I drove home from this session feeling an overpowering sadness. I wasn’t feeling sad for me now, or for how far I still had to go in my recovery, I was feeling sad about something else. I was feeling sad for someone else. I was feeling sad for a sluggish adolescent.  A defenseless and naïve version of who I am now. However young and simple, he didn’t deserve the confusion. It wasn’t his fault. The sadness, for that brittle collection of confusion I stopped communicating with a long time ago, was overwhelming.

As I drove, I looked forward to seeing my wife – enjoying a dinner together. But, no matter how hard I tried to celebrate another therapy session in the books, I couldn’t shake what was suffocating me. Twenty years of procrastinated sadness all at once – I guess that means the EMDR is working.

When I entered her office I felt really good about everything. I was trending upwards. I knew that. I had the support of everyone I cared about. I knew I wasn’t heading in the wrong direction, which was everything to me in order to keep smiling.

We started talking about where we left off last time. I told her I felt good. We talked about the fact that Jack always wanted to talk about guns – he always wanted to make sure I was masculine enough to be his grandson. I started thinking about how hard I tried to be masculine around him. I was in ninth grade. It was December. I lived in Maryland and he still lived in McLean, VA at that point, but they would join us for Christmas that year.

My therapist stopped me there. She asked if we could set up the EMDR light box. I said sure – almost reluctantly. She offered up using the hand paddles instead.  The hand paddles basically did the same thing as the lights – they stimulated both sides of the brain as the memories were uncovered. The difference was that they would allow me to continue talking, without the visual distraction of the lights, while the silver dollar sized paddles vibrated one at a time in the palms of my hands.

We continued. A few weeks before that December, when Jack asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I told him I wanted a Buck knife. I didn’t want a Buck knife, but I thought that’s what I should say in order to keep the masculine grandson, happy family thing going.

Looking back now, I may have been acquiring my own defense. Knowing about the pistol he had hidden under the front seat of his car and behind the desk of his study, maybe I wanted something that we both knew I had – to provide an equally subtle counter-threat. I’d like to think that – but maybe I’m giving the kid too much credit.

Come Christmas, I unwrapped a Buck knife – held in a plastic camouflage sheath (even though I asked him to buy me the leather sheath instead of the camouflage one). He didn’t give a shit – nobody gave a shit – and this little detail didn’t matter in order to keep his mission moving – sucking up to his grandson while planning his next sexual encounter.

So, on Christmas of 1987, at 5pm, I accepted my Buck knife, in its camouflage lameness, with a huge smile. Everyone loved it. I probably ran over and hugged Jack after I opened it – my family beaming. But, aside from the act, I enjoyed having the knife. It must have been a little piece of control.

Next, I moved forward in time to my ninth grade Algebra class. It was 1988. I was sitting there, as clueless as the next Freshman student – when the door opened and two men in suits whispered to my teacher. I could tell she was startled. She turned and pointed towards me. Embarrassed out of my mind, I stood up and left the classroom with the men in suits. I was going to either be a hero or be totally destroyed socially. The whispering started.

I followed the men. Our Catholic school Principal (and rumored pedophile) met me in a golf cart with the two men in suits. Five minutes later we were in the Principal’s office. The door closed. I sat in front of his large desk in a single chair. Behind me, out of view, were the two men in suits.

They told me about what another family member of mine had claimed. My mind spun – this was the first I had heard of it. They went on saying that Jack was being investigated for the unthinkable. My mind drifted to my Principal – only a few feet away – wondering if he was enjoying this conversation. The men in suits explained that they were there to ask about what I knew about my step-Grandfather, Jack. I dissolved. I was a crying amoeba. But, for fear of the unknown, I decided to hold true to the story that I have held on to for all of these years. I wasn’t molested. Jack had just propositioned me. Without hesitation, the interrogation was over. Case closed.  I returned to my class. Eyes puffy and red. I made up a story to explain what had happened – but nobody really asked – there were just whispers.

I went home that night after lacrosse practice.  My family was aware of what happened to me at school. Either the men in suits had disclosed to my parents our conversation, or I divulged what I had told the Agents – I don’t remember – but it doesn’t matter, it wasn’t the truth. We all sat together in the living room and talked– most likely to make sure that what I told the Agents was, in fact, correct. My parents inquired more – asked a few specific questions. My Dad was so mad about the other family member of ours having been molested by Jack. He was furious. I couldn’t tell my story – if I did, it would only add to the problems. By my talking, the anger would only turn to rage. Then, someone, I can’t remember who – mentioned that there would most likely be a court case. What? Fuck. I can’t say a thing. There are too many things flying around right now – I definitely can’t talk. I’ll dial back and pretend nothing happened.  So, I did. Everyone seemed okay with that.

My therapist and I talked about this for a while. She could tell that I felt, deep down, that nobody ever really wanted to know the truth about what happened to me over the years. She was right. She brought up something that I hadn’t thought about. She said that there could be a chance that my parents were subconsciously accepting my lie in order to keep me out of court – which would have been a trauma in itself. I told her I wasn’t sure.

My mind drifted to the few days following that family conversation. Jack had been calling the house over and over – he knew he was being investigated and that the walls were closing in on him. I was his most recent victim – so I knew he was feeling exposed.

He contacted our family the following few evenings. One night he caught me on the phone. He was acting crazy. He said awful things about my Mom and Dad – there were implied threats that I understood. I was truly scared – for the first time.

For the next few nights I slept with the Buck knife I had received a few years earlier under my pillow. I knew Jack was unstable and my greatest fear was that he would make an unexpected visit. I remembered sitting up in bed – by back to the corner of the room – crying. I didn’t sleep well those nights.

