SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

In fond memory of Diane, who was always patient and kind. Tough as nails, she maintained her professionalism and commitment to her patients until her dying day.

“There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”

Jane Austen

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PLEASE NOTE: THIS STORY CONTAINS A DIRECT REFERENCE TO THE SEXUAL ASSAULT OF A MINOR.

Fortunately for humanity and me, I found a new psychiatrist. She was the non-Ditz of all psychiatrists.

Her name was Diane, and she did not clown around. Some patients found her to be an acquired taste. I didn’t. 

Diane was all business, blunt, and unequivocal. In her matter-of-fact manner, she was low-keyed, slightly irreverent, and maintained a dry, deadpan sense of humor regardless of circumstance.

Diane had some useful but annoying phrases she’d reserved for her patients.

If you tried to tap dance around a sore subject, she’d say, “Stop that.”

If you fed her anything short of the whole truth and nothing but the truth, you were rewarded with an unambiguous “Try again.”

We depressed/psychotic/PTSD types find innovative ways to accuse ourselves of sins we never committed and condemn others for all our self-inflicted, self-defeating lacerations. It’s a matter of convenience, I think. If Diane thought I could be heading in those directions, she’d abruptly reply, “No.”

“Wrong” was reserved for any attempt to evade the question, change the subject, or use any available defense mechanism.

“Uh-uh” appeared whenever she heard a flimsy excuse.

Our session started. Diane mentioned the exposed nerve in my Raeford recollection. “You felt so sad for the single mom. You still do. Why did you think she had been sexually assaulted?”

I casually replied, “Nothing specific. Sorry. Just the vibe. Not a big deal.”

Diane cocked her head. “Ah, but it is a big deal. Her sad eyes reminded you of your mother’s.”

I sighed. “I don’t know. I didn’t do any research on her. It was just a feeling. It still is. Her baby was well cared for, but she wasn’t. I don’t think she was out of her teens, and she already gave up on herself. Perhaps I related. I don’t know. What’s your professional opinion?”

Diane took a long, motionless pause. “I think it’s time you tell me what happened at sleepaway camp.”

“Oh.”

She replied, “You don’t have to relive it unless you want to. A cold recitation is fine. Consider it a first draft. The emotions show up later.”

I still wasn’t thrilled. “I’m not sure I care to talk about it. Sorry.”

“Of course, you don’t. It isn’t something you want to discuss. It’s something you must discuss. Sooner is better. I brought you coffee. This is a bribe, of course. You say ‘sorry’ a lot.”

After a lengthy pause, I said, “Oh, sorry. And how can I say no to coffee?”

I gave her, in my dispassionate manner, a few recollections:

The right side of my face was directly on the tree stump, where it stayed for twenty minutes. It seemed like twenty years. Keeping my face on the tree stump wasn’t my idea. I did not have a say in the matter because one of the three itinerant day laborers held my head, maintaining maximum force.

I fixated on the intense fragrance of the tree stump’s wet bark. In short order, it consumed my thoughts as I tried to determine what the smell reminded me of. 

Burning leaves? Maybe. 

None of them seemed to be taking my cries of discontent to heart. The most emphatic response I received was a hand on my mouth and some helpful advice to stop screaming lest one of them insert a knife in a vulnerable orifice, although it felt like that was already in process.

I was assured no one could hear my complaining. Still, one of the three fine young men said he would appreciate it if I shut the fuck up. 

My eyes were closed tightly as an image of the interaction among us four flashed into my thoughts—the moment precipitating the current and, for me, the unfortunate state of affairs. 

It smells like car exhaust. 

One of the three hurled rude statements at me after I jumped a fence onto what they considered their property. All three found my response insulting. I can’t remember what I said, but it couldn’t have been terribly demeaning. I was eleven years old and hadn’t developed my entire catalog of insults. 

Cigars! That’s the smell! Nah. 

They responded with a series of politically incorrect statements, tackling me, shoving my head onto a low tree stump, tearing my pants off, and taking turns indulging in an afternoon rape before calling it a day—a friendly gangbang before happy hour.

Are we in a car? We must be driving to football practice. It smells gross. 

At first, I felt searing pain and fear. Then, a sense of chaos surrounded me. It wasn’t long before I became disoriented and lost. 

Where am I? Cured tobacco. Doesn’t the bark smell like this? No. That’s not it. I can’t move. 

