Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (5 page)

“What has been
done to you is one thing. Yet to really suffer, to truly be burdened with guilt
and shame, such pain always begins
not with what has been done to you
—but
with what
you
have done.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

My mouth is as
dry the dust surrounding us. I open my water bottle and take a long drink.

“Children love
games,” André says conversationally. “They live for fun. You were a child,
mon
ami.
It is instinctive and natural for a child to play with other members
of one’s family.”

I frown and stare
at my feet.
Yeah right.

“And then, too,
in your case we have the male physiology.”

I raise my head
to meet his gaze at this comment. An eloquent smile curls his lips, a message I
clearly “get.” Sometimes I feel as if he doesn’t need to say a word for me to
understand him.

“
Oui, oui,
but
of course!” André says. “A penis does not discern the difference. It does not
know right and wrong, good and bad. It is an animal of mindless sensation.
While some of these things your father did were perhaps unpleasant, most of
these games felt good. He made you hard and brought you pleasure, no?”

My cheeks surge
with heat at this, my deepest shame.

Two curious rock
squirrels come closer, chasing each other around a tree. Their scolding
chitters sound loud in the quiet of the desert.

I’ve watched
friends die. I’ve killed people. I’ve suffered grievous physical injuries. I’ve
run, I’ve hidden and fought in terror of certain and imminent death. But I
swear to God—discussing my childhood secrets is the most difficult thing I’ve
ever done.

André’s simple
question, echoes in my mind:
He made you hard and brought you pleasure, no?

After a long
moment, I admit the accuracy of his statement with a curt nod.

“
Merci,”
he
says, his voice measured. “Thank you for your honesty. This is a most difficult
discussion,
oui, oui!
Only the most courageous face such a trial. I
salute your bravery. The truth—it can be painful.” He gives a shrug of
philosophical resignation. “And yet, it is still the truth,
n’est-ce-pas?
”

André’s warm
praise eases something inside. He knows what I’m going through. I’d thank him,
but I don’t. I’m not sure if I
can
say anything. Instead, I sigh and nod
once more.

“The pedophile,
such is a master of manipulation,” André says. “Those who have not experienced
this do not easily understand. They think the victim should have told someone,
or done something to stop it. But why would they? A child does not know better.
With most pedophiles, it is not rape.
Non!
It is a
willing choice
and a
seduction
.”

A wave of shame
hits me and my stomach churns. My breakfast threatens to come back up. For a
moment, I close my eyes. I hold it together by gripping my knees firmly. My
hands would be trembling if I didn’t.

His words,
“willing choice
and a
seduction”
repeat in my mind.

I shake my head,
an unconscious physical denial, but he’s so right. No wonder I’ve been stuck
right there in the past. Confused and ashamed; buried in guilt and
self-loathing.

“Did you watch
the movie,
Sophie’s Choice
?” André’ asks.

It takes me a
moment to get my bearings. I hold on to his question like tugging on the reins
of a runaway horse. Thankfully, I can stop this mad gallop into my past for
now. I can take a much-needed break from the appalling mental and emotional
struggle I’ve been battling.

“Sure. I saw it,”
I say, while sucking in a deep, fortifying breath.

My counselor’s
gone off to left field once more, but that’s OK. In fact, it’s a relief. It’s a
well-earned respite for me, whenever he changes the subject.

“Bon, eh
bien.”
He nods. “Upon arrival at Auschwitz, the brave and beautiful Sophie
is forced to choose which one of her two children is to die in the gas chamber.
The surviving child will proceed to the labor camp.”

I nod.
Sophie’s
Choice
is the kind of movie where you come away feeling sad, and the memory
of it—the terrible, heartbreaking dilemma—stays in your imagination for weeks.

André’s eyes
flash with emotion as he lifts his hand and raises his index finger to make his
point. “
Bon.
If the Nazi had simply
taken
one child—Sophie could
have lived with this, yes? It would be out of her hands. She would have been
given
no choice
, do you see?”

My teeth clench,
but I nod my understanding. In life it can be wonderful to be absolved of all
responsibility. To have all options taken away. To know for certain there’s
absolutely
nothing
you can do to change your fate.

To be free of
blame.