One evening that week, our family got a phone call. Jack was dead. He had died of a heart attack while stepping out of the shower. As I think back now, how fitting it was for a pervert like Jack to die, naked, on a bathroom floor, alone. My Dad told our family the news – my Dad was relieved. It was almost a celebration. My Dad then called my Uncle. They celebrated – as if God had done us all a huge favor. I pretended to be happy like my Dad. I went to my room and cried. It was all too much.

The funeral was at Arlington National Cemetery – with full military honors. The rifles, the pomp and circumstance, the solemnity.

Following the funeral, we all went to Jack’s house – the house where I lost my innocence for good – for a post-funeral brunch. Jack’s children were there. We all talked and attempted to feel normal. We all wore our best face – the awkwardness was thick.

On the drive home to Maryland that night, my family talked in the car. My Mom told us about the conversation she had with Jack’s children at the brunch. She told us that they had each said that Jack molested them as well. What was worse, none of them knew the others had been molested. It must have been a long flight back to California for his children.

My therapist asked me how I was feeling. It was clear that I was at a low point. I told her that hearing about the conversation my Mom had with Jack’s children made me feel worse. It made me feel like everyone had let me down. His children didn’t talk when they should have. Maybe if they had, I wouldn’t have been molested. And what about my parents? This news about Jack’s children should have made them hyper-aware that I probably lied to them about my encounters with Jack. But, sure enough, that night when we got home to Maryland, we agreed as a family to never talk about Jack again. The timer on my twenty year ticking time bomb began.

The hour was up – so it was time to end the conversation. There’s something so awkward about the abrupt end to such a personal conversation – but I guess that’s the therapy business. I had covered some traumatic memories. I was feeling alright, but the sadness I was feeling was unlike anything I have felt. As I drove home, I felt twenty years of sadness all at once – all of the feelings I should have felt – the ones I mortgaged – were in the car with me.

This weekend hasn’t been one of my better weekends. I didn’t go to work on Friday – I needed a break. So, I’ve been working outside a lot – to keep my body moving closer to the speed of my thoughts. And, after a few days of work, the gap between the two is slowly diminishing – which is how this game goes.

Until today, all therapy sessions that were directly focused on the abuse were painful to say the least. There seemed to be no immediate return. My therapist would attempt to lift some of the weight of the abuse from the innocent kid – but the weight would remain for a few days at least. After each session, I would quickly spiral into a state of self-hate and unhappiness. And, if we had uncovered something that I hadn’t thought about since the abuse, the following days would be also filled with  intense fear of the unknown – I was so afraid that I would remember something awful – something I couldn’t handle.  But, after these sessions and the inevitable spiral, I would start putting the pieces back together –processing what I had uncovered until the weight from the memories we had visited slowly began to decrease.  This has been the trend. Today was the first time that I uncovered a memory that immediately removed some weight.

I sat down in her office and we caught up. It felt like forever since my last session. I was feeling positive – and it was the first time that I answered her question without a tinge of uncertainty. I really meant it when I said I felt good.  

We began by talking through what memories we wanted to visit. I told her that I felt like we had covered everything we needed to for the period when we lived at Jack’s house.  She wanted to make sure I wasn’t just avoiding re-visiting my memories of the house – so we talked a little more to make sure that wasn’t the case. It was true – I was feeling like I had covered every memory of that time period.

So, we decided to focus on the few years after we moved out of Jack’s house.  We talked through what I went through when I was ten, eleven, and twelve years old. Encounters with Jack were swift. They were usually pleasant – a one-day visit and he didn’t get me alone much. There was very little physical contact – mostly just perverted conversations.

We decided to keep going chronologically. We moved to Southern Maryland when I was almost eleven. It was difficult adjusting to another school – trying to find a new set of friends. I was really small for my age.

Visits with Jack were different now. We didn’t see them much, but when we did, it was usually for a day or two – with a night or two of sleeping over. At this point I was a little more distant. I knew that I needed to find separation. I needed to make sure he didn’t get me alone. For the most part, I was successful, but there were a few times when he got me back into the car alone. I did my best to prevent it, but sometimes it happened.

I started thinking about one time when he was telling me how much I acted like a girl. He was telling me I wasn’t masculine enough. I was twelve at the time, and a lot of my friends had started going through puberty – which at this point in my life was still years away. I remembered feeling so useless and weak – like I was letting men around the world down. I wasn’t strong – I wasn’t tough – I wasn’t able to defend myself like a real man should. Jack always talked about me being weak – a real momma’s boy. Real men didn’t depend on their mother’s for anything. I was letting him down.

Then, suddenly, I drifted back chronologically – back to when we lived with Jack – when I was nine. I had this memory of him talking to me about his rifles. He was talking about how real men should go hunting. I didn’t really have an interest in his guns – and he knew that, which is probably why he always talked about them. He was in the car with me sitting there talking – the car was parked. It was just another time when he got me alone – ready to manipulate me into making him feel like a man. I was uncomfortable. On this day, he started talking about guns. He reached under the seat and pulled out a pistol. It was in a small holster. He made me sit on his lap. I was petrified. He put the pistol in my hand and made me hold it. I felt the cold metal – the gun was heavy – too heavy for me to control. I acted like I liked it to make him happy. I wanted to run. I asked him why he had a gun under his seat. He said that he always did. I made a mental note.

I drifted to another scene. This time it was in his study. I was on his lap again. On the far side of the desk was a closet. It had mostly clothes and junk. In the back corner were his rifles. Suddenly, he pulled out a pistol. I didn’t see where he had retrieved the pistol – but I knew he had it hidden carefully. I’m not sure if this was the same gun as the one under his car seat. It looked different to me – there wasn’t a holster this time. Again, he placed the pistol in my hand. I felt scared, threatened.

I took a deep breath and looked up at my therapist. It was clear that hearing this was sending off alarms.  I sort of thought about these memories for a while – I had broken out of the trance I was in – no longer living in the past I was beginning to process the memories in the present.

