Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (71 page)

Everyone
should experience such rapturous sex.

I feel loved,
valued, sated and well-used.
Purposefully
used. Grant, a man of
formidable control, didn’t hold himself back. I was a channel for his
aggression, arousal and need.

I comforted him with
my body in a raw, physical way. How can such an animal act feel so spiritual,
so profound?

In healing him,
he heals me.

This wonderful
man arrived home anguished and suffering, and I’ll get to the bottom of that
soon. Yet, all I can think in this moment—with my one working brain cell—is I’ve
never felt so complete, so happy and whole in my life.

“Some people
habitually respond to a lover’s pain and confusion with an intense desire to
fix something. Fix-it messages can feel like invalidation to the person who is
trying to express an emotion. “Why don’t you just do this … try that … forget
about it … relax!” sends the message that the person expressing the emotion has
overlooked some obvious and simple solution and is an idiot for feeling bad in
the first place. Such messages are disempowering and invalidating.”

―
Dossie Easton

~~~

Renata
Koreman

We’re sitting in
the living room in front of a softly burning gas fireplace. Firelight plays
over Grant’s handsome, masculine face. He sits beside me with only his
unscarred features in my line of sight.

I tried holding
his hand earlier, to sit closer to him, but he wasn't ready for contact. He
needs time to decompress and process the stuff that's going on in his head.

His imagined
sins isolate him.

Whatever
happened today brought up a truck-load of shit. His self-loathing is back. It
emanates from his tortured soul in a palpable force—like a razor blade cutting
into flesh.

Confession can
be a lonely business.

The soft, golden
light is fitting for cleansing his emotionally charged soul. His strong profile
is beautiful. His dark eyelashes seem exceptionally long in this light. They
flicker restlessly as he blinks and talks.

Painstakingly
explaining the stresses of the day, Grant focuses mostly on how he felt jealous
with the discovery of two more victims of his father's abuse. He’d been shocked
and horrified to find he felt betrayed and insecure because his father had
‘rival’ children with whom he’d been intimate.

He describes how
he was his father's 'special' boy. It was one thing to share that 'honor' with
his brother, Alex and later, Danny. It was quite another to find out he was
only one of possibly
many
kids. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow.
Add to that, his emotional response to the discovery also shamed him.

This day of
discovery also stirred up other unsettling realizations. He recognized how much
he used his position as his father's ‘favorite' to get his way as a child,
getting better treatment than his siblings.

Hesitating over
the sordid details, his voice fluctuating with each changing emotion.

I nod and make
soft noises as he opens up, to let him know I sympathize and I understand. More
than anything, he needs to rid himself of the toxic shit that's eating him up
inside.

Throughout his
long discourse, I slip into my therapist mindset, continually biting my tongue.
I don’t interrupt, even though I’m dying to jump in and disagree with his
brutal self-condemnation. The desire to offer suggestions and advice is in
there too, but the worst ‘Vice’ is advice.

So, instead, I
let him purge.

Only Grant knows
the answers, even though that knowledge may be currently hidden. My job is to
help him explore difficult issues and discover his own truths for himself.

While I
carefully listen to his words, I also observe him. It’s so intimate to see him
like this. I look at him as much as I like, while he keeps his gaze averted
with shame.

Grant's come so
far during the relatively short time since we met. Without prodding,
he's
come to
me
to open up. Now, he sits before me and candidly shares his
dark, newfound secrets.

He's so full of
angst and misery. It hurts to see him suffer. I swear I feel his pain.

I hate that he
feels ashamed of the actions he took to survive his childhood. This would be
difficult to watch except I know he’ll feel better afterwards. Right now, I can
only listen and help him work through it.

Sometimes he
sounds cynical and so much older. As a child he saw and experienced things no
kid should
ever
be exposed to.

Other times, his
despair seems like that of a child. For too many years he buried his secrets,
shame and pain.

I want him to
honestly
view
the memories that cause him to hate himself. If he sees
the truth clearly and tells me about it, his burdens will ease and perhaps even
vanish. This human connection of sharing and understanding is at the heart of
vanquishing one’s demons.

That’s how
counseling
works.

I'm flooded with
overwhelming feelings of love, awe and sympathy for my big-hearted, kind,
grown-up hurt child. None of this was his fault.

The ‘love’ Grant
received from his father was never given freely. Instead, it was doled out with
treacherous, self-serving strings attached. Betrayal, uncertainty, fear,
desperation… he’d walked a difficult tightrope in his youth.

