living through it did. Which somehow feels a little unfair. It already hurt me. Why should it get another go.
I spoke with a couple of kind people here last night. Tried to explain what I was feeling. I don’t know if they understood. I think they did. But it all feels swirly in my head when I talk about it. I’ve spent so long not speaking about it, it feels wrong when I do.
Maybe I need a different website for this.
Because it isn’t sexual abuse.
Oh, and one for my fear of spiders.
. . .
Open Journal #24
In the interest of balance, I thought I would talk about some good things. I have released my Mentor for the holidays. My Christmas present to him — me not whining into his inbox on a daily basis. I will do this and another post, then take a break for a bit over the holidays. For all our sakes. I think I would like to see what it’s like to try not thinking about all of this stuff all of the time. Yes, I will probably still be in chat on a nightly basis as nothing changes and we march relentlessly on, but the intention was a good one.
I have felt very reclusive since coming here. Not seeing people, dealing with a lot of stuff, feeling emotional. I didn’t have the headspace for anything. The other day, circumstances meant I needed to run some errands and do the things that needed doing. So for two days, I went out into the big wide world and interacted and did the things.
I was tired and even worried about driving, in case my concentration wasn’t up to it. I was also aware that my PTSD, (still never quite sure how to refer to it), has been oversensitive to noise and sensory stuff lately, making me a little anxious about being out in the wild. Crisp day, and I love driving and listening to music, so my mood lifted a little as I sat in the car. I returned to the house to get my phone and did the whole thing over again.
First job was to get a haircut. Christmas haircuts are a rule. Photos will be taken at random moments and you can at least ensure that you are presentable and not have to live with odd images of yourself for years to come. My barber is young and chatty. He knows I used to own a record shop, so he always has things for me to listen to and we chatter about music.
Barbers do a lot of touching — back of the neck, ears, moves your head, strokes your hair. I know it’s normal, I know it doesn’t mean anything, I know it’s okay. And I don’t. At one point, he leaned forward and said quietly into my ear, “I like when you come in, you always make me laugh.”
I nearly cried. No idea why. It felt intimate, and a nice thing to say. I told him I liked to see him too. I didn’t mention all the touching; he didn’t need to know about that. My problem, not his. I left tidier, and feeling like that was a good start to the day.
Ran a few errands and then headed to the Apple Store, which I love. I’ve visited them all over the world. Full of shiny toys. I had permission to update my very out-of-date MacBook. I also had an Apple Pencil that wouldn’t charge. Secured an appointment for that and passed the waiting time spending too much money.
A funny, articulate, informed young woman helped me narrow it down to the right choice. We clicked. The kind of person you want to grab a coffee with and find out more about. Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I used to train staff to use Macs, and if I had my life again I would work for Apple. That or be a barrister.
As we finished the purchase, she said they were ready for me at the Genius Bar and started walking me that way. I asked what she was doing, and she grinned and said, “Oh, I’m not ready to leave all the laughter yet. I thought I would introduce you to my friend who’s going to take care of you.” Which is what we did. For ten minutes, we just included her friend and had that coffee without the actual coffee. Good experience.
The Apple Pencil wasn’t working because the iPad had a fault with the little charging bit, so they replaced the iPad. AppleCare+, which we need because of the crippling effect of losing a device halfway across the world at a crucial moment. Or in my case, the moment a MacBook screen went black just before a week of hectic work far from home. They fixed it within the hour and saved my life. Which is why it’s one of those things we can’t manage without.
I left with the promise they would get a replacement ASAP and went on my way. Got in a crowded lift, commented to a couple of women with a cute baby in a pram that that was the way to shop — get wheeled around and sleep when you felt like it. At that point, the lift stopped, doors opened, and a good-looking man beside me pointed to the door and said, “There’s a trolley there, hop in and I’ll wheel you about for the afternoon.” Lift full of people laughing at my red face. He grinned at me. I politely declined his kind offer. Fun.
Funny little moment the other morning: took a delivery at the front door and offered a chocolate from a bowl of wrapped Lindt chocolates as a little Christmas treat. The delivery boy mused and carefully took three different ones. I mean, how rude. Made us giggle a lot. You take a chocolate, right?
