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.