4:52 p.m. - April 27, 2004
A while ago my therapist asked if I'd be interested in meeting with another therapist who chairs a committee focused on physical and sexual abuse within the gay community. They are constantly seeking people who will share their experiences for both research and public-information purposes, and at the time I responded affirmatively. I had over-estimated my desire to talk about the topic but tomorrow's the day.
At last night's group therapy we talked about power dynamics and how the more it's talked about, the less control it has over one's life. It. It. Nine months into an experimental group therapy on top of individual therapy and I still shy away from saying molestation or rape or being hit. One of the guys mentioned he worries that once the group is over, I'll stop talking about it and will end up where I began. It hurt to see how little faith he has in me, but I know it's true; that's exactly what I would do. And that makes it important that I talk with this guy tomorrow.
I can't help it but I feel pathetic when I think about Spec and how much I loved him and made excuses for everything that happened. It's the same with the guy next door from my childhood, the one I call the bogeyman in a tangible demonstration of how terribly immature I am. With both men, it was myself who didn't tell or walk away, say stop or prevent either from doing what he wanted. I was a pussy and I've always been one, being quiet and passive to avoid any kind of confrontation where it would be demonstrated again that I wasn't enough to serve my own interests.
That idea of passivity and submissiveness has been an occasional theme in therapy. I wonder what it is in me that influences one response over another, why I am so quick to forgive another yet am so hard on myself that if hair shirts were available for purchase I'd use them for sheets, towels, and underwear. The thing is, being quiet and passive is a desperate attempt to stem the Other, as if I can fly under the radar and evade detection. Yet being like that is no different than trying to creep into the woods and hope the hunters can't see me with the red X on my back. Talking about it and talking often is power itself and makes people slink away, shows I am holding my ground and you can go to hell because I'm not going away.
And maybe even if I don't see it, I am changing, I am getting better because I talk about it more and more often. It is a secret hope and a half-fantasy wish and I don't know where I'm going with all of this, but it feels good not to know.