In their supportive way, the Gang of Three suggested I should consider not crying like a baby. These shenanigans were, let’s face it, all my fault. Therefore, I waived any right I had to complain about it.

It smells like a gas station bathroom. Tired. So tired. 

I remember they recommended I not mention this little episode to anyone. If I did, then they’d be obliged to kill me, my family, and anyone I told. Of course, I would be to blame.

I imagined I was out of my body and was witnessing the brutality through a distant black-and-white camera lens. My face was covered with tears, snot, and remnants of the rotting tree stump. 

Dirt. That’s all I’m smelling. There’s enough in my nose and mouth. It’s hard to breathe. Maybe these three won’t notice if I take a nap. It’s been a long day. 

Dad is going to kill me when he finds out I let it happen.

Tired. Really tired.

I observed the festivities with my camera, even though I was the main attraction in the documentary. My skin turned into a shell. Fortunately for them, all my internal components had long since left the crime scene.

Hey, guys. I’m not sure how anxious I am to live anymore. In fact, would you kill me now? You can carry on, of course. I could manage much better if I were dead. Maybe I am dead and in Hell. Nah. It’s another lousy dream.

I vanished and found myself on a deserted island. It was a small island, to be sure. A large one would have been too much to keep adequate security.

This tree smells like a very old diaper.

When I was five years old, a crazed neighbor kicked me repeatedly while I was on the ground. He tackled me as I ran through his backyard and took the opportunity to beat the hell out of me while I kept a fetal position. He informed me that trespassing was a heinous crime and was anxious to provide a disincentive to violate the law ever again by kicking me in the head and face. Repeatedly. He made it abundantly clear that our precious moment together was never to be spoken of. If I did mention it, then he’d break most of the bones in my body before beheading me. 

I’m sure this experience feels like that. I wish I could go to sleep. I wish I were dead. These people always insist I’m not allowed to tell anyone.

In the distance, someone yelled at the rape committee to leave or die by gunshot. He ran in my general direction, shotgun in hand. After one of them kicked the back of my leg and another punched my ribs so hard I could barely breathe, they ran away just after ordering me to keep my mouth shut. Otherwise, they’d feel obliged to come back, rape me again, kill me, and kill everyone in the family. 

I fell to the ground. 

I can’t say I felt much. My brain decided it had seen enough for one day, closed shop early, and went home.

Where am I? What day is it? Did something just happen? I must be dreaming. Therefore, I must be sleeping. It’s logical.

The fellow who chased the perpetrators away stood next to me. Surprisingly, he said it was not the first time non-consensual activities occurred around these parts. While he didn’t know any of the three, he assured me that he’d kill them someday. In the interim, he felt I should go to the hospital and file a police report. 

I begged him not to. I cried and pleaded until he agreed. He was curious, though. Why do I want to keep it a secret? 

Well, there were a few reasons. I explained them. First, the Gang of Three told me to maintain operational silence or endure the consequences. Second, my father’s reaction was not going to be favorable. I believed he’d be upset that I allowed it. Now, I was no longer a real man. As a result, he’d tear me to shreds, get his trusty axe, and kill me with it. Third, my mother would humiliate me back to the Stone Age and tell the entire world with instructions to make fun of me until the end of time. Plus, she’d always be upset and yell at me every day. Another problem was the other kids at camp. If they knew what happened, they’d beat me up and stick a broomstick where the sun doesn’t shine. I felt it was something without which I could live.

It was not lost on me, even at the time, that the consequences of people discovering I was raped were far worse than the rape itself.

Finally, I was feeling embarrassed about the whole chain of events. We should forget all about it and move on with our day-to-day lives.

The gentleman carried me to the camp’s infirmary, which was exceptionally kind, given the bloody mess. He explained my dilemma to the woman who ran the place. She agreed to keep it a secret, patch me up, and inform camp management that I had some vile contagious disease and had to be quarantined for a while. I thanked them until they couldn’t take it anymore. I repeatedly apologized for the inconvenience I was causing. 

Before we continue, you should know two things. One, my parents would not have reacted the way I described. They’d have operated in my best interest. I know that today. I didn’t know it then. My view of them was distorted. My view of them was wrong.

Second, this took place in 1968, and these things were not taken as seriously as they should have been. We’ve made positive strides over the last fifty years. We still have a long way to go. In those days, reporting an incident of child abuse, domestic abuse, or sexual assault to the police made your life much worse. 