We talked about the incidents with the weapons. It became incredibly clear that Jack was sending me a message. There were never any verbal threats – or any sort of violence implied – but what he was doing was sending me a message. It became very clear to me as we talked that holding the pistols – knowing that he had one in the car and in the house – was another reason why I didn’t tell. It was another reason why I pretended the abuse wasn’t happening.

While remembering the guns is a little frightening, I felt anything but scared as we wrapped up the session. I felt relief – much more than I have felt in a while. I had connected a few dots that needed to be connected. I realized that I had been indirectly threatened – and that was a contributing factor in my silence.  I wasn’t hiding the abuse because I secretly liked it, or because I was weak – I hid the abuse because I was afraid and threatened. It was logical – and for whatever reason that really helped me to figure out.

I left her office feeling the best I have felt after a session and another weight had been lifted from the back of the innocent kid.

I walked into my therapist’s office knowing that I still wasn’t ready to think about the abuse.  For the last several weeks I’ve listened to what my body had to say –the vomit alarm sounded one too many times, so I dialed it back a little bit. I learned that moving too fast can be destructive – I had to respect my recovery. So, I’m doing the best I can to be alright with that. I try to convince myself that taking a break doesn’t mean that I’m weak.

I sat down in the chair and we traded small talk. I was calm, although anticipating her question about EMDR – aware that she would want to know if I was ready to go back in time again. Seconds later, she suggested that we start up some EMDR if I was up for it – I stopped her there, knowing that it just wasn’t in the cards for me at that point. She immediately understood and suggested we just talk through other things that were on my mind.

I focused on one thing. I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that my life is doomed. It sounds ridiculous as I read what I just wrote, but sadly, there is an underlying feeling of condemnation that I have carried with me for years. Before, I just thought it was normal, but lately I’ve been paying more attention – noticing that every time I start to feel happy I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s disturbing.

We talked through this for a while. She linked it to the abuse – internalizing everything that was happening and pushing it down deep into my subconscious – slowly developing a feeling that I was damaged goods – that my life wasn’t meant to be positive.  She also linked it to my upbringing – my always waiting for the one critical comment at the end of a string of compliments. When I heard criticism, I internalized it for a long, long time. In fact, I still hold on to much of the criticism that I felt growing up – while the compliments have disappeared. She said that the fact that I am very sensitive has contributed significantly to both sets of conditioning.  It was something that we could fix. My ears perked up. That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.

She followed by commenting that I’m still showing signs of being depressed – but that this was normal given the circumstances. I hate that word – depressed. It makes it sound like being depressed is a conscious choice. It also makes me feel like I’m miserable – which I’m not. In fact, I’m significantly better than I was six months ago.  I’d prefer if people started using the term “temporarily underwhelmed”.  Yeah, that’ll do – much better.

We wrapped up the conversation and I headed for the door. As I exited, I pushed my head back inside her office and thanked her for not making me look at the lights. She laughed – and understood – I felt a little more normal.

Everyone has a different sense of humor, and some people even try to hide theirs – but there’s one thing that I can guarantee makes all of us laugh when we watch it on television. It’s the classic home video. Dad is standing there with a beer in his hand. In front of him is his son, who is holding a Whiffle-ball bat. Dad is beaming that his son is finally learning the sport of baseball. The pitch is thrown, the Whiffle-ball bat is swung, the ball is missed, and the Whiffle-ball bat proceeds directly to Dad’s McNuggets. Guaranteed laughs.  How this hysterical home video is captured over and over, yet men still feel the need to proudly hover their privates behind home plate, is beyond me.

If there’s one thing I can predict right now, it’s that this process of recovery will continue to be unpredictable.  As soon as I start to understand the ebb and flow of my mood and emotions, I am unexpectedly derailed. Half way into a sip from my cold can of Coors Light, my McNuggets are introduced to forty miles per hour’s worth of Whiffle plastic. And just like that, I’ve lost the perspective and control that I was clinging to so desperately.

After Tuesday’s session, I decided that I needed to take a break. There were too many things going on in my head – I wasn’t processing everything and gaining the perspective I needed. I was overwhelmed. I woke up Wednesday, called my therapist, and left a message with her assistant telling her that I’d be taking a week off. I’d see her in nine days.

On Thursday, my therapist called me back – she was concerned. I told her why I needed some time off – I explained that I was overwhelmed – that I had been moving too fast and simply needed to gather perspective. She understood my reasons, but still suggested that I come in for my scheduled session. I told her that wasn’t necessary. This went back and forth for about fifteen minutes. I was trying to establish control. By the end, we had compromised. I would go to that day’s session if she promised not to talk about any of the abuse. In return, we would cancel my following Tuesday session. Fine.

When I arrived at her office, I was still a little annoyed that I didn’t get exactly what I wanted. I felt like I had caved. I hated that I always caved. I sat down and crossed my arms – my body language as inviting as a fart-filled sauna.  

We started talking. This was the first time I had been visibly unhappy in a session. But, calmly and coolly, my therapist moved forward. As soon as she realized I was frustrated for not getting my way, she apologized. She didn’t realize that that’s what I was doing – she said that she was so focused on wanting to help me and talk to me – that she may have missed that cue. That calmed me down a little. Still, I retorted by asking if she needed the billable hour that desperately.  As soon as it came out of my mouth, I realized how rude it was. I was acting like a caged pit-bull – ready to hurt anyone who came near. I’m never like that. Now I was assaulting the person who was there to help me.  I apologized. It really didn’t faze her, to her credit, which was great.

At that point I felt like I had removed some stress. We began talking about why I was feeling what I was feeling. This went on, and around, and back again for about twenty minutes. She kept bringing me back to the same conclusion. I was pushing too hard. I was being too tough on myself. It was my idea to have two sessions per week – it was too much at this time.

