Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (67 page)

“Every man
has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man
cold when he is only sad.”

― Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

It’s late in the
afternoon. Danny Berdeaux and I are on our way to see the next person on our
list. I drive, because I prefer it. The engine of my new car hums along, while the
radio plays the latest hits.

Danny’s updating
his tablet, so I can drive and think.

Almost a month
has passed since Mitten frightened my sister out of the house. Betty Jo isn’t
talking to me. I figure her absence from my life is good for
her
health.
I still want to make her pay for hurting my fiancée.

My fiancée!

Meanwhile,
Renata picked out the perfect engagement ring, which she’s delighted with.
Inordinately pleased with our engagement, André claims full responsibility for
arranging the match.

“Me? Oh, I am
very clever!” he told us, shameless in his pride. Also,
‘La vie est une fleur
dont l’amour est le miel,’
which means,
‘Life is a flower of which love
is the honey.’

That crazy
Frenchman never fails to put a smile on my face.

Meanwhile, I
feel a fresh jolt of wonder and surprise every time I wake up with Renata in
the bed beside me. I’ll never get over it, I can’t believe she loves
me.
How did I ever find such happiness?

The woman makes
me laugh, even at myself. I used to be
way
too uptight to laugh at
myself.

I took her to
the shooting range, introduced her to my staff, and let her try her luck on
hitting the target with a 22. My two managers had wide eyes and raised
eyebrows. Neither of them had seen me with a woman. Both feel obliged to tease
me as often as possible, which the ‘new’ me takes in my stride.

When I’m not at
work, we’re all together as a family. Sometimes I help her cook some complex
French meal, or Mitten and I keep Briley entertained while she cooks. We play
on the swing set for hours, or we work in the garden.

If it rains we
have long frivolous discussions while listening to music and finishing jigsaw
puzzles. She even made me dance with her, something I never do, but it was
fun.
We fight over what movie to watch, eat popcorn, and usually end up making
out on the couch.

We make love
again and again.

Every time, it
feels like the first time.

My life has
transformed. With Renata I feel powerful, euphoric and… most surprisingly,
normal. I’m changed—yet myself. This relaxed and liberated person is
the
real me.
Everything else was just bullshit.

Normal.

It’s what I constantly
yearned for and never had. Inner voices sometimes fill my mind with doubts,
forcing me to wonder how long my newfound joy could possibly last.

I try not to
listen.

Mother
disapproves of our engagement, but hasn’t said as much in so many words. Her
condemnation shows mainly by her raised chin, pursed lips and superior manner.
I feel censure coming off of her in waves.

My mother is
easier to read than a preschool primer. See Spot run. See mother's disapproval.
What else is new?

Renata doesn’t
come from a prominent family, with old money. She has no connections. My
mother’s hoping to get my girl alone in order to scare her off. Fat chance.
I’ve warned her, in no uncertain terms, to stay away from my fiancée.

Unfortunately, when
my mother’s around I easily slide into a guilt trip. I’ve realized I was part
of a love triangle, except instead of a mistress,
I
was the other person
my father cheated with. His devotion and attention went to
me
—not to his
wife.

As a child I
didn’t understand.

As an adult I
know how unbelievably wrong this was. My mother had a cold, bitter personality.
Can I blame her? How much did she know about me and my father? I hate her for
not protecting me, for not stopping my abuse, but maybe she honestly never knew.

Meanwhile, Alex
and Sky are overjoyed by my choice of a bride. Renata gets on well with both of
them, and more importantly—their son likes her. That’s enough for them.

Tapping my
fingers on the wheel, I pull out onto the freeway.

Danny’s busy
typing notes into his tablet. He’s super-organized, making a journal of every
step of our journey. I’m just glad he’s quiet for the moment, because he’s
usually inordinately chatty.

Right now, I’m
deep in my own thoughts. There’s lots to think about.

I haven’t sat
down privately with Alex to ask him whether or not he was behind our father’s
death. I should, but I’m not sure if I really want to know.
Is my brother a
murderer?

Also, Alex seems
to be purposely avoiding being alone with me, probably as much as I avoid being
alone with him. No one in my family even knows I’ve been arrested and released,
twice.

Our family was
taught not to communicate. We’re good at keeping secrets from each other, from
the outside world—and especially from ourselves.

Ingrained
habits are difficult to break.

Meanwhile, my
lawyer has created a tax-free charity I boldly named the ‘Sexual Abuse Therapy
Foundation.’ The name has negative connotations, but to hell with it. No one
should be ashamed to have been the victim of sexual abuse. No one should be
embarrassed to admit they need counseling.

This is the
start of a major breakthrough for me. I want to set an example by someday
‘coming out’ with what happened to me. I want to challenge society’s conspiracy
of silence and shame concerning sexual abuse.

All money will
go directly toward approved services for survivors. For now, the benefits will
help people who were abused by my father. In the future, who knows?