André’s raises
and lowers his head rapidly, making his point. “It is cruel, yes, it is
horrific! Sophie’s grief—her pain, her suffering—it would have been unspeakable!
Yet she would not have felt such guilt.”

I consider this
for a moment.

I understand the
heavy burdens of blame, regret and guilt. It was the act of
deciding
which
child would die that destroyed her. It was
her
choice, which was
impossible to live with.

When I meet André’s
gaze there’s a strong emotion he’s communicating through his expression. He
wants me to appreciate how Sophie felt. He wants me to get the connection
between our two stories.

My pulse kicks up
as I begin to fully understand.

André’s aware of
the exact moment I “get” it.

“
Oui, oui
,”
he says excitedly. “Your situations are not similar, and yet they are, no?
It is because Sophie
was made to choose
that she felt herself to be
a
part of that choice,
comprenez-vous
?
It becomes
her
decision. From active participation, Sophie
shared
in the act. She felt
responsible—complicit in a vile crime.
Mon Dieu,
it was
the most
heinous crime a mother was capable of committing.”

My jaw tightens.
I’m not thinking of Sophie now. My mind and memories are all focused upon my
father. It feels dishonorable to speak ill of the dead—a social
faux pas,
and inherently wrong. Bad, good or otherwise, I don’t want to speak of my
father.

I don’t want to
think of him at all.

André reaches
over, pats my knee comfortingly and pulls away. “
Mon ami,
I will tell
you something few people know. Sexual excitement and orgasm during rape, sexual
assault or abuse is very common. If the victim is a man or a woman—it makes no
difference. Do you know why? Biological programming! The human body and particularly
the genitals react to stimulation as the
bon Dieu
has designed! This is
the best-kept secret for those that have been abused. Victims feel responsible
and ashamed because in many cases,
their bodies responded
, do you see?”

Feeling a little
queasy, I nod my head.
I
of all people understand this.

I’ve lived it.

“
Oui, oui,”
he says. “Rapists use this trick to make their victims blame themselves for
their attack. And the pedophile? The pedophile assuages his or her guilt with his
victims’ orgasms. For it is proof they wanted it, no?”

“Do you think my
father thought that way?”

“Mais oui,
of a certainty. All sinners must continuously rationalize and justify their
sins.” He gives me a quick smile. “Otherwise they would not be able to continue
to keep sinning, no?”

“But what about
sociopaths? They don’t feel remorse.”

He shrugs. “So
research shows. Me? I do not believe it. It may be hidden, it may be buried
deeply, but there is always the conscience. The immortal soul? It is aware of the
difference between right and wrong.”

“Do you think my
dad was a sociopath?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Am I?” I blurt
out, and immediately I’m sorry I asked.

“You are not,” he
says and his voice carries a quiet ring of certainty.

I nod. I couldn’t
be a sociopath. They’re supposed to be free from guilt. Remorse, shame and
guilt sit like three loathsome demons on my shoulders, whispering in my
thoughts day and night.

“Yet, it is not
what is
done to you
,” André says, “but what one
has done
that is
capable of destroying one’s life. Responsibility for one’s sins, it clings like
glue—such cannot be escaped.”

I’ve got nothing
to say to that.

André rests his
arms on his knees and bends closer, as if confiding a secret.

“Grant, shall I
tell you what I fear for you? Self-condemnation for participation in such
abuse, particularly with the perversity of incest—such gnaws away, on and on,
bit by bit every day—breaking a person down with shame, blame and oh-so many
regrets. And guilt?
J
e suis désolé—
guilt,
my friend…” He shakes his head sorrowfully. “Guilt
destroys the soul.”

I suck in a deep
breath and exhale slowly. Nothing new there. I could have told André that.

One of Sophie’s
children was put to death, and it wasn’t in any conceivable way her fault. Yet
life isn’t always as simple as right and wrong, or good and bad. Real or
imagined, for many, it’s about what
they
feel
responsible for.

No wonder
Sophie committed suicide.

“Do you
understand why I spoke to you of Sophie?” he asks.

“Yes,” I murmur
in a low voice.

“Grant, your
abuse was not your fault.
None of this
was your fault. The father is to
blame—regardless of your participation.”

I nod because I
understand. André says it isn’t my fault. Why doesn’t that make me feel better?
I’m numb, despondent and strangely cold, despite the heat.

Monster!
Pervert!

