Good Little Catholic Boy
An average family man’s big religion gone terribly
wrong and a journey towards inner peace
Written by
John Saunders.
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Contents
Page
Preface
Authors Note – Introduction - Acknowledgments
Foreword by Author Steve Biddulph
Chapter. 1 The past becomes the present
Surfacing memories of abuse.
1.1 A response to intimacy all screwed up–
When the body remembers and the mind is blank.
1.2 Fighting with depression – Speaking about pain and
suicide. A man’s home is his castle.
1.3 Dancing with Ballerinas in cupboards–
A Mother’s religion gone wrong.
1.4 Hereboy. Introduction to a Catholic dogma.
1.5 Zoro–
Unmasked.
1.6 Cowboys riding off into the sunset–
In search of innocence.
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Chapter 2
Betrayal & Punishment
An act of sexual abuse.
Snatching of the soul–
An act of Psychological & Physical abuse.
38
The religious Adams family
Really creepy and kooky.
Locked away memories. A Father’s life.
A Dad’s death–
Rage towards a Father.
55
Crawling out of the cupboard
Disclosing abuse.
The Catholic administration–
The spin god.
The law firm –
The spin demidoctor.
A help guide while disclosing to solicitors
70
2.1
Chapter 3
3.1
Chapter 4
4.1
4.2
17
20
25
31
34
36
46
63
72
81
2
Page
Chapter 4
4.3
4.4
Chapter 5
Crawling out of the cupboard Cont.
The Police department–
The truth will set you free.
Preparing yourself to make a statement.
Managing stress when making a statement.
Sisters & Brothers –
A help guide while disclosing to siblings
88
93
94
95
Healing the Soul
Healing physical wounds through reflection and
meditation. Inner wounds.
In counsel–
Seeking the inner child & receiving guidance.
Spirituality and a religious god.
A therapeutic pathway.
A Mother’s death.
Following dreams.
104
The kingdom of God lies within
Power over the people. Memory blocking.
To enter into the kingdom of God become as a child–
In praise of children. Shame.
Why god is a male – God lives at an outside address.
Where is my male? –
Men and Sons. A reciprocal healing process.
146
Chapter 7
My Daughter & Partner speak
Daughter – Living with an abused Dad.
Partner – Living with an abused lover.
162
162
164
Chapter 8
Finding my resting place
At the mercy of the court for the last time.
Going home – Back to the place of birth.
171
5.1
5.2
5.3
5.4
5.5
Chapter 6
6.1
6.2
6.3
8.1
Authors Final note
108
116
122
133
142
150
157
159
180
185
List of National contacts for people recovering from abuse
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Authors note
If I was to investigate the lives of all the authors who have written books that
have turned into pearls of wisdom and touched the hearts and souls of all the
people that have read them, I’m sure I would find that their lives had periods
of great struggle and suffering. They may have even written their books in
these times! This book is about my time of struggle, back to back with my
understanding of the direct gifts that I have received from this time. I’m
hoping the two will combine successfully for you and be easy to take in.
Being a man encompasses so many thoughts and emotions. This book is
about so many men, and I’m sure you will find a piece of you on the pages
that follow.
Introduction
As I place the date on the top right hand corner of the page that I’m writing
on, I begin to wonder what to write to open this book. Ironically, I think of
placing J.M.J. (Jesus, Mary & Joseph) at the top left hand corner of the page.
As on reflection this is what I had to write at the top of every page as a
seven-year-old going to a Catholic school. Then effortlessly, my mind
swings back through time like a pendulum in reverse. The year is 1968 and
I’m attending a Christian Brothers primary school in the border town of
Albury N.S.W. Australia. And now, for the first time in my long struggle
with my memories, the pen feels safe to be in my hand.
I’m writing this book in the hope that it will be finished by me, and not end
up as notes or letters out of a diary that someone else reads out. My brothers
and sisters, my loving partner or my children. At this stage I really don’t
know whether I will be a survivor of spiritual, sexual, physical, and
emotional abuse or not. Will I survive?
So now, I take one day at a time, and sometimes even just a moment at a
time, so I can step aside from my isolation and all the other feelings my
heart strains under the weight of and carry myself through to the next
moment where hopefully things will change. As an adult I know all things
change, though at this point the young boy within me thinks all things
remain the same. I’m 36 now and it was 3 years ago I recalled the memory
of being sexually abused by a teacher in 6th class at a Catholic boy’s school.
I was lying down in a counselling session when I recalled the first memory
of the abuse. Imagine, someone coming up behind you while you are
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peacefully lying down relaxed and startling you to the point where your
whole body bounces off the floor. This is what happened to me.
Then my mind immediately commenced justifying and minimizing the
memory of the abuse, trying desperately to convince me it didn’t happen.
This was instantaneous and all my justifications and theorizing that it was
nothing, coupled with my counsellor telling me that he thought these events
aided my growth at the time, led me to make the decision to close the door
on my abuse once again.
Three years have gone by since then and many times within this period I
have been suicidal, woken up depressed, lifeless, wondering what’s
happening to me, why my life is falling apart around me and turning into a
tragedy? Why do I not want to spend time with my children? Why am I
uncomfortable being around them, hugging them, loving them? Why do I
not want to be loved and touched myself? Why do I feel so awkward with
other men? Why is it I have become so short tempered with my children, my
partner and am now desperately trying to hold on to my relationship and my
professional life? All the things that are dear to me, I now hold onto by an
extremely thin thread.
After many loving talks with my friends, counsellors and reading books on
sexual abuse, (especially ‘Victims No Longer’ by Mike Lew) I realise that I
have been convincing myself that everything has been okay for most of my
life, having created an extremely capable bodyguard within me to ward off
anyone who comes close to my wound or my inner world. The unfortunate
part about my bodyguard is that he doesn’t trust anyone and now he doesn’t
even trust me, the man who created him.
I’m not a psychologist nor claim to be any more than a simple man, though
at this point in my life one thing is for certain; this is not going to be a
simple road. However, it is now the only road I can walk down. So this book
is going to be about what I have discovered about being a man through my
experiences, on my journey. I’ve now commenced weaving the fabric of my
life back together again with the incredible support of my good friend and
partner, both her loving teenage children and our five-year-old daughter. The
journey of recovering the pieces of myself that I’ve left behind in my past,
has now commenced with the help from my bodyguard within. As it is he
that safeguards these pieces of me until the bitter end, as everywhere he is,
there is a piece of me that I’ve left behind. From these writings I’m hoping
that a transformation will take place in my heart, soul, and mind. That these
words will encourage others who have experienced similar events to mine.
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I believe we need to speak of our wounds and the parts of our lives that have
had no voice, no words. The parts that have kept us living one-step behind a
rich and full life.
I write to help men be greater fathers to their sons and daughters, or any
other sons and daughters that have honoured us by stepping under our wings,
even if for just a moment to give themselves the lift and blessing that they all
deserve, after all, we are like Gods to them.
As I’ve walked down the road of recovery, I’ve realized that the most vital
and fundamental part of me that the abuse has affected has been my spiritual
foundation and religious beliefs. I was not going to include writings on these
subjects for fear that it would cause some people to reject my book.
However, my spirituality has constantly come up to be addressed and
whether I like it or not, my parents entrusted my spiritual foundation to be
developed and nurtured by the Catholic religious orders for thirteen years, so
I would be given the gift of a good moral and spiritual code to live by. I will
leave these writings in.
If you too have struggled with your life and wish to consider and challenge
the thoughts you harbour within and have experienced self abuse through
drugs, alcohol, sexual dysfunction, low self worth, violence, or any other
behaviour that you find repeating itself, that isn’t promoting growth and
happiness, then this book will assist you.
I have also included a chapter on the Catholic Education Office’s response
to my disclosure, as I believe a lot of men and women may not know how to
begin to disclose their abuse and support themselves along the way. This
aspect of my process had such a profound impact on my life, on my stress
levels and on the wellbeing of myself and those around me. And it is only
now I realise I could have cut a few more corners and jumped less fences,
had I the knowledge of someone else’s experience to draw upon. Through
sharing my process, it may encourage you to include this road in the healing
of your abuse. Even though it was extremely difficult for me, it was worth it
for my peace of mind.
Sexual abuse creates awesome spiritual damage and it’s the person’s spirit
that is in need of repair just as much as their mind. In my view, for Christian
religious orders to admit this point they would have to change their structure
from the top down, admit to the toxic aberrations in human behaviour that
their organisational structure fosters and their continuing policy of
minimising public awareness of the damage it creates to the human spirit. In
short, have the humility to say sorry for past and present actions and policy,
and change it!
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I do not believe that anyone recovers and nurtures their will and self-identity
back to health from the point of separation and isolation from others.
Catholicism led me to believe that I was one of the elite. It taught me to
separate myself from others and from the Creator of all things.
This is also written to inform anyone who is considering going through the
process of litigation regarding his or her sexual abuse. There is a specific
chapter that covers litigation, endeavouring to make the road less travelled,
stressful and time consuming.
There is also a section specifically written by my partner and twelve year old
daughter, as my family were also largely affected by this event and were a
part of my support network. They helped me survive.
Most definitely, the effects that sexual abuse has on people of different
backgrounds and cultures other than my own, could be vast. Since I haven’t
specifically studied the different effects that sexual abuse has on people of
different backgrounds and cultures, I do not believe that it would be of any
value to hypothesis in relation to this. However, from the information that I
have read there are definitely some common responses that run true for all
victims of sexual, emotional and physical abuse and these will be the ones
that I will focus on.
If you have been abused, or have had a relationship with someone that has
been abused, I’m sure by now you are familiar with the heaviness that falls
like a shroud over them at different times in their life, especially at the time
of healing their abuse. If this has happened to you, then it is the perfect time
to ask for help, to reach out and trust someone. These are the times that you
can take giant leaps forward in life, if the memory of the abuse is not buried
again.
True memories stay alive. And do not die because they are buried.
Walking the road of self-discovery a person may consider the concept that
the personality may not be all of who one really is. This can be endeavouring
to swallow a big chunk of knowledge in one go. And this is a concept that
many people ponder at some stage during their lives. To hold this in one’s
hands, even for a person with a healthy spiritual foundation is awesome.
Now, for the person whose religion has damaged their spiritual foundation,
natural development and supported them to believe that at the centre of their
being they are evil and bad, well, this then becomes a horrifying Pandora’s
Box to open.
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This whole book is about looking within, and about some of the treasures
that I brought back with me from my journey of diving into me.
There is an abundant supply of wonders to explore in the mind and I have
this feeling that I’ll be able to rest easier soon if I just search a little longer.
The book also includes poetry and lyrics from music that I have written over
the years which now form a theatrical play about being a man.
This too has played a central part in my healing process, aiding me in
piecing together my history and helping my bodyguard’s eyes well with
tears.
Please, do not suffer in silence.
John Saunders.
Acknowledgements
At this point I wish to acknowledge my son Daniel H.G. for finding me
while I was suffering in silence and comforting and encouraging me to piece
together my puzzle, break my silence and not ever ever give up. My loving
friend Janine for her unfaltering commitment to me through all my years of
silence and isolation. My daughters Cassundra and Alexandra and all my
caring and loving friends and they know who they are, as I surf with them, I
cry with them and they give me hope.
I thank providence for without this I would be floating in a sea of sorrow and
hopelessness.
Important
Italic sections in the book are to indicate that I’m writing from the perspective of myself
as a boy apart from chapter seven which signifies my response as a man. There is also
journal excerpts, as this is what this book started as.
Note subtitle: gives an overview and builds on what I’ve written previously.
Hot Points subtitle: hold points from the chapter that I see as significant and include
added reflections on the chapter.
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Foreword by Steve Biddulph
Once, not so many decades ago, it was commonplace to see a parent beating
their child in the street, and though some onlookers may have frowned,
nobody would have dreamed of intervening. Similarly, if the sounds of
Domestic violence rang out in the night air of a city or a country town,
then that was seen as that couple’s own private business. Thankfully our
tolerance of the mistreatment of our fellow human beings has diminished,
and today these actions would be much frowned on. However some
standards have always been there. At no time in our history has it been
acceptable, morally or legally, for adults to engage in sexual activity with
children. The power imbalance, the physical harm, the enormous emotional
and spiritual damage, have lead to the some of the strongest words in the
English language being applied to this activity - defilement, violation,
atrocity. Sexual abuse of children was a crime at the time of convict
settlement, and it still is today, and hopefully always will be.