I remain focused
on him, despite my inner rage and thirst for vengeance toward his father. Those
feelings will do no good for either of us. I must be
here
for him, in
the moment. That's what he needs.

“I was a lousy
brother to Alex and Betty Jo,” he says. “It’s so clear to me now. I was also a
lousy son to my mother.”

“When you talk
in huge generalities like that, you only upset yourself,” I say. “We need to
get down to specifics. Remember, Alex called
you
the instant he was in trouble.
He went straight to his big brother, and you were there for him. Without a
second thought, you jumped into action immediately. You arranged everything,
including getting me to look after his child. You jumped on the first plane
here and came to his rescue. Look around, Grant. Here we are, it's been a while
and you're still there for him, caring for his baby. Tell me again, how are you
a lousy brother?”

“I was the chosen
one,” he says, his features grim. “The whole family knew it. I accepted it because
it was the way it was, at least that’s what I told myself. But the truth is, I
enjoyed being my dad’s favorite. Being ‘special’ for me was utterly
self-serving. I stole from them! I took my siblings' share of my father's
attention, praise and whatever the hell else passed as love and affection. I
wasn't entitled to it all, yet I knowingly took it.”

I disagree, of
course, but I keep my face expressionless, my voice even. “OK.”

He glowers with
anger. “Being the favorite is a position of power. I manipulated situations to
get my way. I got out of trouble. Alex and Betty Jo often took the blame for
things I did.”

“I get it,” I
say with a nod. “Yet, you were a child, with
very little
power. Don’t
forget what you’ve realized previously. HE was a master manipulator. You
could
never
have what your father didn’t intend to give you in the first place. He
used favoritism to serve his perverse desires. You were his pawn. A strong and cunning
grownup, your father purposely made you feel guilty and ashamed. He used those
emotions against you."

The room is
silent for a few heartbeats. “Yes, he manipulated me, but he also taught me how
to manipulate
them
.”

Ah. I begin
to see where this damning guilt, this perceived sin of his is coming from.

I take a deep
breath and switch gears. "I understand what you’re saying, but Alex
doesn’t seem to resent you. I haven't seen any evidence of that. From the
outside looking in, I view the situation quite differently. Have you ever
considered maybe Alex was
glad
not to be the favorite? Being the sole
focus of your father must have been a daunting place to be. Don’t beat yourself
up when you could be sorely misguided. You’ve never talked to them about any of
this—have you? Don’t you think it’s time to discuss your father with your
family?”

He blows out a
long breath of air. “I know, I know, I have to do that soon.”

“What about
Betty Jo? How were you a bad brother to her?”

“Isn’t it
obvious?” he asks. “
She
wanted to be our father's favorite.”

“You were a
child
when you were introduced to this situation,” I say, forcing my voice to remain
calm and even. “Despite what you believe and no matter how favored you
were—nobody can control anyone else's choices. Your parents were
adults
who made their own decisions as to how to treat and raise their kids. If you
need to assign blame, do it properly, based on the facts. The dysfunctional
family dynamics you grew up with were not
your
fault.”

Grant stares at
me for a moment, his eyes questioning. “You’re really good at this, you know.
Are all sexual surrogates this wise?”

I laugh. “Are
you trying to change the subject?”

“No. I just
think the way you’re able to see through bullshit to the most relevant point is
amazing.”

My face heats
with pleasure, it’s always nice to receive a compliment. More than that,
helping people is my own particular brand of crazy. I can’t stand seeing
someone suffer—I
have
to help them. Yet, the fact I’m helping the man I
love so much, satisfies me in a way I could never explain.

I clear my
throat, chasing away the powerful emotions that fill me. “I’m taking a
psychology course, but it’s not that,” I begin hoarsely. “I was a real mess.
Living with André, having him train me into mindfulness, and listening to him
point out truths I’d already told him, put me in the right direction. André was
an excellent mentor who taught me how to pass on what I discovered about myself.
If I’m good at this, it’s because he helped me through my own crap. Everything
I know I learned from him.”

“That makes
sense,” he says.

After a few quiet
moments, I ask him, “Why do you think you were a bad son to your mother?”

“That’s also
obvious,” he says. “I took her husband away from her. It was as though I was my
father’s mistress, living in my mother’s house, only I was also her son.”

I tilt my head.
“Again, you were a
child.
Your father was an
adult
. He was in
control. He
chose
to put his wife and children in that situation. You
were a victim in this every bit as much as anyone else in your family—in fact,
even more so."