So. I have had a haircut and feel half-human. I am sitting here typing this on the most beautiful new MacBook that is all smooth and sexy. I have a new iPad for nothing. I must have been a very good boy. I don’t actually remember especially being good, but I decided it was best if I didn’t say anything about that.
And yes, I know it isn’t Christmas yet, so technically I shouldn’t have my MacBook yet, but the deal was this: my wife hates shopping, I love shopping, and if she can’t be bothered to buy it and wrap it and make it a proper present, then she loses the right to lay down loads of rules.
I think I might write about favourite Christmas music for my next post. Let’s face it, probably the only week of the year you can.
. . .
Open Journal #25
I understand that Christmas isn’t great for everyone, and maybe here we have a higher percentage of bah humbug than you might expect from your average crowd. We are swamped with adverts and hammered with the message of peace and goodwill until we want to kill with our bare hands, which is, you know, a little off message.
For survivors, I imagine it’s fraught with difficulty. Families gather, all the things we struggle with get amplified, and we want to retreat and remove ourselves from all the hullabaloo. Some years the wife and I make the effort — we might agree to attend a family gathering, we have been known to stay at a hotel and pick up the tab for a family lunch. (People behave better in public and relax when someone else is paying.)
Often, though, we prefer our own company and pick and choose the bits we want to engage with. We try to avoid the excess of presents, food and drink, and if we’re hosting, we try to spoil and treat people without it becoming an eating competition.
For years we’ve established that shortly after breakfast, it’s best to open a good bottle of chilled champagne and sip it throughout the morning. It ensures the right level of festive feelings and avoids having to drive, use sharp knives, or get into any arguments. (“You know how he gets when he’s had a drink.”) It’s the Christmas equivalent of running with scissors. “He’s been drinking champagne all morning, don’t let him near/give him those/allow him to…” Hey, it works for me.
If you’re on your own, I say go with the specific things you enjoy, no matter what anyone else might think. It’s your Christmas — tailor it to your likes and indulgences. Who’s going to know? Make sure you have plenty of your tipple of choice and your best snack selection.
I love Christmas music. So much so that the wife has imposed a ban on Christmas playlists until December 1st. I have a classical/jazz/carols mix for mellow background setting, a pop/brash/classics playlist for Christmas driving, and a definitive Christmas playlist made up of tracks that make Christmas feel like Christmas. Here’s a handful:
The Raveonettes ~ The Christmas Song
A friend pointed me toward this a few years ago and it instantly became a seasonal staple. Many a Christmas traffic jam has been spent singing along to this.
Smith & Burrows ~ When The Thames Froze
A different friend declared this one of his favourites a few years back, and a load of us jumped on it. It has the right melancholic tone to appeal to the British sardonic approach to Christmas spirit, with a touch of northern brass band for good measure.
Darlene Love ~ All Alone On Christmas
The joyous theme song for Home Alone 2, by one of the voices behind Phil Spector’s Christmas Album.
Wham ~ Last Christmas (Pudding Mix)
The video is a masterclass in how Christmas will look when we win the lottery: snow everywhere, log cabins, friends, drink, and diamonds for everyone.
Diana Krall & Michael Bublé ~ Alone Again Naturally
Not a Christmas song exactly, but it has that sad undertone that fits the season. Originally written by Gilbert O’Sullivan, whose songs haunted the British charts in the 70s. Great lyrics.
Happy Christmas — whatever that means to you.
And that’s it for this year. See you in 2025.
. . .
Open Journal #26
Happy New Year
I am struggling to be all positive and bright as we start this year. The broken sleep and the endless nightmares are starting to annoy me now. There was a discussion somewhere about how when we nap during the day, we’re not asleep long enough for REM sleep to kick in, so we don’t dream during day sleep. Which might explain why I prefer it at the moment. I’ve certainly found it to be true. It almost feels deeper and more satisfying, but sometimes leaves me feeling slightly woolly-headed afterwards.