The prevailing view then was, well, these things happen; boys will be boys. You, as the victim,  should be more careful, take more responsibility for your behavior, keep away from strangers, don’t walk alone at night, stay away from the bad parts of town, stop opening the front door just because someone is knocking on it, never sit on the sofa with anyone you’ve never met, stop being nice all the time, keep from making eye contact with anyone you don’t know exceptionally well, at no time show too much skin, always wear shoes you can run in, under no circumstances express a contrary view, keep a can of mace handy at all times, maintain diligent 360-degree surveillance to ensure you’re not being followed, get a Rottweiler, steer clear of the subway during non-peak hours, learn self-defense, hold the car keys between your fingers, lock the doors and roll up the windows when in a car, carry the drink next to your body, periodically change the locks on the doors at home, stop pissing people off, pull a criminal background check on anyone asking you to dinner, and try not to do anything stupid.

I guess that’s the view today, too.

I continued. “The aftermath was not unusual. I remained numb for decades. It’s still ludicrously hard to trust myself or anyone else. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since the Eisenhower administration. For eons, the only dream I had was one where I tried to swim away from alligators. Intimacy and sex? Not good. For years, each time I tried, the eight-hundred-pound rapists managed to get into the room. My poor high-school girlfriend spent the entire relationship chewing her foot off out of sheer frustration. The shame made things more trouble than they were worth. I could not keep a relationship, any relationship, for long. I physically and emotionally isolated myself. My poor wife wondered what was wrong with her when it was me who was all wrong.

“For years, I looked at myself in a mirror and saw a hideous monster staring at me. I still do, sometimes. At the ripe age of twelve, I had an eating disorder. I’m still not too fond of silence. There must be music or a TV show blaring. Standing in an elevator full of men was panic-worthy. I’ve been scared, anxious, detached, depressed, suicidal, withdrawn, paranoid, tired, unfocused, self-hating, and feeling altogether worthless. My inferiority complex is still in the Guinness Book of World Records. Every other word out of my mouth was, and is, ‘sorry,’ thanks to all the guilt. I’m too frightened to ask for help. I can’t remember any fucking thing from childhood. I did not speak one word at school in eighth grade. Not one. I’m not kidding.” 

I caught my breath for a moment and continued. “I am sorry. I’m a coward. I won’t tell anyone how I truly feel about anything because, most likely, I don’t know how I truly feel about anything. I’ve buried myself under layers upon layers of facades, personas, identities, philosophies, aluminum siding, mud, horse manure, and booze. I don’t know who I am, and I have no soul. Maybe I had one. I don’t know. I probably sold it.”  

I paused and finished, “Well, that covers the high points. Was it all due to a single event? No. You know that. My shit went sideways years earlier. But it put my emotional descent into overdrive. So, how are you?”

It was easy to see that the usually stoic Diane was affected by my rant. After a long pause, she stared at the floor and said, “You should know those are all normal reactions to an abnormal series of events. And you still worry about its effect on others: girlfriend, wife, and all those you apologize to. I think there’s more to it than guilt. I asked you to discuss your sexual assault, and you are concerned about how it affected others.”

I stared at the floor, too. “Conscientious, aren’t I? I’m just that good.”  

“Is it good? I thought you told your parents about the neighbor. Did you see him again?”

“No. We didn’t talk about it or anything else. I’m told he was led off in handcuffs shortly thereafter. We never saw him again. At least, I didn’t. I don’t remember what hand I played in his arrest. As I say, no one ever mentioned it. It turned out he was a fugitive under everyone’s nose. I’m not sure what the charges were.

“Relieved. I feel relieved. In case you’re curious. Having unburdened myself, I’m relieved. It was a fine idea on your part. Keep up the good work.”

Diane raised her eyebrows and looked at me. “What do you want to say to the eleven-year-old who just lived through this horrible experience?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Somedays, you’re the windshield. Somedays, you’re the bug.”

“No.”

I considered the question for a minute. “I am so, so sorry you went through all that. You never deserved this. I wish I could tell you it’ll be okay. But it won’t.” A wave of sadness swept over me. “Unfortunately, it’s going to be a dark road. I wish I could walk through it with you. Please don’t give up. Please don’t bury any of the traumas. Reach out…I think I’m done talking.”

For the rest of the session, we sat in silence.

The quiet was comforting, relaxing, and therapeutic.

Sometimes, a little bit of peace can go a long, long way.

—THE END—

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