Someday, if I
get up the nerve, I might try to utilize my mother’s fund raising skills to
seek out sponsors. For now, I’m the only donor to this charity.

Danny and I have
compiled a directory of Boy Scouts from my father’s troops over the four year
period he was the Scout Master. Also the church youth group, gun club, and golf
caddies at the country club—but we start with the scouts.

When we include
camps and occasional special events, we have thirty-six names on our list.
It’ll take time to contact them all.

It's been trial
and error, but our plan seems to be working.

We have to proceed
slowly. With each person on our list, we follow a protocol. First, we phone and
ask if they’ve recently received any photos in the mail. If they have and they're
amenable, we arrange to meet. We drive out to visit anyone we can’t get in
touch with by phone.

First contact is
the most difficult. Threatening to call the cops is the norm, but we’ve managed
to talk people out of that option.

To date we’ve
met two others who were abused by my father. Both recently received photos.
Just how many more will we find?

One man was a
year younger than Danny, the other was his age. As Danny is twenty-six—three
years younger than myself, I find this detail concerning dates and ages
interesting.

I suspect by the
time I turned eleven, my father had begun selecting other children to take my
place as he could see the writing on the wall. Once I hit my teens, I couldn’t
help but start to question my abuse.

Unless, of
course, my father simply preferred younger children, which could certainly be
the case.

I knew there was
a high possibility of discovering more victims, yet when I found it was true,
it shocked the hell out of me. It also caused an unexpected, illogical and
primitive reaction I couldn’t identify at first.

I had to take a
few minutes to step back, to honestly and brutally study my own response.

How did I feel
when I discovered other boys had been abused by my father? Ashamed, because the
predator had been my dad?
Yes.
Was I relived there were more viable
murder suspects?
Yes.
Was I glad to be right?
Sure.

I felt all of
these things, yet none of these things.

My biggest
knee-jerk emotional response floors me.

I felt
jealous!

“Jealousy is
simply and clearly the fear that you do not have value. Jealousy scans for
evidence to prove the point—that others will be preferred and rewarded more
than you. There is only one alternative—self-value. If you cannot love
yourself, you will not believe that you are loved. You will always think it's a
mistake or luck.”

— Jennifer
James

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

The bottom has
dropped out of my world, for no logical reason.

Jealousy roils
through me—burning my guts and ripping into my chest like an open wound.
Bitter. Resentful. Seething!
Isn’t that a screwed up way to feel?

I
was my
father’s boy—his
special
boy. I knew about Alex when that first began. I
felt terrible for not protecting my brother. Yet, in my secret heart of hearts
I
knew
my father only wanted
me.

I spent my
entire childhood feeling lost, nervous and uncertain. Fear, confusion and mixed
signals ruled my world. As a child, my father’s desire for me was the only
proof I had value.

Was it all a
lie?

Did I have no
value at all?

Shit.
It’s clear I have more work to do. It’s taken a long time, but I finally
figured out how to deal with abuse and all the complicated problems it
causes—like this mind-fuck of today.

Abuse
must
be
addressed, but it’s not something you can fix on your own. Someone you trust
can help, but it’s still up to you to do most of the work.

Sorting through
one’s past is like peeling an onion. You start with the outermost layer. First
you pull away the easy stuff, the parts you can face—perhaps focusing on the
abuser and how he or she was a complete asshole.

After that, the
next layer is exposed and you begin to feel like a pervert. You’re ashamed and
humiliated by what happened. A sense of self-blame, self-hate and worthlessness
then joins in this twisted, off-key song—not to mention feelings of guilt, debasement
and despair.

As each layer is
peeled away, difficult emotions and thoughts are exposed. After several layers,
once you go even deeper,
then
you begin to realize the
really
nasty stuff.

What
they
did
is one thing… what
YOU
did, is another.

Facing up to
one’s own flaws, faults and failings is tricky. You begin to feel you
deserve
to be unhappy. You deserve to be alone. Examining your own sins can make you
end up with an even lower opinion of yourself. This is particularly soul
destroying when you already feel broken.

Yet, the only
way out of this hell on earth is to push through it.

Every mistake,
every regret and shame must be courageously and honestly viewed. Only then can
you gain true insight.

Eventually, your
sins fall into a more balanced perspective. You learn self-acceptance and
forgiveness for what wasn't
ever
your fault to begin with. You grasp the
vast power inequities between an inexperienced child and a manipulative,
predatory adult. You begin to understand why there’s a legal age of consent.

With a kid it’s
all about, ‘monkey see, monkey do.’

Grown-ups know
best. Right and wrong, good and bad are concepts that are explained or modeled
to you from the get-go. You’re not old enough to have the life experience
necessary for genuine understanding.

When looking
through the eyes of a child,
everything
is your fault.

Eventually you
begin to ask crucial questions. How much responsibility should a six-year-old
really take? How bad can a person be when they’re only twelve years old? Or
even in their teens?

It’s then you
rip open toxic secrets, cut out the cancer and begin to make real strides.