I cut all contact with The Mentor over Christmas. That sounds a bit drastic, but he deserved a break from my whining, and I wanted to see if I could try and regain some semblance of normality. I stopped writing this journal and tried to reduce my visits to the chat room. I still hung out there during my night, but tried to restrict myself to that.
I’m not sure what I proved. The sleep pattern stayed broken, and I struggled to keep my balance. I missed The Mentor to bounce things off, and the moment I hit anything tough, I realised the lack of support in my real life. Well, of people who understand properly. You know what I mean. They’re not you.
I decided to download The Body Keeps the Score. It kept being mentioned, and I figured one more book wouldn’t kill me. It made me think. A lot. It pulled together various bits and pieces — half-heard ideas explained properly, and whole things I knew nothing about. I kept putting it down and musing on what I’d just read, realising there were reasons why I felt, or acted, or thought the way I did.
It helped me with the whole “it’s not my fault” thinking that I still struggle to hold onto. If all this stuff is known to happen, if it’s been happening to my brain and body for decades, then maybe there’s an explanation for the life I’ve had.
It also led me somewhere inevitable. I need a therapist. I can’t do the next bit on my own. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m a little scared of what’s waiting, but I know enough to know that I don’t know enough.
My starting point is to find a therapist well-versed in the whole Traumasexuality worldview. Failing that, a good trauma therapist. No idea where to start. Here, everything NHS is long waiting lists and a little too fond of CBT, which feels like therapy lite.
If I end up doing EMDR, I’d prefer that to be at the say-so of a therapist I have a relationship with, someone who agrees it’s appropriate. I don’t feel equipped to make that decision alone.
The cost of going private here is hideous, and while I subscribe to the idea that it’s worthwhile, there are two things I want to avoid. I want to avoid the expensive mistake of shopping around therapists. And I have no intention of doing this for years. I want a plan. I want to know where we’re heading. When we get there, I’ll cope with the rest myself.
Yes, I can hear you forming your argument and tsk-tsk-tsk, but there’s one factor that overrules it all. I don’t have that much life left. I’m not spending a significant chunk of my remaining years sitting with strangers talking about my problems. Navel-gazing has never been a hobby of mine, no matter how it might look over the last few weeks.
I read a comment somewhere — sorry, I’ve forgotten where — but it stuck. It said:
“You do know that he never touched you for the intention of giving you pleasure? He only touched you because he enjoyed it.”
That had never occurred to me. Probably very true.
And why had I never thought that before? Why would I imagine it was anything else? Why do we normalise their behaviour, even to the point of making excuses? We’ll take the blame before we’ll acknowledge that there’s nothing normal about touching a child. Our starting point should always be: unacceptable behaviour. Now, what was the question?
I’ve got to the part of the book explaining neurofeedback. Fascinating. Attach electrodes to your head, control a game on a screen, and train your brain. (That’s what I heard.) Better success rates than drugs, non-invasive, long-lasting results. Over here, it’s £2k for a course of treatment. I should have asked for it as my Christmas present. Maybe next year.
This entry feels disjointed, and probably is. It’s representative of my headspace at the moment, so I’m just posting it as is.
64 days since I first walked into this glittery little world, and I might be more confused than when I started. I still think it’s going really well and worth all the sleepless nights. Members of this eclectic group assure me that over time things get better. Not one will put a time frame on it.
A myriad of theories. Opinions galore. Facts by the dozen.
Try finding one person who will commit to a timeline… worse than hiring a builder.
. . .
Open Journal #27
Someone gave me a link to some interesting stuff for me to read, I was always the kid who read the back of cereal packets, I will read anything. In this case I am finding it thought provoking.
It mentioned the phrase ‘self soothe’, never heard it before. Asked wife if she had come across it and she explained that I was rubbish at self soothing and she spends quite a lot of time soothing me because I had never known how to do it for myself. Starting to wonder if wife is taking the opportunity to score a few points along the way.
We talked about it while I gradually became more and more horrified how hard it must be to live with me. I was under the illusion, now shattered, that I was reasonably self aware. Seems I am not self very much at all at the moment.
