4:35 p.m. - September 17, 2003
A principal barrier is the feeling of shame that comes when I talk about it. And I know I shouldn't be ashamed but I am and don't know how to move past blaming myself. I hesitate to accept the victim pronouncement and roll over because things just aren't that simple. I realized some time ago that while I don't write much about the topic here, just being able to add to the corpus has been of benefit. Sometimes, especially late at night when I can't sleep, I want to write my unorganized thoughts, the things that run through my mind, regardless if it's the first or manifold time and not feel like I'm rehashing laundry. But you know another, more basic intimidation factor, something that surprises me? Writing here is not an exercise in meaningless operability; though I don't know any of you, I'm cognizant that there are people reading these thoughts and who wants to read the same monologue over and over? I'm sure academic pundits are studying the nature and dynamics of blogs but I wonder, are they focusing on the motivations of writers and readers or simply the phenomena of anonymity and tech-culture's influences on social malleability? Ah, another topic for someone better suited.
Sometimes I feel like crying because I run in circles on a little track, unsure whether I'm running from or chasing the bogeyman. But is talking about it merely a waste of time? I'm impatient - where are the results?
I gave Dr. Indy my word that I'm re-committing myself to the research study that reconvenes on September 29. I'm going to talk about the molestation and its effects on my life for the next eight months. I hope - I can do better than that - I affirm that I'll listen and share more than I did before. But again that worry seeps though my filters like untreated sewage in a backed-up septic tank: Do people really listen, and do I really want to share?
I remember vividly the way he'd watch me and somehow I would feel his eyes and there he'd be, behind a curtain inside his house or in his car parked on the street, or there looking over the fence, and I think I'd smile back sometimes. If so, was this early on, midway, or towards the end when that terror imprinted itself? Or perhaps it wasn't a linear progression at all and sometimes I'd smile and other times be afraid? Again, I seek to discern my own culpability and this, Dr. Indy says, is the insidious nature of childhood molestation: Self-blame. If I am to blame, I want to know what I did, I want to know details and a timeline and what I did, what he did, if only to own the experience. As with everything in my life, I'm comfortable only when I know and this is the pathetic joke of my life - because I don't know, it's all I think about, jumping through these epistemic hoops like a poorly trained dog. When do I encounter the lion?