Grant’s averts
his gaze while he thinks this over. The idea he had it
worse off
than
the others is clearly a new concept to him.

“It’s an
interesting thought,” he finally says.

“Yes,” I agree.
"For you to consider yourself your father's
mistress
is a very
adult way to look at it. Is that how you saw the situation as a child?”

He frowns and
reflects on my question with a faraway look in his eyes. “No,” he finally says,
as he shakes his head. “All I remember is wanting to please my father. I realize
now I had the ingrained fear of him from when I was very young, but I was also
afraid of his moods. He used a lot of emotional blackmail to get his way. At
times, he made me feel sorry for him.
I
felt bad if he was unhappy.”

I nod. “I'm not
surprised. You'd been taught at a very young age to be hyper-vigilant and
hyper-aware of his wants and needs. You were trained to cater to him before
anyone else. Any emotion or impulse he saw in you would be added to his arsenal
of tools to manipulate you more skillfully. He used anything and everything including
your fears, your sympathy and your desire to please him. Guilt and shame were
also powerful weapons. Threats of exposure or even threats of suicide or
self-harm work too. He manipulated you to love him and to feel sorry for him.”

Grant’s features
become stern and unforgiving. The sudden flare of naked abhorrence in his eyes
shocks me. I force myself not to recoil from this blast of raw rage.

“I hate him,” he
says succinctly, meeting my eyes for an instant before averting his gaze again.

“Me too,” I
solemnly and sincerely agree.

The silence
lengthens. “You know, sometimes people who've suffered childhood abuse get
their past and their present confused,” I observe. “For example, this extreme
jealousy you unearthed today. Consider how discovering others who were
'special' to your father would feel through the eyes of yourself as a
child.
I'd think that those feelings would be quite different than how you perceive this
situation as an adult.”

Grant turns
toward me, curiosity etched in his features. “Are you saying that it was
actually from the eyes of myself
from when I was a
child
that I felt
jealous?”

I stare at him.
“You tell me. Are you, as an adult, jealous?”

“Hell no,” he
says, his eyes glowering. “As the person I am
now
I have far too much
anger toward my father. If my father wasn’t dead, I'd want to kill him. I don't
know if I could stop myself with the rage that’s burning inside of me right
now.”

I grin and clap
my hands. “Excellent!”

“Holding on
to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone
else; you are the one who gets burned.”

— Buddha

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Grant gives me a
half smile. “It doesn’t bother you that I’m enraged?”

“There’s nothing
wrong with anger,” I say. “André would tell you the passion of rage is
magnifique!
He’d say it’s
a wonderful emotion everyone
should experience. The only thing wrong with
any
emotion is getting
stuck in one of them. When a person is unable to change—you know—constantly
angry or constantly sad. Holding on to anger will make anyone sick.”

“I’m not
always
angry,” he murmurs with a teasing lilt.

I playfully
raise my eyebrows, recalling the fun we have together in bed… or, most
recently, on the kitchen table. “So I’ve noticed.”

His lips curve
up in a smile. “That’s true, but what about the idea of marrying a patricidal
maniac? I just told you I want to kill my father.”

“Your father's
already dead,” I say, pointing out the obvious. “As attractive as the idea is,
you can’t kill him again. I’ve actually considered you and I should sneak into
the graveyard sometime late at night and shit on his grave.”

“What?”
He immediately cracks up, choking with laughter at this outrageous idea.

“No, really,” I
exclaim. “Not only would it be fun, but I honestly think it would be excellent therapy!
The guy is dead, so you don’t have a chance to talk to him, or to tell him what
an asshole he was. But at least you could leave him an appropriate gift by
shitting on his grave.”

Every time I
say, ‘shit on his grave’ Grant loses it. A good ten minutes goes by, while he
intermittently laughs, chuckles and snickers, from time to time murmuring,
‘shit on his grave’ in a low voice.

It’s pretty
funny.

I am
so
going to arrange to do that with him some night, when there’s a nice, full
moon. We’ll giggle like errant schoolkids the whole time, I just know it.

When he finally
settles down, I say, “I think the anger you have toward your father is healthy
and appropriate. I'm actually thrilled. Maybe now you’ll stop blaming yourself
and shouldering all of that guilt and shame for
someone else's
bad
choices and behavior. You were a child—your father was an adult.
He
was
the monster who hurt you and your entire family. It was
NOT you
."

Nodding once
more, he remains silent. I can almost hear him thinking. I wait for him to
speak.