I do the basics, music self soothes me. I have a pair of amazing noiseless ear buds that close off the world and wrap me in whatever I want to immerse myself in. As much as that soothes I also use them to cut me off and distance me from the world when I want to isolate myself. Which is probably less healthy
I like long baths with a good book or with the ear buds, Chopin and a cup of tea. I have a thing for sitting in hotel lobbies/bars writing, with an amazing view, I never mind waiting for people, usually my wife as she finishes up something really important. I have no idea what she does, she is like Chandler, nobody has a clue what she does and nobody is brave enough to ask in case she tells us and we don’t understand the answer.
It is the bigger things like anger, rage and panic, they are the ones I have no idea about. They wash over me and engulf me in strong powerful feelings. No idea where they come from and no idea how to deal with them when they arrive. They just consume me. It feels as if it has always been thus but I can’t imagine I was born like it. So like most things I currently ponder over, I just assume it originates in trauma and am none the wiser. A prisoner with no prospect of parole.
One of the other things I read was a definition of the three types of abuse. Physical, Emotional and Sexual. Wife and I reviewed them together, I was pretty clear about the sexual abuse, seemed a bit unnecessary to review but for the sake of completion we went through the list. Never in any doubt really.
The Physical abuse is a new area, I mean I know I was, I have just never discussed it or thought about what it involved. It made me very sad to see it all written down and to think about how I had been treated. I am currently in that mode where the more I think about it the more I remember and the more the memory of it hurts. I have no idea what to do with it all and I fear that somewhere along the line I am going to have to actually speak about it and I am not sure that I have words to describe it.
What I find especially weird is that I have done this once before, this is what disclosing sexual abuse felt like. So in one sense I know what the road looks like and also the problem is, I know what the road looks like. Not sure I want to do that journey again. Maybe I can just say I did but not bother, who is gonna know? Maybe this time I should try it with a therapist maybe that makes it easier. Or maybe they ask difficult and annoying questions like ‘how does that make you feel?’
Then we looked at Emotional Abuse and I almost just glanced and dismissed it, but as we started to go through the list I was horrified to realise that we were adding this as well. Wife confirmed that I clearly had the set. In a rational and adult way I immediately blamed the person who had given me these things to read. Oh they know who they are and I suspect they knew what they were doing. New rule, stop reading stuff!
That was 24 hours ago and I am still adjusting to the idea. It has overwhelmed me and upset me. I was only just coping with the sexual abuse and all that brings. This feels as if I will never get out from under it.
i have these strange chain of thoughts, almost a third of my life was spent being abused in one way or another and that feels significant and important. I start to wonder what chance i ever really had and it crowds my mind that i don’t understand why. Any one of the three would be tough to deal with and it feels a little unfair. It explains the dysfunction that i feel about how i relate to people, or don’t relate to them. I have a deep mistrust of people’s motives and am wary of anybody trying to befriend me. It takes me forever to trust people enough to confide in them.
I once had the experience of discovering i had a half brother. A black belt in karate as it happens. I flew over to meet him and stayed a few days. At one point i was smoking a cigarette in his back garden and he came out to talk to me, i made some half joking smart ass comment and he grabbed my by the throat and pushed me against a wall and threatened me, i was terrified and it made me very wary of him. I mention it because looking back it feels as if everywhere i turned there were abusive people in my life.
Except here, it is the reason I am so befuddled by the relationships here. How I have reacted to meeting people here is so out of character and confusing. In the real world I would be polite but cautious and careful. It would take me forever to call someone a friend. I’m not an idiot, I am not about to climb into the back of a van to see the puppies. For some reason I have felt comfortable enough to switch filters to off.
My usual assumption that no man is to be trusted had just melted away. I am constantly amazed at how much i learn and how much i laugh with you all. Maybe without my normal shields i am relaxed. Maybe it is the feeling that nobody is here to hurt me.
I am trying to see all of this information as a definition of symptoms and damage that has already happened to me. Nothing has changed I just have some words to describe the damage. The damage was already done, the damage has already done its worst. I have been living with the damage for a very long time. It was just longer than I thought. It was just more than I thought. It was probably just deeper than I thought.
At the moment it feels as if I am more damage than anything else.
That is a lot to think.
. . .