“You have lived
with this most hidden shame for far too long,
mon ami.
” André says. “And
this burden was given to you by your father—a man every child is not only born
to trust, but to instinctively wish to please. He twists a natural behavior. He
corrupts what should be an act of pleasure and a physical expression of love.”

Defeated by the
ugly facts, I sigh. “Yes.”

“As a child you
are proud of his admiration and attention. You are his son—the oldest child,
and he tells you that you are special, no? And so, many times
you
sought
him. You made a choice. You elected to go to him, whenever you wished to play,”
he says, speaking as if it’s an undeniable truth.

He’s right.

I see it in
André’s face—he recognizes my dismayed expression. My body trembles, I can’t
stop it now. I close my eyes, unable to meet his penetrating gaze.

“It is this that
shames you,” he says softly.

Eyes shut tight;
I inhale a deep breath and exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Long moments
pass while I struggle to regain my composure.

Just like Sophie,
I made a choice. Except, I made that choice not once, but repeatedly,
again
and again, over a period of years.

I’m riddled with
life-draining bullets now. I feel like shit and my head’s in a spin. André’s
right, of course. It humiliates me. The fact that I was an innocent child at
the time and didn’t know any better, doesn’t seem to lessen my guilt.

I had sex with my
father.

I didn’t protect
my brother.

I’m not gay, in
fact even the idea of
seeing
a naked man makes me feel physically ill.
And still I have to fight to keep my eyes off other men’s dicks because of this
creepy, unwanted compulsion of mine.

Damn it to hell,
I’m such a sick pervert.

Is that where
this relentless plague of guilt comes from? The choices I made as a child? My
fear that I’m not normal? That I’m not an ordinary human being? That maybe, in
fact, I
really am
a monster?

These sordid
secrets darken every part of me—mind, heart and soul.

I open my eyes
and meet my counselor’s shrewd gaze. There’s a bottomless well of unexpected
emotion hotly burning in his dark eyes.

Surprised, I
flinch as it strikes me as obvious and as illuminating as the morning sun. This
is the first time I’ve ever seen my composed and utterly controlled counselor
angry. But he’s not just angry—he’s furious.

André’s looking
at me… and I don’t think he likes what he sees.

“When we treat
children's play as seriously as it deserves, we are helping them feel the joy
that's to be found in the creative spirit. It's the things we play with and the
people who help us play that make a great difference in our lives.”