It was however, for two hundred years, largely a hidden crime. No one
Spoke of it; sheltered souls simply did not dream it possible. In the
last several decades, the hurt and harm has come to the surface in an
extraordinary flood of disclosures that have coloured our view of history,
and tarnished many reputations. Almost every counsellor or therapist
working with men or women has heard first hand from client’s stories of
Childhoods blighted, and lives lived in shame, self-loathing, or sexual
dysfunction, as a result of being molested as a child, raped, or sexually
assaulted by adults, in situations of supposed care and trust. We have
been forced to face up to the fact that this happens, and happens with
frightening frequency. Not surprisingly, it was children who had
difficult family backgrounds, or were vulnerable by virtue of being
orphaned, in boarding school, part of the stolen generation of aboriginal
children, or otherwise lacking in strong adult support, who suffered the
most serious and ongoing abuse.
The Christian Brothers Order has a long and impressive tradition of helping
uplift boys from low income backgrounds, and this continues to this day.
However the Order has been at the forefront in the public eye, as disclosures
and convictions unfolded a pattern of abuse that was seemingly endemic to
the order, recurring not just in Australia, but Ireland, England, Canada, and
elsewhere.
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The key feature of our understanding of paedophiles is that they are
compulsive and serial offenders; that left to do so, they harm hundreds of
children. If we add together those in who participated, those who knew but
did nothing, and those whose job it was to know, and who did not, then few
escape unscathed from responsibility. And in an order granted the highest
public trust and support, a trust in past times bordering on reverence, this
carries enormous accountability into the present day.
It’s a cheap and easy exercise for us to self-righteously condemn child
sexual abuse. What is more useful is to understand and get underneath
what makes men or women into paedophiles, be they either the charming
Sociopath, or the vicious sadist. The Christian Brothers order was formed at
a time when violence in schools was the norm. Children were beaten not
only for misbehaving, but also for not learning. For misspelling a word, for
clumsiness, for wetting their bed, for stammering. So fear and domination by
force were acceptable parts of everyday school, orphanage and boarding
house life. To this we add the explosive complication of a celibate order,
where all our understanding of human needs would indicate this to be a great
danger. Human needs for affection, tenderness, sexual expression, and
normal emotional development, were routinely thwarted in this kind of
religious life, while sadism and violence (in the goal of education) were
sanctioned. It’s little wonder that a perverted and life-damaging subculture
evolved beneath an idealistic and self-sacrificing exterior. It’s likely that the
subculture bred its own for many generations - as the victims of one
generation became the perpetrators on the next.
John Saunders story is a tiny fragment of this big picture - neither its
worst example, nor its mildest. His harm was long lasting, tangible, and
combined with his family background, hugely destructive of his life.
Because of his creative and vibrant personality, he is a good person to
give us a window into this world.
John’s story is a mixture of tragedy, resilience, humour, and rage. He has
taken the personal development path of the present, the new-age and therapy
conscious ethos of the late twentieth century, to combat the Dickensian
darkness of his childhood, and he is getting slowly well. His descriptions of
his treatment by the church’s legal representatives will cause anguish to
many readers - there is a sense of being doubly abused, a story common to
many sexual assault victims.
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In his struggle with these legal abusers, just as with the physical abusers
decades ago, he vacillates, quite understandably, between over compliance,
being too nice, too understanding, and being deeply, cynically angry with
what has happened to him. The teacher who abused him did so through
manipulating his need for affection, through sexual pleasuring, and through
feigning attachment that was purely instrumental in setting him up for
further misuse which he narrowly, perhaps intuitively, avoided. His body
was not harmed as much as his spirit, emotions, and capacities to love and
trust.
John’s exploration of his own growth, his gradually understanding his family
life, his opening to his inner world as he gradually dreams, thinks and
feels his way into his own unconscious, his efforts to give useful
information and guidance to others on the same path, together with the
warnings and resources for tackling a legalistic and defensive church
bureaucracy, all make this a valuable book. This kind of childhood is
part of our history as a nation, part of our struggle as men and women to be
whole and it needs to be faced up to. John’s story can inform and
inspire, like any difficult journey that eventually brings us to a wider
more complete view of the landscape of our life. John shows real heroism in
his determination to give and receive love, in a world which more often
deals in sham and exploitation.
Steve Biddulph
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Chapter 1. The past becomes the present
Surfacing memories of abuse...
We as men can speak more to each other about our lives and not be silenced by the shame
of what we have done to others or what has been done to us. If we are to re-educate each
other then we need to speak of the deeds done against us and the ones we’ve done against
others. Often both are incredibly similar. I believe, the only way to stop a legacy of abuse
being passed on is to have the courage to not let guilt and shame win by silencing us
further. As men, we have the opportunity to develop as Fathers to this world. Our pattern
of behaviour will not change, unless we speak out and share with each other our
experiences, trials and aspirations. We must not let what society, friends, relatives, peers
and elders think of us, hinder us creating a loving brotherhood amongst men and a well
timbered spirit, in the only place where the Creator’s will resides. In our hearts.
As I sift through earlier memories and childhood feelings that I have become
more recently aware of existing in my present daily life, I think Wow! There
is a lot to face, let pass and recapture. I am treating myself and others
differently these days. My response to life is changing! The traumatic events
(abusive events) that took place in my life are being shaken and what they
are capable of influencing in my life is changing. My response and ‘the
power’, ’the hold’, these events had over me at 14 years of age was different
at 21, 28 and 36, changing as I developed emotionally, spiritually and
mentally. As I have grown its own manifestation has transformed.
Fortunately for me to coincide with this, abuse has become more visible
within me and within our society. Why did sexual abuse happen to me? Why
did emotional and physical trauma happen to me? What attracted this to me?
What effect has this had on my spirituality and on my life? What lessons are
there to learn from this kind of trauma? Will I be a better human being from
looking at this? Will I be a more capable Dad, man, friend and lover? I have
always run from pain and from this journey’s beginning it has been painful.
Who is this man in me? Who am I? I’ve decided to seek answers in a circle
of friends that I do not usually move in and in the friends I see daily, my
own family, as up until recently, I have not let them see me at all. I’ve kept
myself shut nice and tight. I want to explore the possibility that there are
others that feel the same way I do and have had similar experiences. That
have anger, sadness, frustration, pain, grief or feel nothing at all, are just
numb! Right now, I need to surround myself with people that will tell me of
their experience and what they feel and think about; family, life, feelings,
Mothers, Fathers, love, sex, abuse, relationships, God, religion. Everything!
I’ve reached a crisis point.
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I have just come back from a men’s gathering that was held in Springbrook,
Queensland, Australia. This festival was run by a Men’s Health & Wellbeing
Association. This ran over three days and I found this extremely helpful in
assisting me to cope with the extreme feelings and memories I have been
experiencing. This gave me a forum to open up and relate my own
experiences with other men.
There were many workshops run over the three day period. When I arrived, I
received a necklace to signify my participation in the festival and to also
give me a group of men to join up with. The group consisted of eight men
and was called an ‘affinity group’. We decided to meet twice a day to
support each other around the expression of our thoughts and feelings,
making sure that everyone’s needs were met, even down to the simplest of
things such as toothpaste or an extra blanket. I decided to run a discussion
group on sexual, emotional and physical abuse. Eight men turned up to the
discussion group and it went exceptionally well. This supported me to talk
about my abuse and listen to others express their’s. We all agreed that the
pain, isolation, shame, guilt and hopelessness that was common among
abuse victims was present amongst us and that it was our silencing of
ourselves that created our isolation and pain. Just to share stories in the
midst of others helped our pain leave us. We all agreed that we wanted to
build a greater awareness in our society of how we as men have behaved
towards each other in the past and the ways we presently continue to support
this behaviour. In short, from these events, how could we as men create
change? We agreed that a powerful man lives his life with integrity in his
personal and professional field, and is brave when faced with what others
may think of him as he speaks the truth.
I like so many other men participated in workshops and discussion groups
being held by professionals in the fields of dance, theatre, communications,
meditation and psychotherapy. Just to name a few. I met a cross section of
men from lounge lizards to corporate flyers. One workshop involved a very
simple activity of the enactment of introducing our Fathers to the rest of the
men in the group, anyone in the group who wanted to try this having the
choice to participate or observe. This process was extremely effective and
produced by simply imagining introducing one’s Father to the rest of the
group, speaking to their imaginary Father who they have walked into the
room with and placing them in a chair beside. As I had done this process on
another occasion and really wanted to explore my relationship with my
Mother, I decided to ask the facilitator if he would run a workshop on
13
introducing your Mother? He said yes and the next day it was on. It was an
incredible process with the men reacting in an extremely different way to
when they were introducing their Fathers. It seemed to me that most of the
men feared the repercussions of standing equal to their Mother, and possibly
were angry beyond what they had imagined. None spoke ill of their mothers
with conviction or emotion. As if to do so was taboo.
Well, I always thought I was pretty good at this stuff, until I started feeling
increasingly anxious every time I thought about participating. And here I
was the day before with my ‘head expanding’ on... How I thought of this
great idea!?! Yeah right! I couldn’t understand why I was becoming
amazingly angry and why my leg was jumping up and down uncontrollably
as it did as a young boy when I was frightened.
So it was now or never, I got up and acted out walking my Mother into a
room filled with forty men and sat my imaginary Mother down. I couldn’t
believe it; I felt this immense anger toward her and could not seem to
express it. I became as the other men before me, unable to express my
feelings directly towards my Mother. So I did something different, I decided
to tell the group about my Mother, thinking that this may loosen my anger
up that I was not expressing. This didn’t work either! A wave of anger
passed through me and I recognised once again my Mother was gaining the
limelight, as she had always done in my younger years when I had achieved
something that was to my credit.
I decided not to speak at all; I refused to speak of her for what seemed like a
few minutes. I did not speak. I couldn’t speak. I then noticed how I had
dropped my head and felt like I was cowering, I had even stopped breathing!
This outraged me even further, I just couldn’t hold this feeling inside of me
any longer. Then in one great breath I screamed out with guttural rage. “You
fucking bitch, you fucking bitch, I fucking hate you”!
This expression of rage was so real and raw, so foreign to me and I hadn’t
even started. Before I knew it, I had closed down on my absolute anger
towards my Mother and gone out of my feelings and up into my head. Then
my conditioning kicked in and tried to convince me that I should feel
forgiveness towards her for her actions. The funny thing about this particular
type of forgiveness, was that in the past it would arise on any occasion
where I was going to speak my mind to my Mother with conviction and
clarity, taking me away from expressing my true feelings towards her. I
would feel my anger rising up in response to my Mother’s abuse and then of
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course this voice inside me would tell me to forgive her. It was almost like
an in built safety mechanism that my Mother had installed in me, so she
didn’t have to face her irresponsibility around not changing her abusive
behaviour and the taking advantage of my innocence and forgiving nature.
All my brothers and sisters suffered from this.
At one point when I was screaming at the chair that I had pictured Mum in,
tears began streaming down my face as I said with such conviction. “When
you are real with me I might decide to talk with you and it will be my choice
not yours”! These words flowed from my mouth like the most powerful
poetic verse I had ever heard in my life and these words were coming from
me! They poured from me with such passion. My last words told her to get
out of the room and as I imagined her leaving I kicked the chair that I had
placed her in. I felt such sorrow around her not being a nurturing Mother, a
Mother that really wanted me as her son.
I walked back to my place in the circle of men and everyone was speechless,
some had tears welling in their eyes. I took myself outside and screamed and
I mean screamed! My Mother used this method of control till the day she
died. I recognise only now while writing this, that I have never got close to
feeling true forgiveness for her treatment of me. The pieces of my puzzle fall
so much easier into place, when I reflect on the numerous times I have
visualized young John inside me and intuit that he was and still is ‘too much
to handle’. It is not him that is too much! It is my non-expressed childhood
feelings that have forged in me the belief that I am too much and worthless.