Open Journal #28
Part One ~ Looking for a Therapist
When I read the book Traumasexuality, I felt it would be amazing if I could find a therapist who was trained in this stuff. It clicked with me, so much so that immediately and completely I shifted in my thinking and I could see the possibility of having a therapist.
I had a little look around, the author is Dutch and has a training academy in Holland. I lived in Holland for a few years, in fact I was married there, but never learnt the language well enough to go on a course. You would not believe how good their English is. I could find no talk of therapists and no information anywhere.
Nothing in the UK at all, no mention of the book and nobody applying it in their practise. With Christmas and New Year fast approaching and I decided it was the wrong time of the year to try and talk to people. I left it alone.
I really did not imagine it was going to be possible, but I thought it was maybe worth exploring and maybe I could find someone who would be willing to do online sessions. Then again how would I find them. Lowered my expectations and decided I should settle for finding a good trauma therapists. A problem for the New Year.
After the holidays I decided I would make a concerted effort to see if I could find a traumasexual expert. I went to their website and spent time translating blocks of text to see if I could find any clues. Eventually I came across a sentence that referred to a list of therapists they had trained, but they were not recommending, just listing. Found the list.
The criteria i started with was, male, speaks English, is willing to do online, trained in Traumasexual stuff, that I like and feel I can talk to, oh and who thinks they can fix me.
I looked at all the men and read their websites. Kept returning to one, I was drawn to how he wrote and what he had to say. Summoned up some courage and made the call. Answer machine. Hang up. Not sure what to say. Have a think about it.
Ten minutes later he called me, curious who was calling him from the UK. We chatted for about ten minutes or so. He made me laugh five times so you know, done deal. We agreed to meet online in a couple of days. When I hung up I cried and was shaking. I had no idea why. There was something about this first step that felt massive. As an added bonus he lives and works in Utrecht and Rotterdam, both places i have lived and know well.
I was equally excited and scared, i also feel odd that in a few weeks i have gone from absolutely never going to happen, to being on the brink of signing up. I put it down to all i have learnt and realising i need help but maybe there is also a sense of it being the right time.
We are meeting today and i have woken up feeling anxious and a whirl of emotions.
Yesterday i had a day nap and decided to try something, i placed a small speaker on my bedside table and played an apple playlist of sleep sounds very low volume. I slept deeply and soundly. So at night time i decided to go one step further. i wore my noiseless ear buds to bed and played the same playlist. It worked very well indeed. At 1.30am a voice said very loudly LOW BATTERY, i jumped awake absolutely terrified.
So i will need to nap today because i am so tired and so tense. Since agreeing to do this, at least a dozen times i have thought about it and from the centre of my being i start to cry. It feels as if my inner child is relieved, as if inside i have wanted this help for a very long time.
Part Two ~ Finding a Therapist
I have a found a therapist. We met online and talked. Within twenty minutes it felt as if we had known each other for years. I have no idea if it was because I was ready to do this, or he was just very likeable, or maybe just that whole run into someone you instantly click with thing.
I had written a sketch overview so we had a head start when we met, I had explained about my violent father, he told me he thought my father was a coward and i immediately thought ‘well he better not get to hear about that cos he will be really mad with you’. He is dead. I think there is very definitely some work to do there.
He told me he was a father of three boys and from deep inside i had this thought really clearly ‘oh good then you can father me properly’ and it made me feel so calm.
I told him that i had decided i was going to answer any questions honestly even if it made me look bad or made me uncomfortable. He said, ‘good when would you like to start?’ I said, ‘right away’. He then fired a load of questions at me, then after a while he grinned and said, ‘you weren’t kidding were you, this is gonna be fun’ … great i got a funny one !
I was told to take my time, i was told don’t buy the first dress you see, i was given a list of things to do when looking for a therapist. I went with the first person I had ever felt I could tell anything to. I went for the first person I felt so safe with that I could speak the unspeakable. I went for a dutchman, who I had never met and am going to have to fly 55 minutes to be face to face with.
Today i have agreed to a plan, couple of online sessions, then two long intensive days with him in Rotterdam, then some more online sessions. We are going to meet online and finalise our plans in the next couple of days.