― Fred
Rogers

~~~

His lips are
pulled down in a frown and he raises his voice to me for the very first time.
“Yet it should not shame you!
Non!
” A strong volley of French flows from
his mouth.

He stands up now
and begins pacing. His arms gesticulate wildly, as he spews out a torrent of
furious and incomprehensible French words. I do recognize
“merde,”
which
means “shit,” and
“C’est vraiment des conneries!”
which means, “That’s
really bullshit!” The man is clearly pissed off.

André’s angry.
He’s upset. He gives way to pent up fury. In all the months I’ve known him,
I’ve never seen him like this before.

I sit back in
surprise, shaken out of the vile imagery of the past.

His emotions warm
me. Something that’s wound into a vicious knot inside of me loosens as I watch
him struggle with his passions. André’s own feelings have finally overcome him.

So. He’s not
always as cool and in control as I thought.

Taking a long
drink of water, André sits down beside me once more. There’s a sheen of sweat
on his face, and his manner is no longer one of ‘calm counselor.’ He looks
ashamed of himself after this emotional explosion.

“Grant,
pardon,”
he says, his voice low and contrite. “I find myself distressed when there
is such a vast disparity of power. It is injustice that I find intolerable. If
you please, forgive me.”

André’s accent
has thickened, he sounds more French than ever. I spread my hands in a show of
‘whatever’ and my lips curl in genuine amusement. “You’re forgiven. It was a
nice break for me to see
you
upset for a change.”

“Vraiment?”
he says, and his dark eyes glow with pleasure.
“D'accord, eh bien!
Then I
am satisfied to have reacted.”

I say nothing but
my smile sits easily upon my lips.

“
Oui, oui,
I was most upset. For the counselor it is not recommended to have an emotional response
such as this, you perceive. It is a failing, of course.” He throws his hands in
the air. “But me? I am only human.”

I throw my head
back and laugh out loud.
Human my ass.

André’s ego would
make an Egyptian pyramid look small.

He smiles at me
good-naturedly, not at all disturbed that I’m laughing at him. Once I wind
down, he returns to the subject.

“Now
think
my friend,” he says. “What chance would a child have to counter such mastery?
To fight against an adult’s pre-conceived, planned and carefully enacted
purpose? You were an innocent. He intentionally trained you to behave this way.
You were a child who played a game with his father. You did this to please him,
even if there was discomfort at times, yes?

I wince because
André isn’t stupid. He’s guessed everything. He knows the games pedophiles
play.

“Yes,” I breathe.

“You did not have
the ability to say no.”

“Not until I was
almost twelve.”

“Just so. Yet,
this was simply a game you were playing. Such is as natural as eating or
breathing to a child. You sought your father for fun, for pleasure, and for
adult attention and approval—nothing more. While
he
…” André’s jaw
tightens. “… he committed the blackest of sins, playing a part as evil as those
running Auschwitz. Your father’s actions were the greatest betrayal of all.”

A gentle, cool
breeze blows against me as a long moment passes. The comforting peace and near
silence is filled with only wind, soft, rustling leaves and bird sounds. What
André has told me is oddly freeing.

As a form of
exoneration, his words aren’t half-bad.

“You are a good
person,” André says, with barely stifled anger as his hands curl into fists.
“If you must be ashamed, find something to be
justifiably
ashamed of!”
His fists slam into his thighs with brutal force.

He jumps to his
feet, apparently unable to stay seated while filled with such fury. “But do not
feel shame for
this
!”

His anger is so
completely unexpected and out there, I laugh out loud.

After a startled
moment, his whole body shakes as he laughs along with me. For me, a lifetime of
pent up negative emotions suddenly turn into something ridiculous. What in the
world is so damn funny? Nothing, but I find I can’t stop.

André sits back
down. Together, we both hold our guts and choke with laughter until tears run
down our faces. My stomach is sore but the growing tension that was in my chest
no longer constricts me. It isn’t funny—but it really,
really
is. Why
are we cracking up?

For a moment, I
wonder if André became angry on purpose. Somehow I can’t help but imagine that
he did. His fury certainly lightened the mood. Laughing together is deeply
satisfying, in a strangely lighthearted and frivolous way.

A special kind of
person does this job. Someone who is uniquely crazy.

That long burst
of gleeful humor has done me some good. I feel much better. I needed the
release.

When we both get
our overpowering laughter under control, André goes right back to work. With
careful prompting, he gets me to speak about my secret life with my father.
Events from my past, even ones I’d intentionally forgotten, come to the
surface.

I find myself
telling him exact details, which he pries out of my usually guarded tongue—not
with a crowbar, but with clever and calmly inquiring expertise.

When I sit
silently, too embarrassed to speak, André’s soothing voice asks, “Is there
something you feel I would not understand?”

If that doesn’t
get me talking, he prompts me by giving me reassurances like: “This memory you
struggle with, do you fear it will make me think less of you?
Je vous
assure,
I hold you in the highest regard. Nothing can change my opinion.”

André’s serene
yet attentive approach, combined with the way he never reacts negatively to anything
I say, wears me down. While I have long periods of saying nothing and trying to