This leaves me with a lot to express!!!!
On the last day our affinity groups met for the last time. Our group found a
very cosy spot right in front of a fire so we all sat down, held hands and
listened to each other speak about how we were feeling (not thinking) and
what was happening for us. As I listened a feeling of peace and surrender
swept through me. I sat there and listened to each man’s feelings and
thoughts while the fire crackled in the background. I felt a richness of safety
and familiarity with these men who were all Fathers like myself. One had
just become a Father, another like myself was a stepfather, and other’s
children had left home. A silence fell gently on us all and then one of the
men spoke of how he was feeling. As it turned out, he was experiencing the
15
same as everyone, the feeling was acknowledged by us all. Tears began to
well in our eyes as the recognition that we were all feeling the same way
grew. It was as if we had surrendered simultaneously and a net of peace had
been cast over us for a sacred moment. We sat in amazement bathing in this
feeling that we all decided was the gift of grace. We couldn’t think of any
other explanation for this feeling, we stood up, hugged one another and
vowed to remember this feeling next time we met and do our very best to
create it in our daily lives. Just by sharing our inner thoughts, dreams and
feelings. Just by opening up that little bit more to others.
So often I see men shame or ridicule other men who are expressing their
cares and tender thoughts about the things that mean the most to them. What
seems even more absurd to me is that we have related this to our sexuality.
That we see each other as weak sexually, mentally and physically if we are
dually capable of thoughtful caring passionate expression. The whole lot at
once! Why not! I haven’t seen anyone die of this yet, in fact it is esteem
building and we need this! Our sons and daughters need to see this moving
amongst us as adults so they can become secure adults. We are of course
more accepting of each others expression of the whole lot if we are at war
with one another. But hey! Don’t we want to change this before we blow all
men off the planet!
Boosh!!
16
A Story From Joseph
Joe, a friend of mine and I were talking one day and as we had so far not spoken of what
I did for a living, on this occasion he asked and part of this was to speak of the
manuscript to my book. After I told him what the book was about he paused and looked
at me and became a little uncomfortable while shuffling his feet. He told me of a time
when he was about ten years of age and a student at a Catholic school. He spoke of a
Brother that used to punish him and others in class by caning them. After the Brother
caned them he would spin the cane around and juggle it like spinning a handgun in a
western. He said it was as though he loved the power of it. Joe shuffled again and it felt
to me like he wanted to go somewhere, to stop the memory that was embracing and
overwhelming him. He knew from his own experience that there was nowhere to go, that
doing what he was doing right now, breaking his silence and speaking to someone that
had experienced this as well, was some of the best healing that could occur. Then he told
me more. The Brother would give him and other boys the choice between punishments.
The choice was caning his hands severely or running his hand up and down his buttocks.
If he and others would not accept the latter then he would beat them. He would beat him
with pleasure. It gave the Brother pleasure.
I could write numerous horrific stories and not all of them would be ones
that include raw sexual assault. There is however one common theme that
runs through them all. Power. And it’s not the stories that stand out as much
to me any more. It’s the way they are told and what occurs in the men as
they speak of their experience.
1.1 A response to intimacy all screwed up
This morning the phone rang; it was the policeman investigating my sexual
abuse claim. I had recently decided to notify authorities of a teacher’s sexual
abuse of me at ten in school. He mentioned that yesterday he had gone
around to see the perpetrator. I couldn’t believe it! The policeman said that
the perpetrator said he didn’t recall who I was and certainly didn’t abuse me.
Then the policeman mentioned to him that another man had made a
complaint against him. The perpetrator said that he remembered this man
and that on two occasions he sexually abused him when he was his teacher.
He was clear about this. The policeman asked him where this occurred; he
said that he didn’t know???? I said to the policeman that this seemed odd
because I was on his lap more than this other student and I was given a pet
name by the perpetrator, if he remembered him, he would surely remember
me.
17
From this phone conversation I recalled further memories of the abuse. I did
not place these memories in my statement to the police, because they were
not clear to me and it was much easier to push these memories to the back of
my mind where I didn’t have to deal with my reactions to them and my
vague memory of them. I slip into being angry with myself sometimes for
not recalling clearly, though I can tell you my body’s spontaneous feelings
and reactions to my unclear memories have never been vague. My body
remembers. The following is a further memory I recalled.
It was lunchtime or after school and all the boys had left the class except me.
The teacher was wrestling with me in the classroom; we played lions
growling at each other while the room was dark (I remember the room was
made dark at times to watch slides from a projector). I remember really
enjoying this and then at one point he pressed his head between my legs into
my crotch. Then he started to suck and lick my penis. While I’m writing this,
I’m getting aroused and experiencing absolute confusion, my mind is
confused, my body is confused, and still this is the memory my body holds. I
want to destroy him, I hate this! I do not want to believe that this happened
at all. For remembering this I had acute flashbacks all day. This memory
came and went in waves and so did my self-shame.
One of these memories occurred while I was driving the car, my partner was
sitting beside me and lovingly touched my leg. Straight away I had
flashbacks flood my mind and I felt completely violated by her touch. I
started to cry because I couldn’t enjoy her loving hand on my leg and she
commenced crying as I told her what I was experiencing. At one stage my
partner noticed where my hand was while recalling this, I was rubbing my
ear, the same way I used to rub my ear when I would comfort myself as a
young boy. My partner noticed my realisation of this at the same time I did
and we both looked at each other sadly acknowledging the damage of the
experience. When I recall parts of my abuse or discuss parts of the abuse that
are still raw in my mind, they activate a response pattern in me that has been
with me ever since I can remember. The difference now is that I recall the
original incident.
I know now that it was the perpetrators abuse that created the
problems I have around my self-image.
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And that I need not place responsibility on me and my numerous coping
responses that I came up with over the years, as these helped me to survive
and hide from the shame that I placed upon myself. How could I be
response-able at ten for something my little body and mind were not ready
for? This is the responsibility of the person who governed and implemented
the abuse. The problems that I have created in my life up until now I thought
were solely my responsibility, that I was the problem. As I’ve developed a
greater understanding of my abuse, I portion a larger part of the
responsibility onto the adult perpetrator, and not upon me as a little boy.
Now I know that how I view myself, comes from decisions that I made
unconsciously around these damaging events. They are coping response
patterns that are created by emotional, physical and spiritual trauma. One of
these was triggered in the car with my partner touching my leg. For me it has
been beneficial to track my patterns when they’ve been set off. This has
helped me to realise that my reactions are not the original cause, and not to
punish myself for this. Worst luck, I slip up occasionally and fall back into
this self-abusive pattern.
Following is the pattern that was activated in the car while being touched by
my partner.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
A feeling of arousal in between my legs that became overwhelming (like an
uncontrollable wave over my body). Hyper-arousal.
A feeling of disgust and repulsion for myself for feeling this
(Shut down of my heart and feelings).
Immense guilt from feeling sexual stimulation from a loving and caring touch,
that was not sexual
(Shut down of my heart and feelings).
Extreme sadness for being betrayed by my partner whom I thought loved me.
Conscious memory of my perpetrator’s abuse of me
(Shutdown of my heart and my feelings).
Anger against myself for not knowing at the time that it was wrong
(Shut down of my heart and feelings towards my inner child).
Feeling betrayed and realisation that my partner’s hand was the trigger
(Shut down of my heart and feelings).
Extreme anger.
Feelings of anger and confusion around someone else being in control
of my sexuality as a child
(Shut down of my heart and feelings).
Feeling caged and not in control of my sexuality and my life.
After being overwhelmed by all these feelings, I went into damage control,
wanting to regain control over my sexuality and myself. So the first person
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that I projected my thoughts onto (that I was not in control of my sexuality,
that someone else was and that person was manipulating me sexually) was
my partner. As we travelled in the car, without knowing I remained closed
off from my partner and started thinking about what it would be like being
single again and having sexual encounters with anyone I wanted to at any
time. I felt so trapped, caged, controlled and overpowered. I commenced
projecting onto my partner, the beliefs that I had created as a young boy
from my perpetrator cutting off from me, when I was no longer what he
wanted. I projected these thoughts onto my partner so I could feel that I was
in control of my sexuality again. Some of these thoughts were; She’s too
overweight, her body is not perfect, she’s too old, she’s not physically
active enough, nor young enough, not exciting enough, gorgeous
enough, smart enough and creative enough. I am aware now that these
judgements that I placed on my partner and the attributes that I saw her
lacking at that moment, were the ones I thought I was lacking. I’ve
highlighted these thoughts, as I believe I may have decided at ten that it was
because I didn’t have these anymore, that I was ‘dropped’ by my perpetrator.
The man that I loved. In actual fact, I was no longer the ‘flavour of the
month’.
It is such a battle for me to stay open hearted and accepting of others and
myself during these times, when my criteria to give and receive love closes
down to such a narrow corridor. I’m upstairs in my study and as I’m writing
this I’m feeling overwhelming love for my partner who has been committed
to me for eleven years, constantly supporting me to cease closing down my
heart on myself, on my family and all those around me that love me. You
should meet this woman, she is Amazing!!!
1.2 Fighting with Depression
I have been fighting my depression again for the past three days. I do not
know if there are any words to express the pain I cage myself in. Physically
running has moved the emotion through my body today and eased my
temper though I have once again cut off from my partner and have shut
down emotionally. I have been trying to act like I’m fine. However every
now and then I feel like I am being eaten away and it is only a matter of time
before submerging once again. Dear God, the falls are becoming harder and
20
I’m scared that I won’t be able to pull myself up out of it when it happens
again. Help me, help me!
The family decided to stay with some friends for the weekend and we
packed on Saturday morning. I woke up on Saturday feeling so down that I
didn’t want to go. My partner became stressed by my shortness. My twostep children were extremely supportive by packing up the car for us so we
could get under way. I was at the kitchen table trying to release my pain and
stop myself feeling useless (like a “worthless piece of shit”, as Dad used to
say). Everyone was waiting for me to make the decision to go, and then
Daniel walked past and asked me to come with them.
Tears started to well in my eyes as I began to wonder what was happening to
me, and all of a sudden in my mind’s eye I saw a familiar image of myself
walking into a forest with lots of tall trees. Unfortunately, this image is what
I see when I become extremely suicidal, what I’d been fighting back the last
few days had finally taken hold of me and this time I was really scared
because I decided to stay home and not go visit our friends. I couldn’t take
the pain of this any more, and if I got through this episode, it would only be
a matter of weeks before it came around again. What good am I? I’m no
good to anyone, especially my little daughter.
I told my partner I was going to stay at home. What I didn’t tell her was that
I was going to walk into the forest up the valley and kill myself. As they
were just about to get up and say goodbye to me, a voice spoke to me in my
mind. “John, step aside and listen for a moment, step outside from your
feelings and say these words to your family John, say them! Say them!
Please, do it now!” Then I started talking to myself. “Say them John, say
them!” So I said the following words out loud. “I’m coming to be with you”.
I did it! Dear God, I was so close. I’d never felt so crazy and so close. I
never want to be that close ever again. We all hopped in the car, it was a
four-hour trip and the forest scene faded away the further we drove. I wasn’t
having suicidal thoughts any more and the trip turned me around.
My friends who know of my sexual abuse asked me how I was going with it,
and Brian my friend asked me how I was. He is twenty-three years old, I
looked at him and my eyes filled with tears as I told him of the morning that
I just experienced and that I wouldn’t wish this journey on my worst enemy.
He became overwhelmed with a depth of feeling that stood behind every
word.
By Sunday night I had received a massage, a session of Pranic healing,
(Pranic healing is an ancient Oriental art of healing. It is a process of healing
based on the understanding that physical, emotional and mental ailments are
manifestations of imbalances in the subtle energy fields of the human body)
21
cried about the struggle of moving through and healing my sexual abuse, and
more importantly, picked wild lemons with my five year old daughter and
made lemonade with her.