I agreed. I acknowledged that I thought the two sessions were a bit ambitious. But, she didn’t let me off the hook there. She wanted to go back to the conclusion she had made weeks before – the reason why I’m not being kind to myself.  It goes back a long way – to the conditioning I received growing up. I have underlying unreasonable expectations for myself and my recovery, and when I don’t improve fast enough or realize something new about what I did – I destroy myself. The judgmental and never-satisfied voice inside my head was talking too loudly. She was right again. I knew she was right.

We talked for a while longer about that voice. It was a voice that was never quite satisfied. It was a voice that, even though success was achieved, was wondering why I didn’t do better. It was a voice that intended to motivate– but was condemning me as it has my entire life.

At the end of the session, I felt really good about everything. She had brought me back to an underlying problem in my life. The same problem that is hampering my recovery – and making it impossible to fully love myself or be content with the person I am. She asked if I was still upset – I told her that, no, I was glad that she talked me into coming to talk. We agreed to go back to only Thursday sessions – and we also agreed to dial back the EMDR and sexual abuse work when necessary.  Lessons learned. Surprisingly, it was the best session that I have had yet. And, my McNuggets, while still stinging a bit, were going to be okay.

This session sucked. I went in feeling like everything was going well. Finally, I was thinking about that kid like he was – an innocent child who wanted nothing more than to make everything right for his family and for him. He was resourceful. When I walked out of yesterday’s session, I still believed those things about that kid, but what I visualized in that hour was enough to rip me from my progress.

I don’t understand the way my mind works. I don’t quite get why one session I can be rational about the abuse, and why another I can be deep in the details, without any defense. I can instantly find myself being manipulated by Jack – in ways that I never knew.

My therapist asked me what was on my mind. She wanted to know if there was anything specific that was bothering me.  I paused, and then told her that I was uncomfortable with how far I went to show that I loved Jack. I had continued thinking about that after my last session – and the extent to which I pretended that Jack was the greatest grandfather was bothering me. He wasn’t that to me. He was my greatest fear.

I talked to my therapist about how my family operated. Whenever I didn’t want to engage Jack or participate with Jack in some activity, I was met with two forms of resistance: 1) My Dad would challenge me for not wanting to do what an adult wanted me to do - I was being defiant. 2) My Mom would challenge me because I was being rude to my Grandparent – I wasn’t keeping things perfect.  There was no chance for me to challenge this resistance. I was a kid. What did I know?

My therapist set up the lights. I started thinking about my time in the house. I found myself laying on the cement floor of the carport, working with Jack on one of his cars. He always drove shitty cars. Even at that age, I knew that there must have been something wrong with him for not only driving cars that sucked, but for never knowing how to fix them and pretending like he did. Maybe it was just a ploy to get me alone with him.  That one day, when asked if I wanted to work on a car with Jack, my objections were met with strong resistance. I found myself underneath the car, wishing I wasn’t.

Within an hour I was inside the car on his lap, my hand on his privates in broad daylight. I started to feel nauseous. I had never thought about that day. I opened my eyes and watched the lights. My mind drifted away from the driveway and towards a shed that was in the backyard. I couldn’t quite understand what happened in that shed – but all I thought about was his open-toe sandals and his hairless legs. I don’t know why. I don’t remember any more details, but the shed is uncomfortable for me to think about for some reason. My mind drifted all over the backyard. To the tree that I hid under when I didn’t want to talk to anyone – to the basement window that gave me a chance at alerting someone if I absolutely had to.

What I realized was that even when I was alone while living in that house, I was experiencing fear. Gut-wrenching fear that a child should never feel. I always knew whose footsteps I was hearing. I always knew when I was in danger – when I was alone in a corner. I became very good at surviving. I managed it the best I could.

That fear has now evolved into a fear of what I can’t remember about my past. Every time I remember something new, I feel a strong sense of fear that I’m about to remember something awful – something disgusting that I didn’t know I did. My mind feels like my worst enemy.

Since that session yesterday, I’ve been a mess. I experienced a more vivid picture of those six months than I ever have. I felt like I was that kid, dealing with the challenges, and I’m having a hard time removing that feeling.

I called my therapist today and told her I needed a week off. Two EMDR sessions per week were definitely ambitious – I’m exhausted and I realize it’s probably too much.  I’m having a hard time processing the things rattling around in my head – too much, too often. I hit the liquor store after my session. I felt a great sense of failure for doing that. I wish I didn’t.

When I was in eighth grade, I took a pre-algebra class in order to prepare for high school algebra. At that time, I hated math – mainly because I wasn’t very good at it. I remember sitting there with my Mom and Dad, night after night, trying to understand the nebulous concept of the imaginary number “X”. For the life of me I could not grasp that X represented a number – and to make matters worse, this letter was a number that we didn’t even know.  This concept was inconsistent with everything I had learned about letters, numbers, and certainty.  Algebra was evil.  Then, one day, it clicked – like swimming with goggles for the first time – it all suddenly became clear. From that point forward, I enjoyed math, and eventually went on to ace my math classes in high school and college.

When I sat down in my therapist’s office on Thursday, I knew we would need to revisit why I enjoyed spending time with Jack – even though he was molesting me. It was a concept I couldn’t grasp – and I was beating myself up every time I thought about it.  It just didn’t make sense.

My therapist asked me how I was doing. I told her that I was doing fine – no better, no worse than the last time I saw her. She asked if I was feeling up for some EMDR and I said I was ready. When she asked what I wanted to work on specifically, I answered quickly. There was no doubt that I needed to understand why I made it so easy for Jack.

She set up the lights and I sat back in the chair – I took a few deep breaths. We started talking about the little kid. She asked me if I still felt like he was guilty – I told her that I did – I felt pretty strongly that he was an accomplice in the abuse. We started with that. I watched the lights. I closed my eyes after about a minute and thought about how I would seek Jack’s attention – his affirmation. I would volunteer to work on things with him – I would look for him around the house.  I felt nauseated.  