Experts claim
victims of abuse need to forgive their abusers so they can rise above it and
truly heal. However, I think anger toward one’s abuser has a place,
particularly when initially facing the past. Rage can fester and impede personal
growth, but it’s worlds healthier than hating and blaming yourself. Depression
and guilt drain energy and life. At least anger can be empowering and
energizing.

He sighs. “It’s
difficult to forgive myself.”

“I completely
understand. You’ve taken as much responsibility as you can, but honestly, you
did nothing wrong! You were a kid! There’s nothing to forgive!”

He shrugs.

I tone myself
down. Deep inside, adults who were the victim of child abuse always blame
themselves. It really is ridiculous.

I take a deep
breath. "Forgiveness of self and the abuser is supposed to factor in there,
according to the professionals. I’ve come to terms with what I did, but that’s
it. I haven’t gotten to that point in the healing process and I may never get
there. I don't know. Since I haven't forgiven my own father, I can’t advise you
on that.”

Our eyes lock,
his gleam. “I want to kill
your
father as well.”

“Charmer,” I say
with a snicker. “You know how to win a woman’s heart. Yeah, I’d like to kill
him too—take a number. Anyway, he’s too hard to get at because he’s in jail.
Yet, again…” I smirk, “Wanting to kill him falls under the category of
appropriate feelings for the given circumstances.”

Grant throws his
head back once again as he bursts out in a huge belly laugh. “I don’t know if
we’re helping each other, or simply in agreement with each other's similar
irrationalities.”

“Hey, as long as
we’re happy,” I reply cheerily as we both continue to chuckle. I’m glad he’s
beginning to loosen up on this subject.

It’s good to see
him smiling and pulling himself out of his funk.

I gesture, palms
up. “Every time we run into one of these emotional challenges it’s another
opportunity. It's a chance to look at ourselves in a different way, to sort stuff
out and to grow. I have you to talk to, and you have me. André was smart to put
us together.”

His brows
furrow. “He put us together…
intentionally?
"

I nod. “André
told me, and I quote, ‘
I have chosen to place two damaged people together in
the hope that they may heal each other.’
”

“Huh.”

“He’s so
clever.”

Grant snorts.
“Don’t tell
him
that. His ego's too big already. He won't be able to fit
through a door soon.”

I giggle. “It’s
part of his charm. By the way, André wouldn’t flinch from your confession.” I
go straight into my 'André impersonation' mode, imitating his French accent,
“He’d probably say,
Jealous of the others? Mais oui, but of course! You are
only human, no?”

Our laughter is
loud and wholehearted. The mood has lightened. Grant told me his terrible
realizations and the world didn’t end. I didn't stop loving him, nor did I leave
him. He survived and will even be better for it, in the end.

I get us drinks,
hot chocolates. I also made a ton of brownies today, which go down well. A
good chocolate high and sugar rush would cheer anyone up.

I ask, while
chomping on a brownie, “So the thing is, this jealousy you felt… it was from
yourself as a child. A child’s point of view, correct?”

“Yes,
definitely,” he says, swallowing his brownie. “When I think about it. I guess I
was shocked. It felt like a kick in the gut. But what’s there to be jealous of?
Being manipulated, toyed with and violated ten ways till Tuesday? The jerk was
a complete asshole. I’m sorry I ever got
any
attention from him.”

“Good. I'm glad
to hear that. Can I tell you a story about myself that’s relevant to this
conversation?”

“Of course.”

“As a child, I
felt worthless, unloved and rejected.”

His blue-gray
eyes soften. He immediately takes my hand and squeezes it.
Grant’s so damned
sweet.
He doesn’t say anything, but I know what he feels. Sympathy and
understanding shine from his gaze.

I smile.
“Consequently, as an adult I’m extra sensitive. I try to be aware of this,
because I know it’s a trigger. It doesn’t happen so much anymore.” I grin.
“Except perhaps when your sister's around. The thing is, when triggered, I
still
fly right back into my past. I turn into a complete mouse, and I see everything
as I did when I was a hurt, scared and abused child.”

Frowning, he
processes this, then nods.

I continue,
“That’s why, when dealing with these kinds of triggers and emotions, I try to
examine everything in two ways. I look at it from my current point of view as
an adult, as well as through the eyes of myself
back then,
when I was a
child. It helps me to separate them, do you see? As kids, you and I were both
hurt and deprived of basic things. Because of that, our view of the world is
different when we look from
the past.
Logic isn't a factor for a child.”