I realised a couple of days later that from this weekend I had never
journeyed this deep into my suicidal thoughts before. Up until this point, I
had fought the feelings of suicide internally, not wanting to feel the depth of
hopelessness, shame, guilt, bodily pain and psychological torment that for
me seemed to be suicide’s companion. For the first time I felt something
quite new and I realised I did something different, I broke the pattern. With
all my pain, hopelessness, shame and guilt I chose not to cut off from my
family and ‘suffer in silence’. I decided to be around people, my family, and
my friends and let them see me for who I was while I experienced this, and
more importantly accepted their help and not walk into the forest. I walked
around and let them see my wound fully open, and didn’t try to cover it up
like I had always done in the past with anger, control, isolation and
aloofness, or by attacking others around me to prove to myself that I was
worth nothing.
Typically, when I have thoughts that make me feel uncomfortable, I become
unsafe and insecure within myself, and can go into the role of wanting to
control everything and everyone around me. For example, I start cleaning up
around the house obsessively. In desperation I try to clean everything around
me. Regrettably, I also become a tyrant at the same time like my Father and
Mother. It never ceases to amaze me that the way my Father handled the
pain that he felt in his life runs parallel with the way I handle mine.
However, there is one difference, I’m choosing to find another way. I can’t
help but wonder if my Father also struggled to find another way. I believe
one way my Dad got satisfaction out of life when I was a little boy was to
work on his car. An old Austin Sheerline.....
Now this wasn’t just any automobile. This had a top speed of 110 mph, and
for a car that weighed in excess of 2 tons this was something spectacular to
watch, because a 6.7 litre truck engine that had triple Webber carburettors
powered it. Anything this big that took up over half the space of our double
garage was an adventure to be had.
This I was told, was the only car that had hydraulic jacks under each wheel
to change its tyres and the button to lift this off the ground was
somewhere......
Under here, or was it under there? No! It must be under here. Now I do
remember Dad telling me earlier on today. “Whatever you do son stay out of
the car when I’m not around”, the thing was you see, I’d seen what this little
22
button could do. Yep! It transformed the car into a space ship that could fly
out of the garage!
Unbeknown to me the battery had been disconnected and the button
removed. Espionage happened every now and then on my adventures and I
could never work out why this would occur. Later on that day when I was in
the garage with Dad I found out that the hydraulic jacks were in need of
repair and given the condition that they were in had a tendency to collapse.
Espionage was sometimes my friend. In fact, I’m sure there were many
times that my Father’s forethought secured his son’s safety record, without
me always knowing.
Dad met Mum just before the Second World War; they got married and had
two children before he went off to sign up. He came back from the war
protecting his country as a bomber navigator, serving most of his flying time
in Wellington Bombers. I believe the Americans used to call them ‘A Cloth
Bomber’ as they were covered in canvas. It has only been recently through
my Father’s death that I found out that when he came back from the war, he
was a very different man. Wars have a transformational quality to them that
hasn’t been likened to anything else. It transformed my Dad. However, at
this point in time, I was the youngest and not even a glint in his eye in the
forty’s and fifty’s. There were six glints before me.
Dad would always be working around the house, adding on bedrooms (as
you can imagine), replacing floors and building paths through gardens that
he’d made while employing skilled child labour (my older brothers and
sisters). Being so young I got away with not having to work. I believe the
conscription age was five in our family, so my brother and I had a few more
fences to climb and bicycles to ride before we were shown how to start the
Victa lawn mower to cut the grass and trim the edges.
The digging of fence holes in the ground was another activity my Father
would do from time to time. They would be approximately three to five foot
deep and occasionally, after a heavy rain the sun would burst through the
clouds, and I would shed my clothes and jump in these holes naked,
completely covering myself with mud. Then I’d call out to my Father for
help and he would come and lift me out, so I could run and lie in the hot sun
on the pavement. The heat of the sun would dry the mud on my skin and
slowly crack to peel off as I went running through the endless gardens that
surrounded our house. So effortlessly I would lose myself in the fullness of
my four-year-old imagination.
I received absolute joy being one with the Earth and trees in the gardens
surrounding my Father’s house.
23
I don’t think I ever got closer to my Father than I did in my early childhood.
When school started I would hardly see him. In fact, these would turn out to
be the best years of my life with him, and the most consistent. I don’t
remember him holding me, touching me, or cuddling me much after this
time. The following are words to a song that I wrote in memory of my Dad.
Pendulum.
The pendulum swings going back in my mind,
the pendulum swings pulling in my time,
toys on a hill in line,
I remember now. Climbing on your roof with my Zoro cape on,
my feet already red from your painted iron,
its a long way down if I can fly to your ground.
Will you come out then Dad, but you won’t catch me crying.
I just can’t wait, I just can’t wait for your love.
I just can’t wait, I just can’t wait for your love.
The pendulum swings going back in my mind,
the pendulum swings pulling in my time,
boys on a hill in line,
I remember now going to school, Christian Brothers rule,
my little legs tremble as I’m sent outside.
Dad, if I run home now will you see it somehow,
the beatings I’ll get for my seven year smile.
I just can’t wait, I just can’t wait for your love.
Cause I’m a man, living these memories once again.
Begotten son, forgotten son, blood of forefathers, pain of this son.
Have your memories begun,
hopeless pain of our sons and all the wars of our sons,
and all the shame of our sons, have your memories begun,
Christian Brothers to Christian Sons,
and all the abuse of this son, and all the shame of this son,
have your memories begun.
Because I’m a man living these memories once again,
begotten son, forgotten son, blood of forefathers, pain of this son.
Will I. Seal the wound from my son, and face the demons that come.
Will I break the hold of the past and start living my life full cast.
The pendulum swings going back in my mind,
the pendulum swings pulling in my time,
three men in a church in line as another son dies.
He went to war, a brave man I’m sure,
his whole body trembled as the shrapnel knocked him to the floor,
and as he pulls the pilot aside and flies the crew home alive,
will I ever get to know this man from the war he fought inside.
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I was around two years of age and Dad was having difficulty looking after
me, so he decided to take me to the doctor because I was feeling a bit ill. He
asked the doctor (while I was with him) whether he could give me
something to slow me down and the doctor gave Dad a prescription for some
drugs. I could not speak at the time, though I did understand what he was
asking the doctor for. The effects of the syrup (prescription drug) on me was
enormous, it would make me tired and want to sleep. I can remember
waking up after being asleep and stumbling around wondering what was
wrong with me. When I remembered this twenty years on, I cried many
tears, as at two years of age I made the decision that created the belief that
my Father didn’t accept me for who I was. It is only now at thirty-six that I
realise that he wasn’t capable of nurturing my spirit in many ways, and it
was his spirit that was in great need of repair.
I have no clear memories of Dad’s discipline of me when I was a young boy.
However, I do remember that I had a great fear of his anger; I hadn’t as yet
been on the receiving end of it like my older brothers and sisters who had
had strappings from him. Nevertheless, this was painful enough for me to
watch as a young boy, and would leave an indelible impression in my mind.
It was what might be in store for me, should I ever step out of line or
question my Father’s actions or authority. I could never understand how Dad
could be so cruel. His strappings and fury sent fear like a raging fire through
my brothers and sisters and I, as well as my Mother. This fear also visited
me and dwelled in my Spirit. I would house this fear until the day of his
death and only then would I tell him of my fear of him. He would pass this
off as a joke.
Dad died at seventy-eight years of age of Parkinson’s disease. I was thirtyfour. It was only at his funeral, through a friend of Dad’s that I found out
how ill my Father was when he came back from the war. Dad was offered
full war pension immediately on his return, being categorised as totally and
permanently incapacitated. He didn’t accept this pension.
1.3 Dancing with Ballerinas in cupboards
The memories I have of my Mother are very different to the memories that I
hold of my Father, as my Mother was left to care for us all at home, and with
that went discipline. My Mother was about 157cm tall (5'2") and knew how
to run a household. She had to, it was 9 against 1. I believe the idea was (as
it was with Dad) to employ once again the help of the skilled child labour to
25
look after the more recent members of our family. All clothing handed down
from oldest to youngest. Here is a picture of me with my school jumper that
is four sizes too big!
The unfortunate part of employing child labour was sometimes an adult’s
strength and understanding was more suited to dealing with what was
happening at the time. The following is my sister’s recollection of one of
those times. She had only told me this when I was thirty-five years of age,
after not seeing me for a very long time. In our family seeing each other
evokes old painful memories, and even though we love each other, the
memories flood back and create more pain than happiness; so some of us
over the years have shared little contact.
A Story from My Sister
It seems I was around two years of age when a few of my older brothers and sisters were
asked to hold the fort together at home, (older meaning six to ten year olds) while Mum
and Dad were at the family shop. My sister had heard me crying in my cot and had gone
in to take care of me. After trying to calm me down and put me back to sleep she decided
to get me out of my cot to comfort me, unfortunately she was too little to reach over the
top of the cot with two hands, so she grabbed hold of my arm and tried to pull me out,
this unfortunately dislocated my shoulder. Not knowing why I would not stop crying and
becoming very upset herself, she comforted me the best she could and waited for Mum
and Dad to arrive home. With much pain and shame she told me this story, both of us
recognising that at eight years of age she did her best, for the responsibility that was
placed upon her far exceeded her years. A short time later I asked my Mother about this
incident, she told me that I fell outside, off a swing.
There have been similar stories to my sister’s that have been changed over the years by
my Mother to ‘protect the innocent’. She seems to be the keeper of the vital pieces of
information needed to help place together the puzzle of the moments of mystery within
my family. The truth was not held sacred by my Mother.
To follow is a poem I wrote about my Mum. I’ve never been able to find a
melody to fit.
Mother
The doors they slam on every man,
I silence the Gods by your command,
I drop to my knees, for life to appease,
The power I place in you by your leave.
I yearned to be loved by you,
To be kissed forever, held so true.
To bury my cheek in the arm I knew.
For one to be one with you, for one to be one with you.
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Mother Cont.
Was there ever a time when my will was mine?
Was your will alive for the last of nine?
Trembling knees held tight locked in fright
As a little boy fights for the will of his life.
I will shake cracks till they split in two
Break walls commanding fixed point of view.
I drop to my knees for life to appease.
The power I place in you by your leave.
When I was around two years of age my Mother, through the stress of caring
for seven children, would sometimes lose her temper and become hysterical
for a period of time. These states were very scary for us all and when I
recalled this next event I found it very difficult to believe. I remember hiding
in the walk-in wardrobe in my Mother and Father’s room so Mum wouldn’t
find me, as she was screaming and yelling at us all....
All I wanted to do was block my ears so I couldn’t hear her screams,
because if I didn’t hear her calling my name, I wouldn’t have to go to her.
I was petrified and motionless in the closet as I heard someone enter the
room, the door was ajar so I could just see through it into the room....
I saw Mum sitting on the bed with strips of white calico tied around both her
wrists that had been cut, blood soaking through the white cloth. There were
two other people in the room that I could see, I had never seen them before
and my Mum did not know they were there. I knew one was her younger
brother that died in the Second World War, and the other was a friend. They
were trying to comfort her as she cradled her face in her hands. She felt very
alone and sad. Why couldn’t she see them?
I asked my Mother when I was thirty-three if she recalled anything like this
happening. She responded by saying that nothing like this ever did.
However, one of my sisters related the following memory to me by phone,
with awesome pain in her voice.
I had been outside playing in the rain and I was covered in mud. I decided to
run inside the house and I had dirtied the floors that my Mother had cleaned.
She became extremely angry with me and wanted to find me. I was told that
at this time she had tied a piece of cloth around her waist and around her
27
wrists which had been bleeding and she was crying hysterically while
looking for me. I had run away from her to hide in the closet in her bedroom
hoping she wouldn’t find me. On hearing this I was speechless, my sister
having to end the conversation as recalling this was too distressing for her. I
write this piece in praise of her, for the courage that she showed in relaying
this to me. She completed my memory. I obviously cannot substantiate the
memory of the presence of two other people in the room, nor will I try to. I
leave this up to you.