You discover
you’re not a monster. You’re
good, and right, and worthwhile. You
recognize how abuse never
truly
broke you.

You become
grateful.

In time you
notice you’re more compassionate, more understanding and less judgemental.
You’re a better person.

Like a sword
needs to be tempered through heat and fire to become a stronger, better
blade—you survive the fire of abuse and are a greater, tougher, wiser soul because
of it.

At least that’s
what André thinks. He says,
‘I am persuaded such struggles expose the heart
and liberate the soul.’

Renata and I
prefer to go along with that concept.

Today’s
uncovered truth however, is a real toughie. What kind of person feels jealous
over his own abuser?

I hate that he
used me and called it love. I despise the fact he had the ability to arouse me.
Yet, I can’t help but feel betrayed and bitter
because I wasn’t the only
one.

At this moment
I’ve hit an entirely new level of shame. I'm embarrassed to be me. How
pathetic.

It taints me to
be my father’s son. I’m sickened by the feelings I had for him. He was a bad
father, and yet… he was
mine.

I only had him,
but he had
others.

Is this how
people feel when they find out their partner is unfaithful? Of course, it isn’t
like that at all… but it is.

I knew about my
brother, but even with Alex, my dad preferred me. My father liked me best. What
an ugly thing to realize about myself. I never understood how much I valued my
‘special’ position in the family.

This is a hell
of a deep layer to peel back on that never ending onion. Shit, after years of
work, wouldn’t you think I’d have gotten to the damned core by now? Surely at
some point, if I keep peeling, there’ll be nothing left.

I sigh deeply,
resolving to put this stormy emotional upheaval and self-disgust away to deal
with later. I’ll hate having to do it, but I’ll confess these shameful feelings
with Renata later tonight. She’ll hear my dishonor, but it won’t bother her.
Talking to her makes me feel better about myself.

For now, I need
serious distraction. I don’t want to fall down this rabbit hole of self-hate.
So I ask Danny a question I’ve been wondering about for a long time. “Do you
think my father was gay?”

Danny closes up
his tablet and regards me with raised eyebrows. “Why do you ask?”

I shrug.
“Because he liked to screw around with little boys.”

He frowns. “I
don’t see the connection.”

“How can you
not
see it? What do you mean? My father was
only
with
boys
. Doesn't
that mean he was gay?”

“
I’m
gay,
my sexual preference is men.” Danny shakes his head as though I’m a lost cause.
“Note, I say
men.
I’m repelled by the idea of sex with
boys.
Child molesters prefer
children
, not
adult
men or women. As I see
it, there’s no connection between one and the other.”

“Ah.” I smile
broadly. “That makes perfect sense.”

The answer is
obvious when you stop to think about it. Sexual preference covers a broad
range. Bi-sexual, homosexual, heterosexual, and for child molesters, children.

Danny nods. “I
figure a child molester may favor boys or girls, or chose victims solely
according to opportunity. If there were choir
girls
in the Catholic
Church (and not choir boys) it’s likely Church lawsuits would have been for
abuse of
girls.
In every case however, molesters prefer the untainted
innocence of children.”

“I hope I didn’t
offend you,” I say. My car shakes slightly, as I pass a huge semi-trailer.

“Not at all.”

I’m not
homophobic—it doesn’t bother me in the least Danny is gay. People who complain
the longest and loudest about gays and lesbians are usually in denial. Like the
anti-gay politicians who turn out to be homosexual, they fear
their own
impulses.

The GPS
instructs me to take the next exit. I turn on the blinker and slide into the
right lane. We must be getting close to our destination.

“Cody seemed to
have it together,” Danny says, commenting about the guy we saw this morning.

“Yes, thank God.
I’m glad we saw him first. Miguel was… difficult.”

Danny gives a
derisive chuckle. “You think so?”

“Oh yeah. I hope
he’s the worst we have to deal with. At least Shawna let us in. I don’t think
he would have.”

Remarkably, my facial
scars help when meeting strangers on their doorstep. I shock them, but most
people assume I’m a patriot who’s been disfigured during combat. This makes
them feel guilty about refusing to talk to me. It gives me an in.

When Cody
Bentley received his photo, he hadn’t been totally surprised. Mostly, he
remembered his abuse, yet he’d tucked it away as one of those things he’d
figure out later. All in all, I think he took it pretty well.

We shared our
plans with Cody about forming a support group and arranging for counseling.
Danny and I told our own stories, which had made it easier for Cody to open up.

Strangely,
although he'd thought he remembered his past, Cody couldn’t recall what he saw
in his picture. Danny and I experienced the same thing with our photos. We
can't remember them being taken, we don’t recall
being there
.

I’ve concluded
my father
must've
drugged children at times in order to obtain explicit
images. Sickening. Horrible. Inexcusable. What else did he do when these boys
were unconscious? God, how I
hate
him.

If my father
wasn’t dead, I wouldn’t use a gun.

I’d beat him to
death with my bare hands.