avoid the truth, I find it’s easier simply to tell him what he wants to know.

I take in a deep
breath and say, “Even without an ability to ejaculate, I had my first climax
when I was nine years old.” I’m staggered, because telling him grim details is
becoming so much easier.

The grin he beams me is wide and sincere. “
Bon,
I thank you for
telling me.
Comme c’est merveilleux
—this is wonderful! You are doing so
very well, my friend.”

My lips tug up
slightly. My smile feels worn, tired and very faint, but it’s there.

“I have counseled
many who, as boys and girls as young as five, also were taught to climax,” he
tells me. “Carnal knowledge is not meant for those so young and yet, once
‘Pandora’s Box’ of sexual awareness is open, a child cannot unlearn what they
know.”

I feel like a
dishrag, damp and sweaty from heat, emotion and excruciating effort. Every
sexual secret I’m aware of has been wrung out of me. I find myself physically
and mentally beat by the end of our discussion.

Worn-out, bone
tired but somehow lighter.

Relieved.
Unburdened.
Freed.

With the flourish
of a magician, he shakes out a tablecloth and pulls out three courses of
delicious French cuisine from his Dr. Who ‘Tardis’ backpack. He places every
dish with creative care. For André, artistry and eating go together.

My lips curve up
in a tired smirk and I shake my head.

French people.

I suspect the
ingestion of food is actually a sacred religious practice for the French.
Cooking is an art form and dining is an experience and a ceremony that takes
time and single-minded focus. For the French, every meal’s a special occasion
that should never,
ever,
be rushed.

André cocks an
eyebrow and his eyes meet mine. “Something amuses you,
mon ami?”

I gesture toward
the beautifully presented lunch laid out before us. “I’m just appreciating this
whole culinary setup you’ve got going on here.”

“
Très bon! Mon
Dieu
, you have worked very hard this morning. Now you are hungry, no?” he
says, while removing the cork from some no doubt costly red wine. He has ice
tea for me, a Southern drink his chief provides. I’m an alcoholic and can’t
drink, but that doesn’t stop my counselor from enjoying a glass. I have to like
him for this. Why should he act differently in front of me?

“I sure am. Thank
you, André.”

“You are most
welcome.
Bon appétit!”
he says with a happy, boyish grin.

My mouth waters
as I dish out Niçoise Salad with grilled tuna & potatoes.

Even though I ate
a big breakfast, I find I’m utterly starving and move on to a second helping of
food. Why is this? It’s as if my sordid secrets carried actual physical weight.
With the skeletons gone, body and mind, I feel hollow and strangely empty inside.

My gaze slides to
André. I watch as he sits comfortably, sipping wine and savoring this
beautifully presented meal. Every ounce of his being is absorbed in the sight,
smell and taste of gourmet enjoyment.

I just smile and
shake my head.

If you visit Paris
and see people eating as they walk, you can bet every penny you have that
they’re tourists. No respectable Frenchman or woman would be caught dead
engaging in such damning epicurean sacrilege.

My unconventional
counselor is overjoyed to see me eating and drinking with gusto. He assures me
I’ll feel much better after I do.

He’s right.

What a whack job.
Sometimes I wonder if André’s unexpected and offbeat behavior is a French
thing. The guy’s a crack up. He’s jumping out of his skin he’s so pleased. André’s
like an over-exuberant puppy with a box of new toys and a room full of kids to
play with.

The man’s utterly
delighted with me.

Right this minute
I feel as if I’ve earned an entire book of gold stars.

“Come," he
says cheerfully, after we eat and tuck everything away. He slips his arms into
his much lighter backpack, shrugging it on. “Have you ever heard it said, that
the most effective way to overcome temptation is to yield to it?” he asks me as
he starts walking.

To my surprise,
he takes a left turn, moving off the trail.

My lips draw down
into a frown of concentration. “No.”

“It is true.”

“OK.”

We’ve covered a
lot of mental and emotional miles—this has been a very big day. I’m exhausted
and I feel as if I’m totally brain dead. Unable to hold a single conscious
thought, I obediently follow him.

“This persistent
compulsion you have in wanting to, yet not wanting to look at penises,” he says
while making towards a small group of trees. “Now that we have the basis for
the problem—a pattern set when you were a child—such will resolve. There is
more to discuss,
oui, oui,
much more, but we have made a most auspicious
start,” he says.

André’s back to
talking in calm, professional counselor mode.

“Toward this
purpose, you must once more choose,” he adds. “Life is all about choices,
n'est-ce
pas?
The difficulty comes from shame, guilt and indecision. But of course,
this is all connected with the confusions in your childhood. For now, let there
be no remorse. Let all be blameless curiosity.”

Huh?
I’ve
been staring at the ground, watching where I place my feet as I walk, but some
tendril of awareness pushes through my weary mental fog.

I raise my gaze
to see André’s broad shoulders. He’s stopped just in front of me. His head
turns towards me and our eyes meet.

“A penis is only
a penis,” he says. “It is a normal part of the human male body—no more, no
less. It simply
is.
There need be no shame, no guilt. You must
decide
to look—
this time of your own free will.”

I notice he’s
standing in front of a tree. He unzips his jeans. “I must urinate,
mon ami,
so if you please, feel free to look at mine!”