When I was three or four years of age I came down with the measles and the
chicken pox almost at the same time. The measles were in my eyes and I
suffered a very high fever. I remember Mum placing washers on my head to
keep the fever at bay; her vigilance at my bedside while saying the Rosary is
a very vivid memory for me. Another early memory of my Mum before she
would put me to bed was when we would sit together on the couch. I would
suck my fingers and snuggle up to her arm. She had a very chubby arm, and
I remember how soft and warm it was on my face. Even if it was just her
arm I made the most of it. This was about as far as physical affection would
travel between us and one of the only times she was still enough for me to
get close to her. My Mother was a disciplinarian, she made sure I was
clothed, clean, had a full belly and was always escorted or observed by my
older brothers and sisters. I’ve searched and searched my mind for more
memories of my Mother prior to my schooling. It turns out that my sisters
were the ones that took care of me a lot at this age.
While my sisters were at school my Mother was the main influence in my
life. Mum, not having large amounts of spare time between maintaining the
upkeep of the home and working in the family fabric shop, didn’t have much
time for me or my other brothers and sisters. I believe she thought that if she
prayed and went to Mass on Sundays that everything would take care of
itself. This wasn’t the case. There was another side to my Mum; one that
only her children knew of that was kept from the outside world. Nine
children to feed, dress, bathe and look after when sick was a monumental
task and one destined to fail if control was not gained at an early age, and
religion, the angel of darkness, and fear was the way control was gained....
I would hide in the kitchen cupboards behind the pots and pans when one of
us was in trouble and/or Mum had become scary, as the safest place was
28
where she couldn’t find me and hopefully she would find someone else
before she would get to me.
While I was in the cupboard I would examine the dust in the corners and
look at the shadows that were created by the light that would shine through
the cracks of the cupboard doors, trying to breath as quietly as possible....
So I wouldn’t be found, then, I’d close my eyes and take myself as far away
from the screaming as possible.
The smell of old cupboards still reminds me of where I used to hide. Mum
was very much a bully and her Catholic religion provided her with the tools
necessary to create fear extremely well. The Devil was used frequently to
place fear in me. The notion that I would be taken away, by ‘someone’ or
‘something’ that my Mother had no control over if I didn’t behave myself.
This would be either the Boogie Man or any other dark figure that came into
my Mother’s mind. My Mother wasn’t one to deal out physical pain as much
as engendering psychological fear.
Mum also had the view that sex was only for procreation and making babies.
She believed that any exploration of sex was dirty and possibly evil only to
be entered into when married. Regrettably, these beliefs would have a
disastrous effect on us all. We would be starved of physical nurturing to the
point where the girls were told not to sit on my Father’s lap. Any hugs that
passed his way from his daughters given a sideways glance by my Mother.
I cannot recall sexuality being talked about very much in my younger years.
I do know that my sisters were led to believe things like: if you French
kissed a boy you would become pregnant; if a boy touches you on your
breasts you would also become pregnant. I recall at a very young age that
my private parts were off limits to exploring which unfortunately drew more
attention to this area.
Why was it that I couldn’t see my sisters and my Mum without clothes on?
What was it that was so bad for me to see?
I remember at around four years of age being chased away from my sister’s
bedroom door, after stealing a peak at these ‘Creatures of the Night’ through
the keyhole....
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And when I finally saw what the fuss was all about, really, they were pretty
much just like me, well, give or take a few minor... Bumps! Jesus...! They
don’t have a peanut...! WOW, there goes my toolbox I’m balancing on and
here come the screams.
I believe I imagined at four years of age I seriously thought they were going
to be something straight out of the T.V. series Dr. Who or Outer Limits....
Anyway, even if they were aliens they were still my sisters and I loved them.
Mum and Dad were very strong churchgoers, I can remember them dressing
me up very much to my dislike and squeezing us all into the car. Dad would
call out something like, “all in the wippies taken” and we’d be off to Sunday
church. This was my cue to make my way to the underworld of the church
pews and crawl between everyone’s legs to see how far I could travel before
anyone noticed I was gone. Every Sunday I would feel the ‘hand of God’
lifting me up by my britches “Hi Dad!” to cart me outside or take me back
to my rightful position in God’s house. I can remember the looks of disgust
emanating from the faces of some of the more seasoned churchgoers, in
reaction to my sacrilegious behaviour. Then, they would return to the
‘bowing of heads position’ in praise or shame upon recollection of what they
had done or thought the night before. Little devils! I wonder what it would
have looked like viewing my ‘church pew crawl’ from a distance? Imagine
the scene, me at high speed and all those dresses flying up in the virgin’s
faces as I accelerated past the legs and ‘gates of heaven and hell’,
Hallelujah! Somehow I survived going to church on Sundays, and I believe
in some ways I got away with a lot more than my other brothers and sisters.
In the sixties most of my family, apart from my brother and I who is 18
months older than me, used to sing on TV and radio, we called ourselves the
‘Singing Saunders Family’. Mum and Dad would take us on trips to Sydney
and Melbourne and we would dress up and perform. I know that I used to
enjoy watching everyone else sing together, performing mostly my Father’s
songs, I can always remember it being exciting when away from home and
sad on returning.
At this time I had also done my fair share of singing with the family, and we
would rehearse my Father’s songs in the afternoons and on weekends.
Mother would accompany us on the piano, learning different harmonies to
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each of the songs with my older brothers and sisters sometimes doing solos.
I really loved to sing. It would fill my heart and bring my family together in
a way that we didn’t experience in our daily family routine. The Saunders
Family Singers were four girls and three boys. It wasn’t long before two of
my sisters married, and the remainder of us moved to the city.
I enjoyed being out with my family when I was young as Dad would
somehow be different from when he was with my brothers and sisters and I
at home, in fact, we were all different.
1.4 Hereboy
My Mother found Hereboy as a puppy scratching at the back door one night
when I was two years of age. Mum at the time was brandishing a red-hot
poker from the fire to protect herself should it be a prowler, my Mother was
seriously armed and dangerous. The reason we called my dog Hereboy was
because that was what I would call out when I wanted him to come to me.
So Hereboy it was. Okay! You can have your little laugh now. I’ve allowed
thirty seconds for laughter time at this point, sogorightahead, knock yourself
out. And when you’ve finished, I’ll commence writing again. I thought
Hereboy was the name all dogs were called because, that was the name they
responded to. And I’m not over explaining myself here am I ? Yep.
Hereboy was my Saviour....
He would play with me without ever hurting me, he would protect me and I
never came to any harm, he never teased me not once, not like my other
brothers and sisters who would hold me down until I cried or lock me in a
closet, I loved Hereboy.
Before school and in the afternoons I would always play with him, he would
bring back sticks and sometimes my brother and I would harness him up to
our Billy Cart and he would pull us around the house and I would make
believe we had ourselves ‘a wagon train’. One afternoon the post boy
walked by the front of the house. Now Hereboy had nipped him once
already when he had thrown the mail over the fence at us and it was
suggested to the post boy that he place the mail in the post box. Well, my
brother and I were playing on the front lawn of the house one afternoon and
we had a four-foot high brick fence surrounding us with trees in front. The
post boy walked by and threw the papers and mail over the fence at us and
once again Hereboy jumped the fence and nipped him on his ankle.
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A few days later I came home from school and Hereboy was gone, I was
told that he should not have bitten the post boy and he had been taken to a
farm. I crawled under my bed and cried and cried and cried. Why did my
little dog have to go, he was best friend in the whole world, I remember my
Father’s anguish around this.
In 1965 my whole life was going to be turned upside down as I was four
years of age and my Mother had decided that it was time for me to go to
kindergarten. There was a Kindergarten at St. Brigids in Albury were my
sisters and brothers were going to school, this was run by Nuns. I recall
before going to school my sister telling me that there was a Nun who would
pinch her to punish her if she misbehaved, and one day she came home with
bruises on her. I recall a conversation that she had with my Mother after
coming home from school bruised by one of these Nuns and me feeling very
angry.
Now the time came around when it was my turn to go to this school, I was
so scared and as I write this now I can feel a cold familiar fear creep into my
arms and my hands and my eyes are beginning to burn as they fill with tears,
I didn’t realise how difficult it would be to recall this memory. It was time
for Mum to drive me in the car to my first day at school, I was so scared that
I begged her not to take me to this school and asked whether I could go next
year when I was five, why did I have to go?
Mum left me at the Kindergarten and there was a roll of carpet down the
back of the classroom so I crawled into it, curled up, hid, and wept.
This memory is very emotionally distressing for me especially my memory
of the car ride to school and my Mother’s ice cold determination to be rid of
me for the day, looking forward to a day of peace, this was her ticket to
freedom as after nine children the light at the end of the tunnel was visible,
the thing was I was only four years old and small for my age. This was to
have a long lasting effect on me, being the youngest in my class most of the
time and behind others physical, emotional, and mental development by
approximately a year.
From going to kindergarten I progressed into first class and my daily prayers
must have worked as I still hadn’t had a Nun as a teacher, though because
the school was in the same grounds as the girl’s school, the Nuns did patrol
the playground at morning tea and lunchtime. I always stayed clear of them,
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my sister’s experience and the effects of their cruelty on her still being fresh
in my mind.
In second class at school we were separated into two classes, my class
teacher was a lay teacher and a young Nun ran the other class, this Sister
would turn out to be my saving grace. The female Lay teacher that ran my
class at the time was constantly going red or white and screaming at me and
the other children in the classroom and as punishment, would keep us in
class at recess or lunchtime if we didn’t do our work at six years of age. This
was pretty difficult to cope with. One day she told us that the Education
Board was sending a man to see if we were well behaved, and if we weren’t
he would take us away. I had one more sleep to go before he came to my
classroom and I had the following dream. I was standing out the back of the
‘Pivot Arcade’ in Albury where my Dad’s shop used to be and this man was
telling my parents that I was a bad boy at school and I had to go with him,
my Dad and Mum agreed with him and the man started to drag me away, I
became hysterical and tried to break free of his grip and run back to my
parents who were telling him to take me away. Anyway, after being so
distraught for what seemed like an eternity, my parents said, “alright you can
let him go. Johnny, you can stay as long as you’re a good boy and do as you
are told”. I went to school the next day petrified that the man from the
Education Office would come and take me away. The man from the
education office arrived; I think I actually wet my pants as he had a similar
face to the man in my dream. There was one big difference though; he was a
kind gentle man much to the dislike of my teacher. My teacher introduced
him to our class saying, “and if you’re not good he will take you away” and
his response was, “I wouldn’t do anything of the sort”.
After one term in this classroom, I asked my Mother if I could change
classrooms and be taught by ‘a Nun’. Had I gone crazy or what?!....
Do you know, I got my wish! I remember Sister saying to me with love in her
eyes. “You know Johnny that it won’t be any easier with me in my
classroom”.
But I was willing to take that chance, because I believed that I had just been
taught by ‘the Devil’s Mother’ herself.
My work improved, I was allowed to sing, in fact, there was one time we
had a class presentation of our work to our parents and one of the projects
wasn’t ready to be displayed so the Sister came up to me and said, “Johnny,
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we’re stuck, we’re not ready and I don’t know what to do, could you help by
singing a song for the parents to give us more time?”
I was so proud, I sang my songs with such joy, as this beautiful woman
believed in me heart and soul, she watched me sing and had such confidence
in me, and at six years of age gave me a gift, a gift I had not received before
and still cherish to this day. She accepted me for who I was and how I
expressed this in life. I believe this is one of the few times that I have felt
self-love.
1.5 Zoro
I’ll never forget the time when I got my new Zoro cape and mask.....
I decided to try it out, man! Did it work well! This was the original passed
down from generation to generation until given to Zoro by his Father Don
Alessandro and then passed down from Zoro to me. I knew this because my
Mother who was a seamstress didn’t make this one on her sewing machine.
This was the suit! It even had Z for Zoro on it! I knew it was time for me to
prove my loyalty, bravery and allegiance to my Father as I was sure that at
four that it was this that would convince him that I was worthy of being
around and not put to sleep never ever again. My suit was on, and I was
invisible to anyone who I didn’t wish to see me, apart from my trusty fourfoot companion, my black dog that I named ‘Hereboy’! I dashed out the
back door of the house, past the mandarin tree, it was late, (Dad’s iron roof
that he had just finished resurfacing with red oxide paint was dry) it was
time to fly!