We continued on this track for the next twenty or thirty minutes. I found myself in all sorts of situations where I was seeking his approval, or his attention. The more I thought about it, the more nauseated I felt, until finally, I said I had to stop. I was going to vomit.

She quickly stood up, fearing for the life of her office rug, she turned off the lights and put the tripod away. I took a few more deep breaths – my nausea leveled off. She told me to relax – reminding me that I was safe.

I couldn’t believe I was so involved in spending time with Jack. My therapist took a seat on the far side of the room and started a conversation about  the memories I was navigating. She asked me how that kid was feeling. I told her that he was ashamed. He was lonely.

She latched on to that word – lonely. We talked about what the kid was going through at the time. We had just moved from Texas to Virginia. I had left my friends behind, struggling to make new friends in a new town – school had just started and I was feeling like an outsider. At the time, my Mom was around eight months pregnant with my younger brother. We were living in the basement. My Dad was working late nights. Most of the talk was about the new baby, my Dad’s new job, or the house we were building across town. My sister was my only friend. And then there was Jack.

For some reason, he really liked me. In fact, he liked me more than anyone else – he showered me with attention. He made me feel special. I enjoyed that feeling. I needed to feel special – like every other child. Jack provided that at a time when I really needed it. The tragic part – the unfair part – is that Jack took advantage of my innocent need for attention. He attacked it – acting out his sexual fantasies – while at the same time providing me the dire attention that I needed.

Suddenly, it clicked.  I understood what X was. I understood why I volunteered to sit on Jack’s lap – acting as though everything were alright. I was trying desperately to pretend that everything was normal – that I had a normal, loving relationship with my Grandpa. I tried to make it work. I looked for his attention – and he gave it to me. It made me happy – and not because I liked the abuse – but because I needed the love that every child looks for. I was in a lonely place and I was innocent. I was doing what every child would have done in that situation.

When I left her office and drove home – I couldn’t stop thinking about this new perspective. It was something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel before – empathy for why that kid did what he did. I started to feel more normal – more innocent.

Since Thursday, the disgust for my actions at the age of nine has faded. I have taken a turn for the better. While it doesn’t take effect immediately, I know that I’m going to end up fixing how I feel about myself. Like my enjoyment for math after finally grasping that one concept, I’m eventually going to give that kid the break he deserves – and nobody will be able to take that from me.

A few weeks ago, my therapist and I decided to schedule two appointments each week since we noticed I was feeling anxious for another session by Tuesday. It was really my idea – my overly-ambitious thing kicking in again, but she’s seemed okay with the idea for the time being. Tuesday and Thursday will be my sessions. I’m thinking that the Tuesday session will be focused on tying up all of the loose ends from the Thursday EMDR session the week before – and then by Thursday, I’ll be ready for another intense EMDR session. This makes me feel like I’m getting more accomplished – time will tell.

My first real Tuesday session was two days ago. I walked in still feeling odd about how much of a role I played in my own abuse. I hadn’t quite forgiven that kid for sitting on Jack’s lap and for projecting how much he liked Jack. We started there. The conversation went as I expected it to, and then all of the sudden we started talking about grief. We talked about how I really don’t connect with my negative emotions – I never let myself grieve, no matter how difficult the circumstances.

She wanted to focus on this.  I didn’t think much of it, but she thought it was important. We pulled out the EMDR lights and started going through my past – not including the memories with Jack. I found myself thinking about a time when I was twenty-one. I had just returned from Pensacola, FL after failing to pass a physical exam required to start training as a Navy pilot. I had already taken my oath – so I had committed to the Navy – but now, since I had failed the eye test, I was honorably discharged.

Everything I had done for the four years prior had prepared me to become a Navy pilot – my dream since childhood. My engineering degree at a top engineering school didn’t come easy for me – I stayed up all night studying, over and over, with my goal driving me.

I had sacrificed so much, but suddenly, I found myself on a flight back from Pensacola, by myself, with no more direction in life. My dream was over. When I got off the plane, my Mom greeted me at the airport, tears in her eyes. I just smiled and pretended like I was fine – I never once let myself feel down. I charged forward and found a job. Why cry about it?

I opened my eyes and watched the lights for a minute – my mind drifted to my childhood. We moved every few years since my Dad was active duty military. I drifted back to each time we moved. I thought about the friends I left behind – the sports I had to quit – the progress I had to abandon. But, each time we moved, I put on a smile – not because I was happy, but because that’s what you do when you’re a military brat. You find ways to push through it with a smile.

I closed my eyes. My therapist mentioned how she noticed a very troubling pattern – a complete disconnectedness with my emotions. In an effort to keep myself up, I completely separated myself from pain – which is equally disruptive in a more subtle and longer-lasting way. I shrugged my shoulders. I really didn’t know what to say other than I don’t like feeling down – so I don’t. Hmm, was all she said.  I laughed. She noted that I laughed a lot as I talked through a lot of these difficult periods in my life. She found that interesting.

Then we ended up in a conversation about how I continually feel like the worst is always coming for me. Yes, I can be optimistic at times, but for some reason I’m always waiting for any happiness I feel to come to an abrupt, tragic halt. This troubled her also. We kept going into the conversation, my honesty obviously not making her feel any better about my personal Modus Operandi.

She linked it to several things. One, the sexual abuse. Two, the fact that my life was spent adjusting time after time, each time we moved, and being expected to put on a smile. That’s a real strain on a child’s psyche. I would start to feel happy at the end of two years – and then, wham, as I expected, I was the unhappy new kid again. To make matters worse, showing the pain wasn’t an option.

After the previous week’s session of finding out that I had pretended like I enjoyed Jack’s attention in front of my family, finding out that I’ve been operating in an unhealthy way to avoid pain my entire life was difficult to hear. It was starting to become clear that I’m not the emotionally healthy person I thought I was. Nothing was what I thought it was.