My plan is to just put myself in his hands, to trust in the process and to lean into the idea that he knows what he is doing. For the first time in my life i just have to believe that someone can help me.
Ik denk echt dat het goed komt.
. . .
Open Journal #29
A thing happened, short version is, I was faced with a load of new paperwork that I had never seen before. The why and the wherefore is not really important for the point of this journal entry. Suffice to say that I have been reading many reports about me.
Social Workers on home visits and meetings with me, various staff at a children’s home, all describing me and my behaviour. Aged 12-15, the eye of the storm of abuse, for want of a better expression. Constantly beaten and sexually abused.
Much discussion about the fact I have been tested and found to have a High IQ but also maladjusted (failing to cope with the demands of a normal social environment). I would quibble that the violence of a narcissistic sociopath and the bed of your sexual abuser are hardly normal social environments.
I can see a point where someone suggested that my behaviour suggests I am handicapped and this is then quoted as a fact for the next couple of years. At no point does anyone bother to ask the question why an intelligent boy would behave like this, is there anything going on, anything that might have caused it?
Social Workers constantly note that my father has mentioned that he has hit me, thrashed me, locked me into rooms for a week at a time, on one occasion locked me in my room then everyone has gone out and has left me there for the afternoon, alone.
They describe how I am taken home one evening and then turn up the following morning for a meeting with social workers with a head injury. Inflicted by my father. At no point is there any reference to the fact that my father has been challenged or warned or in any way reprimanded. Nobody suggests there might be better ways to discipline me. They just take notes and watch from the sidelines.
I am screaming inside but you don’t hear me, you just take notes. It reads as if you approve. I am constantly told that they were different times. I have to understand the past is another country. They did things differently then. I know, i was there. They did things wrong is what they did, and it wouldn’t have killed you to say it once or twice.
At one point I refuse to return home and insist I would rather be taken into care. My chances of survival seem higher if I get away from the man who insists on punching and kicking me. The Court papers from that hearing are in this latest bundle of joy and it states that the reason for taking me into Care is that my parents can’t control me.
That’s right, it’s my fault. I had no idea until now that was the reason given, children are not shown things like reports and court papers. What does it matter what they think about the things that are said about them.
I have such an inner rage about these things. Plus the feeling of it all being a long time ago and I can do nothing to affect anything. The feeling of helplessness is always the backdrop to any of these events.
20 years ago I started this process. I went to the police, there was an investigation and my abuser was arrested and charged and he admitted what he had done. At the time I hired a lawyer and we explored the possibility of taking legal action against the school and against the social worker department that had placed me at the school.
The school had long closed and the individuals concerned were all dead. The social workers we felt were worth pursuing if only that we ensure that we have some effect on current policies and contribute to it not happening again. We were constantly told that they had nothing to do with any of this, that they had no idea, and that nobody from their department was involved. We stepped away and took the decision that as there seemed to be no evidence of their involvement it would be pointless and even a little vindictive.
In this latest bundle of papers are letters between my social workers and the headmaster discussing the credibility of my abuser. Letters between my social workers and my abuser discussing the possibility of him visiting me at a children’s home and taking me out. With the only requirement for him to sign a consent form, no actual checks of any kind. In it they specifically mention I am not to stay anywhere overnight.
This was the occasion he took me to a hotel suite for three nights and had constant sex with me and took many pornographic photos. I was aged 15.5 and subject to a Care Order until my 19th birthday,
All those letters have been heavily redacted by current social workers. They are the only documents in a bundle of 192 that are redacted that much.
Everyone involved is dead now. Except me.
Usually these things are expensive and pointless to pursue. In this instance we are suspicious that these documents were kept from us 20 years ago, and also kept from the police, who asked to see all documents as part of an ongoing investigation.
If we don’t at least attempt to try and see un-redacted versions i would always wonder what was being hidden from me. If nothing else legal action might ensure that they never risk doing this kind of thing to a child in the future.
Your job is to care for children and yet when faced with a situation where a child who has been abused, while you have a duty of care to them, comes to you for help in obtaining access to documents that might assist him. You choose to hide them and side step. Not good.