With my little shoes off I lunged at the latticework that ran from the garden
up the side of the house to the roof. With great dexterity and passion I
climbed up my lattice ladder, my four legged offsider waiting silently on the
ground for further instructions, he was keeping watch! Now and then I
would look down to the ground at Hereboy and wonder why he was looking
so small. So let’s pause here for a moment and place this into adult
perspective, 12-foot high ceilings, plus a high-pitched roof, we are looking
at possible multiple fractures here, not to mention the damage to my Zoro
suit.....
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But hey! I have a seamstress for that, right! So let’s get back to the
adventure. I couldn’t understand why Hereboy was looking so concerned
and turning his little black head sideways as he looked up at me whining.
I bet he was thinking, in doggie logic, “what’s this small human doing?
Bigger humans need to be here to watch other this”....
Okay, so I climbed the lattice on to the roof and disappeared from sight,
trekked miles up mountains and crossed valley floors until I came to the
frontier, the front of the house where the roof became flat and sheltered the
veranda. I made my way to the end of the veranda roof and proceeded to
survey the terrain below.
A magnificent landscape, the beautiful sculptured gardens surrounding my
Father’s house. Dad had these exquisite Buffalo Grass lawns that were so
soft to play on....
All I needed was to quite simply make it over the garden trees, miss the path
and land effortlessly on my Father’s lawn, nothing to it, it couldn’t be more
than five metres away, a perfect first flight.
I felt absolutely fantastic and to this day, I believe that I believed, I could
have done it....
So there I was, just about to fly and my dog Hereboy turned out to be an
informant, he told my older brother.
Who at the age of thirteen wasn’t going to take the responsibility of his
younger brother’s undoing, although, I’m sure it may have crossed his mind.
Nine kids in the family minus one makes eight, wow! I might even get my
own bedroom! A short dialogue between us followed....
“Johnny, come down off the roof!”
“I am, thanks for coming to watch Zoro take his first flight.”
“No! Stay there Dad would like to talk with you to give you some pre-flight
advice before you take off.”
“But I want to show him I can fly to his ground Frank, please, please.”
A few moments later, Dad was on the roof to carry me down. The roof
became off limits to me for my test flights from now on and Dad suggested
in future that we find other ways to test this flying suit out.
35
To this day, I still yearn for the completion of that flight to my Father’s
ground, and every now and then in my minds eye I still see young John don
his Zoro suit and mask and ask me to come and watch him fly. So, if you
still have your old Zoro, Superman, or Batman flying suit or you’ve bought
one for a son over the years, maybe you could cut a small piece of sacred
cloth from its mystical cape or cut a small piece of cloth as a representation
in honour of all our courageous young boys and keep this in a secret place
for us all. Send me a piece, if the winds of adventure steer you that way.
I lived in Albury until I was nine; life at home was always fast. And since I
was growing up I could start helping Dad out by mowing the lawns and
raking the leaves....
I think I was the chief raker!
Dad also kept canaries and I used to help him occasionally with the birds if I
was well behaved and didn’t let them out of their cage....
There were thirty six at the last count Dad just told me, I just left the aviary
and I counted thirty four... oops! Here puss puss?!!
We had a walk-in aviary not really designed for seven year olds who thought
birds should be free.
I also had a mad passion for reducing the bee population. When the little
white clover flowers would grow in the grass the bees would come to gather
the pollen and I would take great pleasure on more than one occasion to
smack their bottoms whilst they were gathering. You’d be surprised how
rarely I got stung! I think I decided at one time that karma might bring me
back as a bee in the next life. So these days, I help any bee in distress, you
know, just in case.
1.6 Cowboys Riding off into the Sunset. Wha Ha!
Watching TV in the afternoons and on weekends was also a great adventure,
‘Dr. Who’, ‘Kimba the White Lion’, ‘Gigantor’ and yep, the odd Western.
One afternoon, when no one was around I watched this Western with the
central character being hung in the middle of town with all the town folk
a’coming to watch the hangn’! Unfortunately for the man he was innocent
though very brave. Regrettably a few of the other characters in the Western
36
were the only ones that knew of this as well as myself of course.
Nevertheless it drew a big crowd of people and after the hanging they found
out that he was innocent and heads fell in shame of his plight.
I decided to hang myself as I thought that maybe then Mum and Dad would
take notice of me. It worked for this guy, maybe it would work for me?
My brothers and I had built a cubby house outside in one of the trees and it
was about eight feet off the ground, I climbed up into this cubby and tied a
rope on to one of the branches and then tied the other around my neck.
So there I was absolutely oblivious to what would transpire
next....
What do you think transpired? The next sequence of events was remarkable,
if not the whole scenario. I climbed down the rope that was around my neck
so I could hang by my neck off the ground. Then I slipped, falling to the
ground with the rope around my neck. I struggled with fear as I bounced
myself up and down scratching at the dry earth beneath my feet. I so much
wanted to be noticed, to be touched, held and seen as innocent.
I wanted to see myself as innocent again. I’d forgotten!
I remember the sun flickering across my eyes as I hung choking, then the
branch began to flex further so my feet could touch the ground. On tiptoes I
lifted myself up and took the rope off my head. I didn’t tell anyone and I was
relieved that I didn’t become another cowboy riding off into the sunset.
Yippee ki ay!
Boy that was close!
In recent years after recalling this memory, I recognised that at six years of
age I dearly wanted to be seen as an innocent child. No matter what the cost.
Hot points
The silencing of stories of abuse in any way by others keeps the guilt and
shame connected to these events alive in our larger community. This retards
the establishment in communities and the educational bodies supporting
them modelling preventative behaviour in relationship to abuse. Any
person’s or organization’s suppression of an individual’s abuse in any way
condones this abuse and promotes victims seeing themselves as powerless
when endeavouring to remove the hand held over their mouth. Living in
shame.
37
Chapter 2. Betrayal & Punishment
An act of sexual abuse.
The year was 1969 when Neil Armstrong first stepped on the moon and I
had commenced school at Christian Brothers College in Albury, and was
now in third class. Our teacher had set up a TV in the classroom so we could
watch man’s first steps on the moon. I didn’t know that the Russians had
been there before the Americans. This was also the year that boxing was
introduced to me as a sport at school. The school fete was just around the
corner so we were asked to pick someone to fight from our school, in a ring
that would be set up so parents and teachers could watch. Thank God this
wasn’t compulsory, as at the time I found this attractive. It was made to be
attractive, if you could punch a fellow students head in, you were on your
way to becoming a man! After all, we were the elite. Even the public school
students across the road new we thought we were special. They were poor;
we were the chosen ones, better than them? That’s why I could never
understand why my brother who went there for a short period of time
changed for the better and became less anxious. I registered this change even
at the age of seven.
Homework was something that I found difficult at the best of times. My
attention span extended only as far as playing with my pet dog, jumping
fences, and exercising my vast imagination with anything that was fun. I had
an attention span for adventure. The day came around quite quickly when I
had to be brought into line for not completing my work in school. I needed
to be disciplined I was told, and the Christian Brothers were well equipped
for dealing with disciplinary measures. I remember their straps very well and
wonder whether there are any around these days. Probably, they’ve all been
burnt. Or sold to some collector who turned out to be the owner of a chain of
adult theme shops and is an ex nun.
I imagine that these straps were about a foot long and about one and a half
inches wide. I recall they were weighted in some way and this weight was
sandwiched between two leather strips that were stitched together; amazing
weaponry. Very effective in breaking the spirit of seven year old boys. A
brother may have two to three straps or canes in his desk and one in his
black robe. Choosing from strapping you across the legs, hands, across the
knuckles, or across the backside. Some teachers would ask boys to stand
with both hands out to the sides as if they were on a cross, facing away from
the brother so they wouldn’t pull their hands away, not knowing when the
cane was going to strike.
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It was not uncommon to see a duster fly across the room and hit some pupil
in the head for not paying attention or having his hands below the desk.
(Hands out of sight where they can do the Devil’s work.)
I recall one occasion when I was sent out of the classroom to wait for my
punishment. I was seven....
It was so cold in the corridors in the morning,
Albury mornings were bitterly cold, so much that my feet would go numb....
I couldn’t understand why I was shivering so much and my foot bouncing up
and down uncontrollably?
You were cold, and incredibly frightened....
I’ve peed myself!
Recently I’d seen a boy with two whip cuts across his face standing outside
the Principal’s office with teachers laughing around him while he wept....
If I could just run down the corridor and get outside without anybody seeing
me I would be safe. I could sprint across the playground, jump the fence and
run as fast as my legs could carry me to my parents, where I would be well
protected.
I decided to run, my heart was pounding and my legs were moving so fast I
thought I was flying, I remember this so clearly. I ran across the playground
and climbed the cyclone fence, escaping from the prison that was caging my
spirit! I arrived at my parent’s shop a short time later and told them what had
happened and how I didn’t want to go back. I’d like to tell you that this story
had a happy ending, and that my little boy felt safe and is safe now while
writing this, but this memory is very strong, I’d really like to write down that
there was a triumph of the heart, I can’t. My Father sent me back and I was
beaten for the first time by these straps....
They hurt, they hurt and bruised and burst blood vessels in my hands.
My Dad sent me back to be punished, I felt so betrayed by him after this day.
He doesn’t love me.
He did, he loved you dearly, he just did not realise that this was not right for
you and that in this school was hidden a lot of brutality. I remember how
some teachers, before strapping or caning myself and others would ask
whether we were left or right handed, I guess they did this so we could still
write. These were the nice ones.
I do recall seeing boys who had been beaten on both hands trying
desperately to pick up their pen with their hand to write, so they wouldn’t
fall behind in class, while having the brother scream at them for being a
39
sissy and that they would be beaten once again if they didn’t stop crying.
Now I remember my own tears dropping on pages of my work after being
beaten and the tears smudging my writings, then realising that I would have
to do it all again that night, otherwise I would be punished the next day. I
remember taking myself far away from the pain by following the ink runs
and the patterns they would create when mixing with the other ink from the
lines already printed on the pages. I’m only recalling this memory now as
my own tears are falling on the words that I am writing.
In the last three years the blood vessels between my joints of my index and
middle fingers of my left hand have started to burst occasionally and bleed,
I’m right handed. I have come to the conclusion that these were the fingers
that were effected most by the beatings. When they burst now I’m reminded
of these school days, as I was never strapped or caned at home on my hands
or body. This was to be my only year at the Christian Brothers School in
Albury as we all moved to Sydney because my Dad’s health suited a warmer
climate. I recommenced my schooling at Pius X College Chatswood and
stayed there for one term in fourth class. My first meeting was with the
Mother Superior. Let’s pause here for a moment. This term still blows me
away! Here is a woman of our species that has consciously decided to
abstain from sex, hates kids, has hair on her chiny chin chin and is as scary
as the ‘Blair witch project’. But is called a Superior Mother. Yah? Have we
missed something here? Anyway, she stated to my Mum that I could come
to the school as long as Mum agreed that: “Children should be seen and not
heard”. Her words exactly! Mum agreed!!
On reflection, I think Mother Superior may have ‘worked out’, I mean, she
was big! And quite possibly may have been Arnie’s long lost sister who
starred in that famous American movie ‘Nuninator’ and ‘Nuninator 2’. ‘The
Ascension into Heaven’. No one will hear you scream, rated R. Adult
themes and medium level violence through sexual suppression. Starring Itza
Habitzenegger. Fortunately for me an opening came up at a school that was
just a few blocks away from where I lived. This was run by nuns, shudder!
No, it was ok, honestly! A lot more satisfactory as I didn’t have to travel two
hours each day and the school was good to me. I must have kicked the
............ you can fill this in; I just couldn’t bring myself to write such a sick
joke.