It sort of felt like I was in one of those old coffee commercials –  I’m sitting there, enjoying my cup of premium blend Columbian coffee, when some waiter walks up and tells me with a smile that I’m actually drinking Folger’s Crystals. What? Folger’s Fucking Crystals? You’re telling me that I’ve been enjoying a cup of Folger’s Fucking Crystals this whole time? I was under the impression that I was enjoying a delicious blend of imported coffee beans – I’m not the type to drink Folger’s Fucking Crystals.

Let’s just say it’s not a good feeling.

What I’m hoping is that I’ll start getting used to the new coffee. After all, it was delicious – before I knew what I was drinking. Okay, gotta run, I’m late for today’s appointment.

I walked into Thursday’s session a little distracted. My head was spinning like a tornado from other things, so when my therapist asked me if I was ready to start some EMDR, it sort of took me by surprise. Uh….sounds good…I think. Unlike my first therapist, my new therapist put the ball in my court and asked me what memory I felt like discussing. I liked this method much better than being told what memory to think through – it gave the control back to me. If I wasn’t ready to think about something, I didn’t have to. It was comforting.

I felt like I had exhausted my memories of living in Jack’s house – well, except for one. The situation that was percolating in the back of my brain was the memory of being in the car with Jack on that rainy night – the one I couldn’t continue with a few weeks earlier because I started to feel sick.   

Since that session, I’ve been thinking about what bothered me so much. It scared me that I hid memories from myself.  The specifics of the abuse that I started to reveal were so new, and so vivid, that it took over my body and all of my senses. I had to respect that my body wasn’t ready for all of that at once – now, with a few weeks of percolating under my belt, I was ready to return to the innocent boy on Jack’s lap in the car.

As I drifted back to the memory in the car, I thought how strange it was that my mind could go back to the scene as soon as I gave it permission. Immediately, I found myself sitting there – with his hand dictating what my hand would touch. His whisper in my ear – as though this was all part of a normal childhood. I smelled the same smell, I felt the same awkwardness.

This continued as I opened my eyes and stared at the lights for about a minute – then, my eyes closed.  My mind kept working. I remembered being startled by how it ended. He just sort of stopped and zipped himself up and asked if I was ready to drive. I was confused, but I wanted everything to be normal so I quickly concentrated on the new task at hand – driving. We had a good time – he showed me how to drive with one hand – then with one finger. The car swayed from left to right in the lane as I tried to control it with my nine year old index finger. We laughed.  He let me pull the car into the carport as we returned to the house.

I opened my eyes again and watched the lights. Jack and I opened the front door and walked into the house – where I quickly found my family and told them about how well I drove the car. Jack followed and continued to praise my driving. I acted as though everything was great – if I pretended everything was okay, maybe it would work?

At this point I started to feel nauseated, but I continued with the EMDR. I opened my eyes and watched the lights again. I started thinking about the way that I carried on about how much fun the drive was. I started to feel shame. The lights stopped and I closed my eyes again.  

I found myself walking down the stairs into the basement of the house. This time, my entire family was in the basement watching television together. Jack was on the couch. My grandma was to the left of Jack, and my sister to the right. My parents were against the far wall, sitting in a couple of chairs. The big wooden box of a television was in the near corner, to the right of the fireplace. My hair was wet and freshly combed – I was in my pajamas – as though I had just showered. I bounded down the stairs – assessed the seating arrangements, and immediately headed for Jack’s lap. Suddenly I found the nausea get much worse – I told my therapist I was feeling sick – she brought the trash can over. I told her I had to stop.

Since we still had about twenty minutes before the end of the session, we talked for a while about what I was feeling. I told her that I was feeling terrible that I had provoked him. I couldn’t believe that I was engaged in the abuse. No wonder he abused me – I was basically forcing him to.

My therapist stopped me there. She quickly corrected this flawed line of thinking. She explained that what I was doing was surviving. I was doing what any kid my age would have done to keep everything as normal as possible – in order to prevent upsetting our entire family. She reminded me that I had sacrificed myself to keep everyone happy. I had a hard time fully understanding that – it was too easy for me to apply what I knew now as an adult, to that innocent child.

The session ended and my spinning head was now a tropical storm. I had too many things moving. Too many thoughts – too many new revelations about the ways in which I would seek Jack’s attention. Why did I do that? It didn’t make sense – why would I continue to cover everything up and make it harder for people to help me? I was giving him the wrong signals. What was wrong with me?

Knowing that I didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with this disaster of a day, I did the one thing that I didn’t want to do. I decided to numb myself. I was drunk by 9pm. It was the only thing I could do to get through the night. I woke up on Friday ashamed of the role I played in my abuse, and disgusted with myself for drinking. This spiral was tight and fast.  

At this point, I’ve spent three days thinking through the session. I’ve done some reading. I’ve listened to my tapes. I’ve spent a lot of time alone with my thoughts. It’s taken me three days of thinking to chip away at the thick layer of disgust for myself. The worst part is that my mind knows that none of the abuse was my fault – but my body feels what it feels – and time is the only thing that will fix it. I’m better than I was yesterday – and Saturday was better than Friday– so I just need to hold on and trust what time will do.

The majority of my life has been spent listening to everyone’s gut but my own. And, since I was lucky enough to be surrounded by very smart, passionate, and opinionated people – who all did very well by their guts – I had plenty of help formulating a strong opinion. Unfortunately, that opinion was never mine.

One challenge that incest survivors have, is that that they learn not to trust their gut at a very young age. Someone took that from them – someone they trusted. Now they don’t trust anyone or themselves. They conclude that their guts aren’t up to par with others’ for some reason – others around them are confident and strong, while they are stupid and weak.

