Pudgy Indian

I have dove into the depths of Derrick Jensen's, "A Language Older Than Words." He and his younger sister were repeatedly raped by his father. His three older siblings were repeatedly beaten by the fucking bastard piece of shit. His mother was repeatedly beaten and raped by the fucking piece of shit. And, like in the previous posts somewhere, I'm sure I mentioned the idea of silence. The quieter you are, the more you act like things are normal, the better your chances of survival and not receiving punishments for such crimes as...being born, breathing, etc.

Yesterday morning was fucking tough. The thought of going to work was absolutely unacceptable. The ache and soul pain was the worst I've felt, more so than the three 3-hour long breakdowns as I hid in my bed when I lived with my sister a little over a year ago. Five big breakdowns that weekend along with numerous small ones, and this, this single breakdown with tons of crying off and on throughout the following days hurt much worse than that weekend.

My ex used to use my sex abuse as a weapon against me. Though, I'm sure she lives in denial about it, as I've heard from friends, the pain she delivered to me on a daily basis was too much to bear. EVERY FUCKING DAY, she brought it up. Some move, some action I made, could be easily made into a road map that led to my rape as a child. Every FUCKING day, I was dragged down roads covered in glass, my naked soul taken each time to my rape. Forced to look at it like, watch it over and over again, see my body raped over and over again, every fucking day.

Two days after I left that asshole, I came to a realization..."I don't have to talk about it anymore!" I was so fucking elated! I was so fucking happy as my body and soul dealt with the horrible damage caused to me by her.

But I'd find my way to triggers, and that 5 breakdown weekend was triggered by a movie called "Century Plaza," an excellent documentary about a Single Room Occupancy (SRO) that used to exist here in Portland. One had sympathy for all the characters. One empathized and cared for them. Then, one of them started talking about how he just got out of prison. He was in prison because he had been raping two 10-year-old boys. As he told this story my breathing changed and shallowed and panted, my body tensed in the agony of memories I didn't want to have anymore, my fingers knotted in expression of my own personal insanity.

So, if you can bare with me, let me tell you the story of my rape. That act of violence I experienced as a child at the age of five. I was the first son of a son in my Indian family. This meant, for reasons I don't understand, that I was to be the hereditary chief of the Lower Umpqua. I was spoiled greatly by my grandfather, a man I dearly Loved. He died in April of '69, and that summer, my cousin, his mom, his sisters, my grandma all came up for a visit. All the adults, except my mother who was left behind to babysit all the kids, went out to get drunk. My cousin, 12 at the time, took me upstairs and we played with each other. It felt good and I never did anything like that. He requested I lay on the floor and he would show me another good feeling thing. I did, and he was then inside my ass. I realized that this was an act of cruelty. I was in an indefensible position, and this person I Loved and trusted most in the world was hurting me most terribly. An unspeakable pain. A pain in my soul as well as my trust was completely betrayed. After he was done, he went back outside to play, and I went into the bathroom to wash away the filth and went quite insane in the bathtub. Upon recovery, I went downstairs and saw my mother ironing clothes and visibly angry. I could no longer trust. She was absolutely untrustworthy. I went into the basement and hid, where I was again found by my cousin and his meaner sister, also my cousin, of course. She held me from behind as we sat. She would tickle my belly and around my genitals and my genitals as her brother raped my mouth. Yeah...well...

I would much prefer not to remember. But not remembering, not speaking of unspeakable acts, led me to dysfunctional paths, such as two horrible marriages. The first wife insulted me all the time as a form of control. She told me how bad I looked, how bad I smelled, called me ugly on occasion, would describe my body like it was the most hideous thing she had ever seen, pointed out everything I did wrong (which was pretty much everything I did). Left her for wife number two and was almost immediately thrown into the face of such verbal violence as to emotionally collapse before her and in this sign of weakness, the attacks would become more fierce. Any sign of weakness was exploited and the attack was on. She would scream in my face for shutting the seat belt in the car door. She would scream in my face for any wrong action real or imagined. One time, while hanging "solstice lights," I accidentally called them "Christmas Lights," and the attack was on and I was reminded of my slight for months, as well as verbally attacked for other reasons. My sense of self-worth, self-Love, self-beauty, sense of self, was all but destroyed. I kept enough to leave.

Both of these women I have diplomatic relations with. I deal with my first wife because of our daughter. We Love her and we work together to guide her to become a good global citizen. I deal with my second wife because we volunteer at this great and glorious radio station.

This, and so much more, all goes along with the story of my current breakdown and suffering of soul pain and heavy ache that was there like a boil to be lanced. Easy to pretend it's not there, but it is there.

So yesterday, the ache made the idea of work unbearable. I cried heavily until about 10 when I was distracted by the lives of others. I found myself in positions where prayers were all I had to offer and they had to be made. I found myself helping out at the station, filling in gaps where I could be useful. Worrying and praying for others. Helping. Distracted from my own current agony to help others. Enough time to let my soul start to heal enough to become a fucntioning dysfunctional.

I gave myself a couple of hours to wander over to my therapy session, and...

(Wait! speaking of distractions! I was just talking with Chris, a wonderful woman volunteer here, and she was telling me about her horse rescue. She is currently on crutches, a broken him from being thrown. She has two guest Belgians. These guys are smart. They can gently take apart their stall and have the run of the property. The stories are so hilarious and the horses are so smart.)

On my wanderings to the therapy session, I got a call from my friend, Cynthia. We discussed our writing project, and she said she would burn some cedar for me. Every step I took seemed like a step toward healing rather than the overwhelming feelings of soul agony. It was like the flood of pain after the dam had burst was done washing over my soul, and I'm still here standing and wanting it all back!

I found myself in front of this house with pretty flowers. I dropped to the sidewalk and inhaled the scent of daphne, one of my favorite scents, and continued my journey, when I noticed I was on the right cross street. I though I had at least three more blocks. I pulled out the address on a piece of paper in my pocket, looked at the address on the house I had just smelled the daphne in front of, and hey! there it is. Good sign!

I poured out my heart in the therapy session. I cried, I laughed, I agonized, I sought out the paths of healing. As the last few minutes came, I talked faster and added in as much as I could. I felt like I unloaded more of my burden.

And here I am. I still ache some, but am functional. I know that somewhere in the next few days this agony will leave my body. I pray that I will learn my lessons from this. It is what it is, and I will continue walking in a good way, and I will find you...and tickle your knees.