Nine year’s of age in 1971 and I was in Fifth Class and moved to a Catholic
boy’s school because was the school recommended as the next progressive
40
step for my education, as the school I was in only went to year 4. There I
was once again taught by a Brother. Brother on occasions would speak to us
through a microphone that he had positioned on his desk. He had configured
an elaborate wiring system that we would connect our own headphones
(brains) into and this wiring construction used to hang from the ceiling
above our heads. We would place our headsets on and brother would give us
Divine lectures from the microphone placed on his desk. In retrospect, I
wonder if this was some sort of brain sucking device!!! Bizarre. On cold
mornings Brother would sit one particular boy on his lap while warming his
hands on his desk light. Looking back, this was odd behaviour, as the boy
seemed like a lifeless floppy doll, as he sat there. I still have a vivid picture
of this in my mind, and I cannot find the words to express the hollowness I
am now feeling in my chest as I try to describe more of this moment. I’ve
endeavoured to complete this so many times through my editing and now as
I sit here punching these letters onto the screen, I notice I have my hand over
my mouth. In 1972 I moved through to Sixth Class, I remember I liked the
teacher as he was happy and this meant a lot to me at the age of ten. I recall
choosing the desk that I would sit at in our classroom; it was a large
classroom, especially after being in the previous teacher’s room. His
reminded me of Frankenstein’s laboratory because of all the wires
suspended over our heads. This classroom had lots of glass windows and
where I chose to sit felt good ....
Mr. Smitts was a great teacher; he almost never got angry and very rarely
used to beat us.
This was very different from the other male teachers I had experienced in the
past....
Mr. Smitts was very cuddly. He used to tell me how gorgeous I was. It was
so warming to have a grown-up say these things to me and hug me.
He would ask us to work together or by ourselves on projects he would set
for us, asking certain boys up to see him at his desk while the class was....
Busy scribbling away at one thing or another. It was a lot of fun. He had his
favourite pupils and I remember how excited I was on the day that he asked
me to come up and sit on his lap. He was so warm, big and cuddly. So I
jumped up on his lap, he had hugged me before and it was a little bit
squashy but it was so very cosy, and I had him all to myself, just like the
other boys did. We then looked at my work and talked. I really enjoyed his
hugs and kisses and if I was lucky I might get to sit on his lap again today.
One day I got my own name from him, ‘JJ’. I really loved him calling me
this because it was something special between him and me. He called me
41
this all the time in class when I was good. One day he asked me to come and
sit on his lap, there wasn’t much room between Mr. Smitts and his desk so it
was very cosy and he snuggled my neck, it made me feel very warm all over
and he blew in my ear which gave me goose bumps. He then placed his nice
warm hand underneath my shirt on my belly. This made me tingle inside. I
felt lovely and mushy; it made me excited and I sort of wanted to go to the
toilet. I felt really warm and nice; why couldn’t my own Dad be this way?
He sat at his desk and asked who would like to come up and sit on his lap
and show him their work, we put up our hands waiting to be picked. I
couldn’t wait to be asked to sit on his lap and I got all excited and asked
when it would be my turn. We called out, “Sir, can I be next!”....
Mr. Smitts always smelt very clean and his after-shave was nice. I felt so
happy having a special name, as did some of the other boys who would sit
on his lap too. One day when he asked me up to his desk to sit on his lap, he
placed his hand on my stomach straight away. It felt so warm as he rubbed
me, then slowly he slid his hand down my pants. It felt very warm, making
me feel fuzzy and drift away. He told me I was a lovely boy as he rubbed my
tummy and nuzzled my neck. When it was time to get down he pulled his
hand out of my pants and I went back to sit at my desk. Almost every time
that I went to sit on his lap he would put his hand down my pants. I was very
special to him. I really enjoyed going up to his desk because it would mean
that I would get to sit on his lap where I would be cuddled.
He used to hug me very firmly and then place his hand underneath my shirt
on to my belly; he would always hold me and rub me. He used to squash me
between my legs with his hand and kiss me giving me tingles over my body.
Soon it was time to go away on the school camping trip, I was looking
forward to this and the day came around very quickly. On one of the nights
of our camping trip we sat around a fire and Mr. Smitts who I think arrived
with another man asked me if I would sing a song.....
I sang “Fire and Rain”, then after this he asked me if I would come and see
him just before bedtime, I said yes, although when the time came to go and
see Mr. Smitts, a friend and I were having so much fun playing spotlight and
exploring, that my friend encouraged me to stay playing with him.
I thank him deeply for this....
I remember being confused not knowing whether I wanted to play with my
friend or go and see Mr. Smitts. The next day was Friday and time to go
home. I remember Mr. Smitts being cross with me. I’d never seen him like
this before. He wouldn’t talk to me. I felt really wrong for not seeing him the
night before. Monday came around and I’d been scared all weekend not
42
knowing how he would treat me when I got to school. Whether or not he
would cane me. I felt really sick all weekend. Who could I tell?
At school on Monday Mr. Smitts asked me up to his desk, he stood me in
front of him and didn’t let me sit on his lap, then he got a book out from his
desk that had all my classmate’s names in it and said that this was the book
that showed whether we were good students or not and that this would show
up on our report card to our parents. The book had a column in it where he
had placed arrows pointing up or down indicating whether we were well
behaved on the school camp, he showed me my name and.....
I was the only one who had an arrow pointing down apart from my friend
who I played with that night. I cried and cried and told him that I was sorry.
He was very angry with me and then he said that if I was good and did what
he told me to do, he would make the arrow point upwards.
Soon I would be sitting on his lap again. It excited me to sit on his lap; this
was an excitement that I had not experienced with anybody else. Sometimes,
my stomach would get a cold feeling through it as if it was hollow. It was
around this time that I frequently became sick in my stomach and had to stay
home from school....
My Mother would come and pick me up from school sometimes and one
afternoon Mr. Smitts came out to the car to meet my Mum, I was very
excited, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and called me JJ. He told Mum what
a good boy I was and I felt very special.
Many times followed where I used to sit on my teacher’s lap and we would
rub noses, he would hold me firmly between his desk and himself and then
he would slide his hand down my pants. I would feel this tingling warm
feeling between my legs as he rubbed my penis. I could never see what he
was doing, I only feel it....
I remember him rubbing me underneath my underpants. Sometimes when
other boys would come up to his desk while I was sitting on his knee, he
would take his hand out of my pants, then after they had left, he would
quickly slide his hand back into my pants. I remember sometimes I would
want them to hurry up and leave, so I could feel all tingly and warm again,
he didn’t mind. At times he would touch me and that would make my tummy
quiver. When this would happen I would daydream and go far away and not
know where I was, and then come back feeling like I had just woke from a
deep sleep.
I would not see Mr. Smitts again after this year as I moved to a Catholic high
school.
43
Note: Recently while surfing, I noticed a face from my past watching for
waves close by. I decided to call out to this guy and it turned out I knew this
man when I was ten. He went to the same school as me. I saw him a couple
more times over the following months and we began to talk. One day, after
much deliberation, I decided to ask him wether he recalled being in Mr.
Smitts class? He said. “Yeah that guy was a paedophile”! I asked why. He
said one afternoon while waiting for his Mum to pick him up, Mr. Smitts
asked him and a friend to stay back in class while the others left. He asked
them to take their uniforms off. They both ran out of the building.
44
Relationship between sexual abuse by representatives of religious
Orders and mid-life suicide
Sexual abuse of a child by representatives of religious orders, is not usually a
spontaneous event, but the result of a complex process. At the heart of the process is
deception and betrayal, which would overshadow even the most complex of plots. The
critical elements for the perpetrator include:
* ongoing sexual fantasy.
* Unresolved and nurtured sexual preoccupation.
* Maintenance of the secret (control of behaviour that may betray the ongoing sexual
fantasy).
* Relationship building plan (built on promotion of the acceptable, not the real) with
community, superiors, parents and the target child/ren.
* Sexual abuse plan including identification of target child, method and risk assessment.
* Alibi/credibility plan for damage control.
For the child victim of sexual abuse, often discarded after the abuse activity, there
remains emotional distress and many unanswered questions. The abuse act serves to
undermine and destroy hope and belief in self, childhood,
Adulthood, religion, God, parenthood, authority, relationships, intimacy and faith. For the
child victim it is impossible to place the events into a context that make any sense.
Consequently, subconscious defence mechanisms are automatically activated that isolate
and anaesthetise the memory of the event, so that some semblance of normal live is
possible.
Work on the human life cycle indicates that in middle age, locked away memories and
experiences become accessible to individuals.
If these memories are not attended to or ignored, they find ways of gaining attention and
support. They become destructive.
From a personal experience and without the horror of having to face the abyss of personal
betrayal and abuse, life presents as a challenge at the best of times. When reaching a
point in my own life journey where weariness and fatigue has been a problem, I know
that confrontation of past events is a threatening experience. I have struggled with my
own sense of self worth, depression and despair for the future. I find it conceivable that
suicide for some is a choice that frees them from the pain that knows no absolution or
healing.
Sexual abuse of children by the sacred is the ultimate in betrayal.
To place this activity in a familiar context, the most important and critical event in the
history of the Christian faith was that of betrayal by an intimate.
* These are the personal reflections of Mr. Fred Gravestock B.A., Dip. Psych, MLit. Mr.Gravestock a
former Program Manager for the ‘Abused Child Trust’. Queensland Australia. This is an organisation that
provides counselling services to children and families effected by child abuse and neglect.
** The figures that I have quoted have been taken from the Australian Paedophile and Sex Offenders
Index, published in 1997 by journalist Deborah Coddington.
45
2.1 Snatching of the soul
An act of Psychological & physical abuse.
I sat around the table today with five other adults. Two of them were men.
We started speaking of our school days, and as we did I started to feel selfconscious. One of them commenced speaking of the way he was caned at
school and how his hands used to bruise and swell up from these canings. I
said how I recalled this as well. He didn’t believe that the canings did him
much harm, as at his school he knew what was wrong and if you stepped
over that line you would get punished and that would be the end of it. He
also felt that this was nowhere near as damaging as being psychologically
tormented by a teacher, such as being humiliated in front of a whole
classroom. This made me reflect on my time at school and I started feeling
very different sitting there at the table and became very silent. My
psychological and emotional abuse at school left me with another wound
that I would need to heal.
At the beginning of this book I wrote that this would be a story about sexual,
physical and emotional abuse. The next sequence of events is extremely
distressing for me and up to this day I still have dreams of being victimised
at school. I am scared of disclosing the following for fear of being judged as
weak. I judge myself as being weak, as I wish I’d stuck up for myself in
some way. I still feel a blanket of shame fall upon me now.
In high school my older brother was a year ahead of me, I felt much safer.
He loved me. We would catch the bus in the mornings right to the school’s
entrance. My class master was Mr. Crisp. He had only one eye in the middle
of his forehead (just messing with you). But he did have one eye sewn shut
and no one was ever game enough to asked why. He was a very kind man
who would withstand lots of aggravation from his class. His nickname was
‘Bernie Bungeye’. This was our term of endearment for him.
He had two ‘paddles’ that he would use on our backsides if we stepped out
of line. I believe they were twelve and fifteen-inch rulers bound with electric
insulating tape. Boy did they sting, even if you had an exercise book down
your pants! The most hits ever recorded in the history of one ‘Bernie
Bungeye period’ was forty-five. That’s one every minute, just for the record!
Well, the day came around for this figure to be brought down. The period
began and we commenced counting each hit in silence.
46
Bernie did his best to keep up the pace, even if he did have to swallow a Bex
headache powder (straight off the folded wrapping paper) to keep up with
us. Man! As I looked around it was like a war zone, there were boys
everywhere jumping up and down and dragging their asses along desk seats
to reduce the sting. As the end of the period came closer I remember some of
us counting the hits out loud. “43, 44, 45”. Then the whole scene turned into
slow motion. Bernie became one with his ‘electric insulated ruler’ as he
realized that we were trying to achieve something for once. The paddle flew
down to meet some brave war hero’s ass for the very last time. The kid’s
eyes were popping out of their heads. Bernie’s eye was popping out of his
head! Everybody was poised as the big forty-six was struck. The School bell
rang out! The classroom exploded with excitement. It was an emotional
scene. We had set a new world record. I think even Bernie had a smile on his
face as the last bead of sweat dripped from his brow.
