Broken Mythology

For as far back as we can remember we have thought of ourselves as a broken-down black stinking withered monster. We have always believed this was the case because our sexual abuse began before we had any positive formed memories. There is a comfort in believeing you’ve always been this…thing. That somehow we were born this way, that there was nothing really to be done about it. Fatalistic kind of a deal. We were able to avoid really dealing with ten years worth of sadistic vile abuse at the hands of people we loved.

A couple of weeks ago we were at a Christmas gathering at the in-laws. There was a tiny precious little five-month old there. Somebody in us decided to play with her for hours. Such a fragile teeny thing, so vulnerable.

When we got home that night we noticed, for the first time it felt, a baby picture of ourself that we’ve had displayed in the same spot for years. Went into an immediate shock that still has us reeling.

As if the Universe hadn’t tossed enough our way, last weekend Our wife decided to rearrange stuff from one place to another. She found our Baby Book that mom had written about us. Apparently we were a charming talkative bright vivacious little girl until we suddenly stopped talking at 2 1/2.

The mythology we have counted on our to shield us from overwhelming pain has shattered. There was a time when we were only one person. There was a time when we laughed and played. When we were not this undescribeable beast.

We put this together like a lightning bolt in therapy yesterday. T says “so now what?”. Now what indeed. Now there is no hiding. We’ve been in therapy a long, long time and we know an epiphany when we see one.

But this is not a good one. We feel that the skeletal system of our emotional existence has suddenly vanished and we do not have the coping skills to handle it.

We don’t yet know how to communicate with whoever the f*ck is inside us. Let’s just hope that somebody pops out who can function well enough to tune it all out.

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