Abuse and Grief: A Journey of Self-Discovery

Abuse and Grief: A journey of Self-Discovery
By: Pierre Milot

It's 6 am and I'm lying in bed, not quite back to consciousness yet, wondering what the heck is that tremor I'm feeling by my side. To top it off, it's accompanied by a weird flapping sound that challenges my sanity. As I gradually wake up, I realize that it's Max, my oversize Cocker Spaniel shaking himself into a stupor while his long floppy ears seems to adopt the rhythm, as they tap along on the side of his body. I've always wondered how dogs can do that without giving themselves a concussion, well, I guess you have to be a dog. I was not planning to rise early that morning, for as a recently semi-retired widower, my agenda isn't that busy. But, since last week's devastating meditation, my troubled mind overflowed by a turmoil of veiled images and confused memories is restless and I would not have snoozed late anyway. So, no hard feelings toward my furry friend. Giving in to Max's insistent stare, I dress up and take him outside as he, with exuberant joy, does his dog thing. Sitting in my Adirondack chair on the veranda, trying to enjoy the scene, my mind cannot help but be drawn back to the constant flow of disturbing images, which, unsuspectingly at the time, would very soon provide another crushing twist to my life.

The whole thing started with an article I wrote describing my personal grief journey since my wife passed away (A Good Day in the Life of a Grieving Widower). It was meant as a catharsis expected to ease that damn underlying pain constantly stabbing my insides, and it did the job wonderfully. Creating that piece was so therapeutic for me that I decided to share it with others, hoping that they too would gain from it. So, I sent the article to my internet discussion group on grief, asking them to forward it to whoever they thought could benefit from it. The article seemed to have touched at the heart of many if I go by the numerous rewarding and moving testimonies I received. One in particular though, sparked the new ''I'm not So Sure I Want This Adventure'' to come. It was from Sherry, a ''Soon to be Author'' as she describes herself, asking me to write up an entry on grief in her shortly to be published book on abuse.
At first, I wasn't very interested in participating in her project. I thought I had nothing useful to say on abuse, at least not from my own emotional perspective. The editorial could only be just another overdone boring technical exposé that I've already done too many times before. You see, my writing style has changed recently. I like to talk from the guts, I find it's more liberating for me while touching the hearts of others in a healing way. But every time I tried to walk away from the task, an annoying invisible thread kept pulling me back.

Intrigued, I reluctantly agreed to seek the help of my Zen meditation training in an attempt to investigate what this was all about. I must have been ripe for the picking as they say, for to my greatest surprise, the mental images and the bodily memories immediately started to unravel at an amazing speed. I have to concede knowing that I had been sexually abused by an uncle, but that the recollections where only on the surface and did not really bother me. I naïvely thought that I had the ''incidents'' worked out and under control. Little did I know!

As I gradually slipped into my inner world, vague reminiscences of my younger days took life. I remembered when my uncle would come every week end to pick me up from our home in the country and bring me to the big city. I must not have been more than 6 or 7 years old then. He would take me around town, buy me all sorts of little gifts and then, at the end of each day, we would return to his boarding room. What was going on behind that close door, I can only guess, for my mind is still blocking it, only my body remembers at this point. With an absolutely bizarre disconnected sensation, as I finally put these words to paper, my hands are cold and trembling, my legs are weak and I can't stop the tears from running down my cheeks. It's as if I'm telling the story of an unknown being hiding inside some unexplored part of my persona, while at the same time expressing emotions that feels totally alien to me, the author. Hell, this is so much more painful than I never would have imagined. I have to pause my typing every now and then to pick myself up. I even have flashbacks, ''déjà vu'' of me writing these lines!

As my meditation progressed, many other occulted memories resurfaced. They seemed to be oozing out of an overfilled container inside of me and exploding out of control. They zigzagged from one period of my abused life to another, and one was as painful as the other. The images seemed to climax to the most recent and significant ones, that is, my early teen years, and If I go by their emotional intensity, that's were the most damage was done. As to be expected, at that age, I started to be stronger, more independent, and was beginning to show a growing interest in girls, which did not sit well with him at all, so the psychological mistreatment increased. For a while now, bottled up feelings of resentment, abandonment, loss, guilt, mistrust, frustration and anger where part of my daily life, and I wanted no more of them.

The abuse was not only sexual, it was also possessive, dominating and sometimes violent. Eventually, he moved into my parent's home and lived in a rented room which we both shared. With a nauseous stomach, I remembered that coming home from school was the only time I could be with my family, for each day as he would arrive from work, I had to go bury myself with him in his room and was not allowed to have any normal contacts with my relatives. It must have been around my later teen years that I started to grow enough willpower and determination to confront him. Thus, to his greatest dismay, with adolescent bravado, I took up martial arts in an attempt to ward off his physical aggressions. I never had to use my newly acquired skills though, for then, all of sudden, some strange and unexpected incident occurred and he was gone, moved out of the house. An unclear event that needed to be explored further and was to become the highlight of my journey.

Reaching even deeper into my psyche, I uncovered with stunning consternation and deep sadness that the real foundation of my troubled feelings were not necessarily geared towards my uncle, but mainly against my parents, my father to be more precise, and that shook me to the core. As the devastating truth surfaced, a violent flow of emotions dashed to my head like a torrent of rushing water being released from a broken dam. In that shattering moment, the real pain began. Through heart pounding, burning flushed face and throbbing temples, I could hear the wounded kid inside of me screaming to the ''White Knight in Shining Armour'' he thought his father was: How could you let this happen to me? How could you not suspect what was happening? Was I not important enough for you to protect me? What did I do to deserve this? I feel so lost, cheated, inconsequential and little!

Shock, disbelief and a powerful feeling of disorientation are the only words that can best describe my state of mind at the realisation of this. I was so taken aback that I could not sit still in meditation anymore and had to walk around in an effort to regain my sense of self. For days after, my Zen sittings where so undisciplined and unproductive that I had to take a break from them, and instead, find some compassionate soul onto which I could unburden my heavy heart. My younger sister, who since my wife's passing, efficiently plays the role of my confident, was the first that came to mind. After many revealing exchanges, as she brought new elements into the equation, I came to the conclusion that my father had in fact finally acted and kicked my uncle out of the house. But apparently, this took place only after my abuser had tried his despicable game on my little brother. Again, mixed feelings on my part there. I felt relieved that my father finally stood up to the task, but disappointed at the same time by the fact that it took the fear of the possible endangerment of another of his offspring, for him to make his move.

No wonder I have major trust issues as an adult, that I always feel compelled to protect the vulnerable ones, have a sick need to be in charge of my life and overdo everything. Now I understand why, the oversensitive artist that I am, could not shed a single tear at my parent's funerals. Even worst, I can't even remember most of the details surrounding their deaths, it's all a big blur! Strange behaviour isn't it? So inconsistent with my personality. I can only guess the resentment still hiding in there.

I'm certain that my younger self hasn't finished spilling out his guts and that more is yet to come. At least the first steps have been taken on this new venture. My never ending journey goes on. With much work, I have to discover ways to efficiently merge these confused feelings, and make good of it all as the years go by. I have to learn to grow from this experience and become whole again, a better person. Maybe after a while, as a fully integrated human being and free of the past, I will learn to trust again. Maybe I will be able to forgive the one's that failed me and with teary eyes, let the tenderness flow as I recall my good and bad moments with them.

A wounded deer leaps the highest.
Emily Dickinson

Submitted by:
Pierre Milot, Ph.D.
E-Mail: pierremilotcoaching@gmail.com