He tilts his
head. “So, you’re suggesting I think about this stuff in two ways—as an adult
and
as how I would've felt and thought when I was a child?”

“Yes,
exactly.
”

“As a child, if
I'd known about my father’s ‘others’ I would’ve felt jealous, bitter and
betrayed. That’s all there is to it. As a child, he was a shithead, but he was
my
shithead. That’s crazy, isn’t it?” he asks with a sheepish grimace.

“Not at all. I
applaud your honesty. That's how it is for a child. Your relationship with your
father was a big part of your life and identity. Of course, you'd feel that
way. That’s how it was back then. Everything you said and did followed a script
to assist your survival. It gave you the illusion of having some control, when
you were actually powerless.”

I shrug. “You
were his favorite and you used that, because you had so little else. Without
your father’s influence, you would've never acted that way. That self-serving
personality isn't
really
you. We survivors need to be careful of
childhood behaviors popping up in our adulthood. Why wouldn’t these actions and
feelings surface in the present? They're ingrained within us. We were trained
to act and feel this way as kids, simply to survive.”

He sighs. “The
whole subject of abuse depresses me.”

“But is it your
responsibility?” I ask with raised eyebrows.

He grins. “No,
it isn’t. You’ve told me I’m not to blame so many times, I dare not suggest
such a thing.”

I grin back at
him. “No shame, either. This is
not
your fault! It’s important to
examine your past behaviors, simply to take them off automatic pilot, if
nothing else. But
never
feel bad about it, honey. Everything you did was
a solution to the problem of constant manipulation by an adult. Feel better
now?”

He nods.

“Anything else
you want to talk about?”

“One important
question,” he says. “Don’t answer me immediately—think about it, first. I’ve
been freaking out because I’m happy. It sounds crazy, but in my heart, often I
just don’t believe I deserve to be happy.”

“Grant—” I
interrupt.

“No, let me ask my
question. Is there
anything
I could do or say that would make you leave
me?” He shakes his head. “I
need
to know this, so I can be careful. I
can’t lose you. I can’t screw this up. I don’t think I’d have the heart to go
on if you left me.”

I tilt my head,
surprised by the emotion and vehemence in his voice. I don’t know what to say.
My silence causes him to continue to explain.

“My childhood,
my sins, my secrets, the war, these scars—none of those things have the power
to break me.” His gaze is intense. “But
you
do, Renata. I couldn’t live
with myself—I’d be lost if I did something stupid and made you leave.”

I clear my
throat, utterly flattered by the compliment, yet disturbed by his open, unrestrained
passion and defenselessness. It’s too much responsibility.

I could
destroy him.

“OK,” I say.
“Give me a moment, let me think about it.”

Grant’s
insecurities break my heart. My chest aches, my eyes burn, but I say nothing.
He asked me an honest question. I’ll give him an honest answer.

I know he would
never cheat on me. I suppress a smile at the thought. Hell, it was hard enough
for
me
to get him into bed.

As I consider
every possibility, a distinct memory flashes in my mind of my mother… and my
father. I realize at that moment, there’s only one thing that would break
things irretrievably between us.

“Have you ever beaten
a woman… or a child?” I ask.

Shocked and
appalled by the idea, his mouth falls open as he gapes at me. “No!”

“As long as you
don't cross that line, you’ve nothing to worry about.” I give him a wide smile.
“You’re going to be stuck with me forever.”

My response
appeases him. We fall into an instant, spontaneous embrace. He hugs me
so
hard
, for an instant I have trouble breathing. This is not a sexual cuddle.
This is him, holding on for dear life to an anchor in a storm.

I’m the
anchor.

Grant
needs
me. To him,
I’m essential
. Overwhelming emotions tear through me, shock,
pleasure, surprise, joy. Somehow, I manage not to cry.

At this point,
with tacit agreement we ignore each other’s overpowering
feelings.
Instead, we downplay everything, turn on some music and go back to normal
activities. Briley’s asleep, so I read while he catches up on his daily
journal. Later, we play ‘catch and kill’ and ‘hide and seek’ with Mitten,
focusing on him for a while.

When we return
to bed, Grant’s bossy bedtime dominance takes a back seat. Instead he makes
love to me, slowly, sweetly. He treats me with a reverence I’ve never known.

A day that had
been so disturbing for him, ended well. All is right in our world. We slept through
the night, both at peace.

Until the next
morning.

That’s when he
receives a phone call from his brother, calling from the police station. Alex
has been arrested for the murder of their father.