We are just going to see what’s what. Have a little dig around. Kick a couple of doors down. Wave around a couple of court orders. If it yields nothing we walk away.
. . .
Open Journal #30
It has been a week of things happening.
A few weeks ago i called an aunt, my fathers sister and the last one standing of that generation, to see if she could throw any light on my childhood and me being placed into foster care as a baby. She died this week and i was a bit thrown by the timing of our conversation and that if i had hesitated i might have missed the opportunity. I will miss her loving me, i always felt six years old in her company as she would fuss about me and give me extra cake and hug me constantly whenever i was nearby.
The next day, my friend in the mental hospital (let’s call him Fred)(well it’s his name)(well it is highly unlikely you are ever going to meet me let alone him), suffered a series of seizures and had to be sedated for 24 hours to avoid them escalating and killing him.
His brother and i had a tense 48 hours on whatsapp waiting for news. Never met Fred or his brother so that adds a weird twist at all times. Thankfully he was ok and they are now monitoring him to try and work out what is wrong with him. My job seems to be keeping him cheerful and explaining things he doesn’t understand.
He is autistic, dyslexic and epileptic so sometimes he struggles. He asked me to help him understand something, he had removed his monitor and all the heavily taped wires because he desperately wanted a shower. When the nurse checked on him a bit later he told her he didn’t want it back on and she said to him ‘a lawn to yourself’ … i had no idea what he meant. I had never heard the expression before.
I went to get a coffee and while it was brewing i said it to myself and suddenly realised he meant ‘a law unto yourself’ … there were no lawns involved at all. Lesson learnt … always say it out loud, sometimes written down doesn’t work.
My mother in law has been declining in the last few years with dementia and last night there was a discussion around the fact that it seems we have reached the point where she need to go into a home and be looked after. Wife departed at 6am to arrange all that and help to ease the process.
Gone for a few days at least, maybe up to a week, leaving me with two pining dogs, because mummy is their favourite. A house full of painters, noise and chaos every day. Fending for myself never goes well.
My morning emails contain a note from my lawyers, basically saying that over the last 20 years, if anything, the law has tightened around the issue of making Government Child Care departments, responsible for things that third parties do to children. It seems pointless and expensive to pursue any of these avenues.
I am in a little side discussion attempting to convince my social workers to just give me a little summary of the redacted sections to avoid me taking any legal action over it and i will just drop it. After all, if there is nothing of note, how can it be a problem to just tell me what it is about.
A sensible kind man agrees with me and goes away to persuade his boss that on this occasion they could be helpful and save a lot of messing about. Within a couple of hours he has emailed and explained that he has read all the relevant material and summarises the content and it is nothing i haven’t seen in other documents.
The decision is made to end it here, there is nothing to be done or gained by continuing with this. My lawyer refuses to bill me for any of this, as he reminds me i did him a favour by participating in a training film for his firm a few years ago and never charged him so he feels it is appropriate to return the favour. I had forgotten but i don’t mention that as a free lawyer is a rare thing.
All of this against a backdrop of tension, as each day goes by i get closer to my first therapy session. I am mostly ok with it, it is my choice and I have precisely the version of a therapist that i set out to find. There is just this anxiety and fear around which stones he looks under and what he might find under them when he looks and the impact on me. I keep having this thought, what if i don’t like the person that is left when he finishes with me.
I seem to constantly feel as if i shouldn’t be talking about any of this, that i will be found out, that my abusers will be angry. Which they would be if they were still alive, quite what i think is going to happen i don’t know, but i can’t shake the feeling. It is like a fear, a dread, maybe that has always been with me and i am just very aware of it at the moment. That sense that nothing good is going to come of this.
As i post this, i am 24 hours away from my first therapy session and the only thing i can equate it to is the absolute worst case of stage fright i have ever experienced. I spent most of yesterday fighting the feeling of wanting to cancel and explaining i had made a mistake and that i wasn’t ready.
I have given myself a stern talking to and told myself that i must not be pathetic and a coward and just get on with it. Problem is I talk a lot of nonsense most of the time so i can’t imagine i am going to listen to myself.
. . .