I've said before that I never really "got" a lot of the "inner child" talk that goes on around here. I had a pretty darn good childhood both before the abuse and, thanks to self-preservational memory burying / muting / dissociating / sterilizing, after it as well. I can easily envision myself at most ages - 7, 8, 11, whatever - and find something to like, while also feeling strong emotional continuity / identification. I didn't think any of my childhood in and of itself was lost from one really awful day.
You knew there'd be a "but."
Since the feelings of that day came back, I've been... stuck, I guess, in a level of primeval terror. That is the only emotion I am able to feel towards the perp. I'm not angry at him, don't hate him, and can't force it or fake it. It's existential fear and nothing else.
My T (who is wonderful, really understanding and supportive and has already helped me restore a lot of function) says that's got to be the inner 8-year-old. That he was the one who had all that fear - of being attacked, nearly choked to death, incomprehensible pain, the loss of all control, becoming a thing. I today am under no threat, and both she and I feel I'd be better off able to get angry instead - because at least there are clearcut ways of purging anger, ie hollering, punching pillows, finding some small objects that won't be missed and cavemannishly destroying them, etc. Because it feels, well, more manly to be mad, more childlike to be terrified.
This week when she kept talking about "Little Matt" and how we should try to put his fears to rest, I asked her how that works. And she gave a sad smile and said "That's when I put Little Matt in that chair across from you and then you-"
Totally fell apart before she could even say it. I don't want to see him, don't want to talk to him, whether I'm play-acting as me now or play-acting as me aged 8, who I remember very clearly as a funny class-clown dinosaur fanboy whom I like a great deal. I don't want to see the other version, the victim version, at all. I call it the monster, the thing in the bathroom. T got confused by that - wasn't the perp the monster? Well, I really hadn't seen the perp during the worst of it, just a belly, he was about 11 feet tall. And I wouldn't be talking to him, I'd be talking to the... thing.
"I think you could tell him you forgive him, Matt. Tell him it wasn't his fault."
But I don't blame myself, any part of me, for the attack. I used to blame myself for not being able to suck dick well enough to please the guy and avoid being violently fucked down my throat - but that has faded, because honestly, I know and feel I would never have been spared regardless.
No, I dont blame that thing of an abused boy. I hate it. I HATE IT. It's so fucking freakishly ugly, disgusting, and weak; I've used terms like "mindless subhuman bitch garbage", which T says I should stop - I repeat it here to illustrate the mindset. I was proud of myself, a smart kid and smart-aleck, computer camp, model rockets, awesome pet salamanders, lots of friends....
And then I get turned into this... well, you saw the words. This thing terrorized and brutalized into mindlessness, losing everything I'd ever been and done, a slave, a thing. I'm supposed to look at that? Talk to it? It couldn't talk back, maybe it would give some broken scream or holler "PLEASE STOP!" It's like the stories of Hiroshima, where people would find their family members as shambling ruins, skin burned away and eyes melted. You can't exactly talk to or comfort someone like that. Well, that was me at that time, wrecked and empty and unrecognizable to the real me of any age.
And... and maybe I do blame it. Not for the attack, but for the foulness dumped onto my life since this all woke up. 22 years ago I finally deciphered what the fragmented emotionless pictures in my head meant. Mr. L had sexually abused me. Had touched me and his penis had been involved with my face in some manner. For 22 years I knew that and wasn't hurt, wasn't consciously effected, didn't care. And now... well, Mr. L is just still doing basically what I'd always known he did.
The new stuff? The pain and terror, the shock and shame, the feeling my mind being erased as it happened and knowing I existed in such a degraded state? Well, that's from the thing in the bathroom, the melted Hiroshima zombie, the subhuman. THAT is where all the bad stuff had been living and THAT is what re-entered my mind and gave it all to me... and took so much away.
And I hate it. I hate it for being so disgustingly mindlessly ruined and for dumping its mindless ruin all over me, for hurting me NOW.
I really, really pressed my T on whether she thought such a "chat" would help.... and she is very confident it would. But it's heavy duty, so would have to wait until I was properly ready for it.
Won't be for a while. I know my REAL inner child, from pretty much any age past 4, and he's just me and I like him a lot. This thing... is an other, and it has brought me nothing but hurt and heartache.
"Don't think it hasn't been a little slice of heaven just because it hasn't!" --Bugs Bunny