I felt that way. So, what did I do? I faked it. Shit, I didn’t know any better – I didn’t even know I was faking it. I became incredibly good at hearing other people’s opinions, suggestions, warnings, hints, complaints – and then smashing them together to make a decision “for myself”. And, since I was good at acting, I knew how to give everyone what they needed, with a smile on my face that made it seem like it came from me. For a little while it worked – and even I was buying into my own “confidence” – but deep down I knew it wasn’t mine. I wasn’t listening to my own gut. My gut was telling me to run – to go do something that I needed – to stop listening to everyone and just be me: A survivor of incest, and a believer in a better way.

I woke up on Thursday incredibly anxious about my therapy session that afternoon. I knew that I had to tell my therapist what I thought about using Human Design to aid in my treatment. I could tell that she believed that it worked – but I was conflicted because my gut wasn’t telling me to go down that road.

I walked into her office, found my chair and sat down. My mind was more fixed on the Human Design conversation than it was any EMDR treatment we may dive into. She asked how I was doing and I gave her the standard answer – nothing too much, just “I’m doing pretty well”. She made light of the situation by saying “I’m just glad you came back”. It was necessary levity at a anxious moment, and it allowed me to segue into the conversation about Human Design.

I started by telling her that I thought it was interesting. She asked if I found out my time of birth, an integral part to developing a Rave Chart that would eventually unlock vital information about my “design”. I told her that I did find my time of birth, and that I developed my rave chart and learned about it. It was interesting – a very complicated process of figuring out how I’m wired – really, how I was wired at birth – the necessary step before untangling that wiring and “de-conditioning” myself from thirty-plus years of programming. I’m an introspective person, so I found the idea very fascinating.

The problem, I told her, was that I got a really bad vibe from the founder of Human Design. His name was Ra Uru Hu. He has several videos posted on the Human Design website. In those videos, he tells his story – his deep and passionate experience – his reason for making a bundle on his experience – and his need to keep spreading his word. This is where I recoiled. Everything seemed wrong to me. It felt like a money making scheme – or a cult. His ego was entirely too large – his delivery too slick. My gut was telling me to stay away. I told my therapist that I didn’t want to insult her professionally, but that I needed to trust my gut and stick with just the EMDR and the other methods of treatment – and that Human Design wasn’t in the cards for me at this point.

I held my breath as I waited for her response. I knew it could be our last session – and that I could be right back to therapist shopping. To her credit, she simply said that we didn’t need to incorporate Human Design into my treatment at all. That it was just one of many tools that have helped her patients. I couldn’t help wonder if she was hiding her disappointment or her annoyance with me – but I took what she said at face value. Then she asked if I was a ”Projector”, one of four “types” in the Human Design structure. I said that I’d rather not tell her – that I thought it was better to remove that part from my treatment – I just didn’t want her treating me a specific way based on Human Design – at least not now. I trusted her as a therapist – I liked the way she worked – her professional approach. I felt comfortable in her office – and I didn’t want to have to walk away from that.  She seemed fine with that.

We took a few moments to make sure we were both “cool” – we were – it was a little awkward, but necessary. We were all straight. She asked if I was up for EMDR, and I said I was ready. My pulse quickened as I realized that I might uncover more sexual memories that I had hidden deep in the corners of my mind for the past twenty years. We hooked up the lights. I leaned back in my chair and took a few deep breaths.

We immediately went back to Jack and my Grandma’s house. We weren’t in the car. I didn’t want to think about the car for the time being. Jack was talking with me at the piano. His hand was on my leg, telling me how much he liked me and how good I was. I found a way to distract him enough to let me stand up and walk towards the kitchen to get the attention of my sister. She came to see what I wanted. I asked her if she wanted to go to the basement to play soccer in the laundry room. I was relieved when she agreed and we barreled down the stairs. I had escaped. We played for a while. My mom called down the stairs from the kitchen to tell us it was time for dinner. I opened my eyes and watched the lights, thinking about how I felt as I walked back up the stairs for our meal. I felt like I had escaped – temporarily.

My therapist stopped the lights and asked what I was thinking about. I was back in the basement in front of the television with Jack. Nobody was around. He was giggling and playing with my ear again. I hated it when he touched me. He told me to follow him to the tool room. I did, reluctantly. The tool room was in the farthest corner of the basement – the area of the house where I felt the most vulnerable. He walked in and turned on the fluorescent light. He wanted to show me how to work on something at his tool bench. He stood behind me – pressing himself against my back. I quickly came up with an excuse – I pretended like someone was calling my name. I played it off pretty well – enough for me to leave the tool room and start a conversation with my sister. She was wondering where I was. Another escape complete.

I opened my eyes and watched the lights. I felt my eyes get heavy. It was hard to keep them on the lights as they moved back and forth. I was deep in the basement – wandering – hiding. She stopped the lights. I found myself at school. Since we had just moved to Virginia from Texas, I had very few friends. The one friend I had was a kid named Randy. Randy had just moved from New Orleans – and he was moving into the same subdivision we were moving into – right around the corner from the school – but a good thirty minutes from Jack and Grandma’s. That made it difficult to play after school. All I wanted to do after school was go to Randy’s apartment and play – I couldn’t go back to Jack’s house. But, convincing our parents to drive all over town for a few hours with Randy was a tough sell – especially because my mom was pregnant with my younger brother.

I opened my eyes and watched the lights. All of the sudden Randy was at Jack’s house with me. In a failed attempt to invite myself over to Randy’s house, he ended up at Jack’s with me. I couldn’t let him be involved with this mess. He was my only friend. We had to work on a project for school. We were building a replica Jamestown Fort out of Popsicle sticks. I begged my mom to stay with us – to help us out so Jack would stay away. She did. I was relieved.

My therapist stopped the lights. I found myself thinking about my Mom and Dad going to the hospital in October when my brother was born. I was excited, but at the same time I was alone. I was fending off Jack without anyone but my sister around. I didn’t want to go any further. I was exhausted and luckily, we were almost out of time. I felt a slight smile creep to the corner of my mouth – I had made it through the session. Nothing too bad.

