Child Abuse Again


Most know me for my tackling of social issues. This can take a toll. Mucking around with what’s wrong with the world can be horrific. I find things out I don’t want to know. Yes, Ian Weinbergthere is no justice. You’re right, but that doesn’t mean I’ll take that fact lying down. I’ll scream and holler until I have no breath left.


That said, I went on a journey of exploration recently. I suffered trauma as a child. My mother wanted to kill me, and my father, well, my father had other things in mind. When I let him know things wouldn’t work out with me, he impregnated children from other families. I have siblings here and siblings there, and I don’t even want to know their names. I don’t blame them—I just don’t want to know them.

So I went in search for my “triggers.” Those are the things that make you jump or send shivers down your spine. I have many. As I tried to gently nestle myself into those memories, This blasted into my mind:

Featured Image -- 831As a small child, I quickly learned that running and hiding from my mother was inevitably doomed to failure. She always found me and inflicted pain and fear. My life was always in danger. I don’t think that was a conscious thought when I was little, but I believe my instincts were always geared towards survival. My mother was a danger to me.

When I learned running and hiding would not be successful, I began to keep my mother within earshot and eyeshot as much as possible. I glued myself to my aggressor. If I detected irritation or a mood change on her part, I sought to soothe her. This was not always successful, but it did help. There were simply times when she was going to exert all her power and control over me and hurt me

As an adult, I started to follow this route—seeking out aggressors I could, “keep tabs” on. I slowly learned to pay attention to the hairs rising on my arms and stay as far away as possible. I still have to negotiate this strategy with myself to this day. But it is not only with aggressors I employ this strategy, it is with all folks. I wait for a sign you could be a danger and murmur, “AhHah” to myself.

Because of these things, I suffer from immeasurable anxiety and sometimes suffer from something called Dissociation. I sought help yesterday with progressive dissociation and reached out to a safe, quiet place where I had achieved success before. They wouldn’t even tell me if they had a bed. When my doctor therapist called they wouldn’t even tell him if they had a bed. They simply told him I’d have to throw myself on the mercy of the system and hope for the best. (My words.) Maybe—just maybe—if they had a bed at the time, The Wyman Center  in Cambridge, MA would take me.

In Massachusetts, there are 2776 beds for a population of 6.812 million for mental discord, and many of them are in dangerous places. I was to put my life at risk to get “help.” I go through the gist of it in my post:

I declined to embark on such a dangerous journey. I wanted help, not further damage. The day is here when choice has been shorn away, and power and control reign supreme.

Reminds me of when I was a kid.

So you see, I learned young there was no justice. I was probably about eight. That was about the time I realized no one would dare save me from my lunatic parents—that if anyone tried, they would become the target rather than me. Better me than them.

And when it came to goals and learning, my first goal was to reach a doorknob on a door leading to the outside.  My second was death.  My third was Catatonia so I could feel no more.  (Death was too scary for an eight-year-old.)  When I was finally too big to beat coupled with the fact my parents had bred out two younger siblings to take up my mother’s time, I chose medicine.

I sought out help to heal from the ordeal of childhood and was introduced to a child predator who was a doctor.  I had all the luck….

The time came when I learned my father was volunteering in a children’s room in a small library up in Maine.  I called the state police in Maine and alerted them as to his propensities.

“What do you know?” was the demand.

“I only know my father is up there and he has a taste for children.  I am calling to alert you to that fact.  I’ve done the best I could.  I can sleep at night now.” Click went the phone on my end.  I heard they paid him a visit.

In fulminating through many social issues, I have found my story is often common to many.  I don’t always compare myself to those others, but I often do.  My background in psychology and numbers tells me it is so.

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