My therapist paused and said she wanted to talk about how innocent I was – and how resourceful I was to keep everything together for my family. I didn’t want to disrupt our family happiness, so I was able to put on a smile – but I was resourceful enough to protect myself when Jack tried to get me alone. I was juggling well for a nine year old. It was good to hear her validate that what I was going through was difficult for someone at that age. I felt bad for that kid – and so did she.

While I felt a little sad, I felt great that I had made it through in one piece. I didn’t blow chunks on her carpet or pass out in the chair. I didn’t even cry this time. I think that’s a good sign, but I’m not sure. The best part about it was that I trusted my gut. I didn’t try to make my therapist happy – I did what I thought was right for once. It’s been a good weekend.

On Thursday night, my wife and I drove up to Baltimore to meet some friends at an Oriole’s baseball game. It was a long way to go to see baseball’s most win-challenged team, but it was fun to get out of town for a night. The game went as expected. My Oriole’s were trailing 5-0 heading into the eighth inning.  This made it easier for my wife and I to hit the road before the game ended for our three hour drive back to Richmond. We said goodbye to our friends and walked up the aisle, past the empty seats. Suddenly, we heard the remaining crowd cheering. We turned around to see a teenager, most likely out-of-his-gourd drunk, running freely through left-center field – big smile on his face as he soaked up the applause. He high-fived the second baseman. He jogged towards third. At this point, you could start to see reality setting in. The “this seemed like a good idea a few minutes ago” look on his face was clear as a policeman met him at third. The kid touched the bag, and then made a break back towards second. Gutsy move. The crowd went nuts. For the next five minutes we laughed at the circus-like attempt to wrangle the half-baked teenager. Eventually, after embarrassing all nine cops with his drunken, yet surprisingly nimble moves, his endurance wavered. He stopped, and finally walked towards the cops. The crowd cringed as he accepted his fate, a little more forcefully than normal. But, despite the pain, the kid kept smiling – clearly proud of his accomplishment. Those five minutes were the best five minutes of the game.

After a slow start to the beginning of the week, I could tell I was feeling pretty good by week’s end. I was relaxed, optimistic, and overall feeling like I was getting somewhere. I was like that teenager enjoying my five minutes of fame, all the while knowing how my week would end. I had to accept my fate. I had to go back to my therapist’s office and think about that time in the car with Jack.

I entered her office and sat down. The crowd cringed. I knew what I had to do. She started by asking how I was feeling. I gave her the honest answer – that my week started off really rough – last weekend was difficult, but by the time Wednesday hit, I was actually feeling good.  She was glad to hear that but wanted to learn more about why I was feeling down over the weekend. I gave her my standard answer. I told her that I was feeling strange about learning that there were memories I was unaware of – that it was frustrating for me to know that there could be more. That thinking about a night in the car with Jack made me uneasy and it carried over into my weekend.

She said that she understood, but she kept pushing for some reason – trying to figure out if that was the only reason I was down. After about ten minutes of discussion, we arrived at the real answer. Unbeknownst to me, I was beating myself up for having to quit halfway through the last session. I felt like I had failed – that I wasn’t strong enough to endure the entire EMDR session. I really didn’t know that this was what I was doing, but it was clear to her that this is what was happening.  Hmm. Am I really being that hard on myself? I guess I am.

At this point, we were about twenty minutes into the session, and we had to decide there or not to go back to the memories and start EMDR.  I really didn’t want to, but I told her that I would if she felt it was the right thing to do. She said that it was, so we set up the black box with the lights. Reality was setting in.

Just before we started, we engaged in a conversation about who I am. This lead to a thirty minute discussion about my true self. I was telling her that the abuse had made me question who I really was – that I thought that maybe it changed me to become someone I wasn’t. I had read about this – these sorts of thoughts are normal for an abuse victim – questioning everything you have come to learn and know as truths about yourself as you go through recovery. For the next thirty minutes we went back and forth about this.  I don’t think we really got anywhere, but in the back of my mind, I was glad that I didn’t have to dig into my memories of Jack at the time being. I guess subconsciously, I derailed the EMDR session because I wasn’t ready. That was becoming clear to me as we continued the conversation about who Chris really was.

Then, she asked me if I knew anything about Human Design. I didn’t know what she was talking about exactly, so I asked a few questions. She said that it was a really good way to better understand who I am – but she stopped short of going into specifics. I dug further until I got a few more answers. Basically, Human Design is a new-age method of mapping your true-self. It’s a blend of techniques, some scientific, some not – that map out who you really are based on the exact time and place you were born. She knows me well enough to know that I’d be skeptical of something like this, so I could tell she was choosing her words carefully – almost back tracking a little as I probed.

By the end of the session, I had convinced her to point me to a website so I could learn a little more. She hesitated, but wrote down a URL:  www.jovianarchive.com . Then she said “Whatever happens, promise me that you’ll show up for your next session”. I told her I would, and I took the agreement as a good indicator that I was about to uncover some goofy material on the website – she even said it was a little “out there”. As soon as I got home, I went to the site, and confirmed that, yes, it was “out there”. Really, really “out there”. 

Even though every instinct I have is telling me to run like hell away from this astrologically trippy stuff, I like and trust my therapist so I want to hear her out. At the very least, if I tell her I’m not comfortable with this Human Design approach, she is skilled in traditional treatment methods, and hopefully we can continue on that path.

Just as most things in life, my session took an unexpected turn. Instead of accepting my fate and being slammed to the turf by nine police officers, I was asked to consider an alternative. Hmmm. Maybe I’ll be better off just understanding the breadth of treatment options that are out there – however trippy – and sticking with my traditional treatment. After all, I had prepared myself for the traditional beat-down – knowing that I’d be smiling as it happened – proud of my ability to take the beating gracefully. I don’t know what that says about me. In the meantime, I’ve got a lot to think about.