In one of the semesters of this year I became sick for almost the whole term
and Bernie, God bless him, sent my work home to me. I attended school for
one to two weeks of that term, feeling ashamed that I didn’t want to go to
school. I felt that I wasn’t like the other boys any more, and didn’t know
why school frightened me. I moved very far behind in class, I just wanted to
stay home with Mum. I was called a hypochondriac and a Mummy’s Boy at
school, I really didn’t want to be this way, I really wanted to be the same as
all the others. Why couldn’t I? I used to get sick in my stomach and throw
up from feeling nauseous. I’d tell the teachers that I felt sick and sometimes
they wouldn’t believe me.
This made me feel ashamed and guilty, as I couldn’t work out why I was
sick. Mum would then come and pick me up to take me to the doctor. I
remember sitting in the waiting room feeling so nauseous and guilty because
the doctor said that he couldn’t find anything wrong with me, that there
wasn’t anything wrong with me. This would happen many times and was
very distressing to me as a young boy. As I felt weak, different and separate
from the other boys for some reason. I couldn’t be the same, I just couldn’t,
and all I wanted was to be like everyone else.
Some days at school I would feel so cold, and I don’t believe it was from the
weather. I would shiver as if I was in shock and no matter how many
jumpers I would throw on I just couldn’t seem to get warm. Do you know
that feeling? You are so cold that it passes right through your bones into
your core. I believe that this was dread.
47
The years that followed, my scholastic abilities would diminish and I would
easily be distracted from my work and find great difficulty in maintaining
focus. In years nine and ten I would be introduced to two lay teachers who
would be my Class Masters: Mr. Beetle and Mr.Rollo. Mr. Rollo’s nickname
was ‘The Persecutor’ or ‘Basher’ as everyone knew that if you didn’t behave
yourself you would be persecuted and then caned, hence ‘Basher’. Now no
one wanted to bring it upon himself to experience what this nickname meant,
especially me, as one day I witnessed an older boy being harassed by this
teacher. The boy was broken, in tears and in pain. Not just because he had
been given ‘six of the best’ across his hands, there was something else that
he had experienced that had had a far more reaching effect on him than just
being caned. Regrettably, in the last years of my schooling I would
experience this teacher’s abuse on many occasions.
Being disciplined was a common occurrence at school and being a large
school there was always someone who needed guidance. That was fair
enough. Some teachers had a presence that would gain respect from the
students and other teachers, and they would have clearly defined boundaries
that would rarely be crossed. The boys would look up to and respect these
type of teachers and if someone overstepped their guidelines, the
disappointment they would feel from their inappropriate action, would have
a far greater effect on them changing their behaviour, than any caning or
beating that they would ever receive.
I’ll always remember these teachers. They were the ones that if pushed to
raise the cane, you would see pain in their eyes, as they had run out of ideas
to help a student, and you would also see that they had searched their heart
and soul for any other way.
As they caned across the hand it would be without the intention of inflicting
pain and the strikes would be controlled and measured and not done out of
anger. It would be done and forgotten. I praise these teachers for their
efforts, and I accept that these disciplinary measures were part of the time
that I lived in. However, on recollection I find it difficult to accept the
following.
I was in Year 10 and fourteen years of age when I found out that I was to be
in Basher’s class. On one occasion when I was in my History period and it
was the last day of school for the year, our physical education teacher sent a
piece of poster board around to his classes for all the boys to sign their
names on. Unfortunately for me, instead of writing my name I wrote my
nickname. That’s when it all started.
48
The teacher Mr.Beetle wanted to know who wrote this. With tremendous
fear I told him. With great anger he gave me ‘four cuts of the cane’ while he
stood on the platform at the front of the class with me standing on the floor
below, about six inches lower than the platform. This hurt incredibly, though
at fourteen I had learnt to just take it and close down on the pain, as to cry
was a weakness, and I most definitely wasn’t going to show him how much
he hurt me. He’d just humiliate me further. He caned with such vengeance,
and it wasn’t uncommon for his canings to again burst the capillaries
between the joints of my fingers. On this occasion he wanted to give me six
cuts of the cane, but I believe new guidelines on corporal punishment had
just been placed into action and these restricted a teacher from caning a pupil
more than four times in one day. I remember the callous look that came to
his face as he remembered he had to cease. This was the teacher that in class
if I answered a question incorrectly would say to me “Saunders don’t think, I
told you not to think”. This he promoted as a running joke in class and was
not repeated on others in my class. So, there I was thinking that the worst
was over and I had got off pretty lightly, even though both my hands were
swollen and the joints of my fingers bleeding! It’s astonishing what I
became convinced of as being normal behaviour. The end of the period came
and whom do you think should walk past and stick his head in to see who
got caned? Mr. Rollo. I was told to wait back while the other students left,
meanwhile Mr. Beetle explained to Mr. Rollo the heinous crime that I had
committed. Mr. Rollo looked at me in disgust and I felt like ‘a piece of shit’.
Mr. Rollo then asked Mr. Beetle if he had canned me yet. Mr. Beetle
informed him that he had and I clearly remember the disappointment on Mr.
Rollo’s face, as he knew he couldn’t repeat the caning again. Mr. Rollo
looked at me and suggested to Mr. Beetle that he take over from here.
I had just been shamed in front of 30 students by being caned, my hands
were bruised and swollen and I was finding it difficult to bend my fingers on
my hands. These two just didn’t want to let up. Mr. Beetle left and Mr. Rollo
told me to follow him. We were on the top floor of the school building, the
students had left the floor and there were two flights of stairs to the next
level. Mr. Rollo asked me to follow him down to the Principal’s office
where he was going to phone my parents and tell them about the appalling
act that I had performed and that I would be expelled from the school.
He stopped walking with me where the two flights of stairs met as this area
was out of sight of other teachers and students. He threatened me with his
size, standing over me and informing me that I was hopeless, that I was a
disgrace to the school and that when the Principal found out, he would expel
49
me, and when my parents were informed they would be disgusted in me and
know that I was pathetic. Then he would ask if that was what I wanted. My
response was, “No Sir, please Sir, I’m sorry that I did this”. His reply was,
“You come with me now, you won’t be coming back to this school ever
again Saunders”.
I felt so scared, so alone and ashamed, he was so good at hiding in the
stairwells and making me feel like a worthless human being. He decided to
find Mr. English the physical education teacher. I believe Mr. English was
actually shocked to see the state of emotional distress that I was in.
However, I think he felt he had to keep up appearances in front of Mr. Rollo
for some reason. Mr. Rollo said that what I had done was disgusting. I recall
noticing how much Mr. Rollo was enjoying the power he was wielding over
me at the age of fourteen. Mr. English pretended to be angry and got me in a
headlock. The look on Mr. Rollo’s face was one of excitement as he had
seduced another into playing his callous game. He was feeding off the fear
that was being presently created in me. I started to cry and Mr. Rollo
enjoyed this even more. I cried because I felt betrayed by Mr. English. Mr.
English left. I was broken. We never got to the Principal’s office.
On another occasion I remember I had left a novel that we were studying in
Mr. Rollo’s class at home. We had just commenced the thirty five minute
period and Mr. Rollo had asked me to leave his class and wait outside, he
then informed the class to carry on with their essay on the text and that he
would be back some time later in the period. Mr. Rollo proceeded to walk
me down to the Principal’s office to get me suspended. I wasn’t the only one
to leave books at home and yet I was one of the students that he took special
delight in breaking psychologically and emotionally. Then he began. He
commenced telling me that I was a fool, stupid and that I would never make
it and that why did I bother trying when I wasn’t worth his time. He told me
that I would be a failure, then he walked me to the end of the top floor where
Mr. Beetle was holding his class and walked directly in and went about his
way informing Mr. Beetle and the class how stupid Saunders was and how
Saunders would never make it. Mr. Beetle followed with his favourite
response, “Don’t think Saunders, I told you not to think”, this was said in a
monotonal voice, out loud so the whole class could laugh as well. I found
this extremely humiliating and soul destroying. As we walked past
classrooms he would look through the observation window in the middle of
the door to see who was teaching the class before he walked in; some
teachers did not agree with his disciplinary measures and found him
50
disruptive. Mr. Rollo then took me to the first level where another teacher, a
Mr. Reding was holding his class. He informed Mr. Reding of what I had
done and proceeded to humiliate me in front of the class. I at this stage was
just holding it together as the class called out “S a u n d e r s”. Now at this
stage approximately twenty-five minutes had gone by since we left his
classroom.
I cannot express in words the shame and humiliation I felt from being treated
this way, not to mention the fear that I was feeling, as I still hadn’t been
caned. He took me back to his class, took his cane and with great anger
caned my hands. On more than one occasion he would spend up to a whole
period punishing me in this way, hiding in the stairwells and taking me to
the other teacher’s classrooms and ridiculing me in front of them. Some
teachers would even tell him to go away. After a few more events like this, I
told my Mother and Father and he was told to leave any disciplinary action
to the Vice Principal. Fortunately this stopped him for a while. Over the next
three years numerous occasions would occur similar to this. The last time
this happened I made it to the Principal’s office. In Year 12 I did my best to
lift my grades and I cannot recall any great disciplinary action being taken
against me. I was a senior now and with this there came greater leniency in
response to our behaviour, and discipline was something that was not needed
as much as we were more committed to being at school.
It would still however be a running joke in class if I answered a question
incorrectly for Mr. Beetle to retort, “Saunders, don’t think, I told you not to
think”. I wanted so much to do well; I just found it so difficult remembering
information and remaining focused, why couldn’t I remember things?
Year 12 came around very quickly and I could never seem to be more than at
the bottom of the class or close to it scholastically. I sort of knew that I
would never be any better than where I was and one of my worst subjects
was Maths. I was in the 2A Maths class which at the time was the lowest
class level and my teacher was Mr. Freeman. Mr. Freeman had done some
damage to his leg and walked with a limp, he was one of those teachers who
attracted respect from his pupils by his sheer presence and for some reason
in his class I wanted to do well. For the first time in my life I wanted to
succeed at passing Maths. He was compassionate, straight down the line and
he sincerely cared for us all and concerned himself with my self worth
through teaching me Maths. I passed Maths that year and did better than I
had ever done, I am truly thankful for meeting this man and I believe he
gifted the whole class with his presence.
51
Mr. Rollo on the other hand became my English Master and this was the
second time within six months that I didn’t bring my English book to class
with me. Now you may recall Mr. Rollo had been told to pass over any
disciplinary matter involving me onto the Vice Principal, so this turned out
to be a blessing for me on the day. Mr. Rollo decided he would go against
his instructions and take me down to the Principal’s office to have me
suspended. He again left his classroom unattended and walked me slowly
down the stairwells, ridiculing and demeaning me along the way.
Unfortunately for him the Vice Principal, who was a bit over six foot tall and
about six inches taller than Mr. Rollo just happened to be in the area and
walked straight around the corner to find Mr. Rollo out of his classroom
with me. Mr. Rollo had been found out and the Vice Principal (who was a
Brother) was familiar with the instructions that Mr. Rollo had been given.
He addressed Mr. Rollo first by asking him what he was doing leaving his
classroom unattended. Mr. Rollo’s response was that I had been a disruption
to the class, Brother cut him off mid sentence and asked him to return to his
classroom and that he would handle the situation. Now this was another man
well respected. We went into his office and he asked me very gently to tell
him what the problem was. I expressed to him that I had been forgetful and
left my book at home, he suggested that it would be a more profitable
experience for me to enter Mr. Rollo’s English class with the required
reading material. I said that I would do this. He then asked me how I was
going at home, I lied. I told him I was fine. I said my goodbyes to Brother
and went back to class; I think I recall Brother giving me his English book to
take back to class with me on my way out. Mr. Rollo never laid another hand
on me again.
In school, almost every kid would run around in the playground in their
breaks. That’s what kids did and like these days, some areas you could only
walk in. I remember a time when there was a semi-retired brother on
playground duty. He decided to stop some of us for running close to one of
these areas for discipline. There were a few of us to correct, so he decided to
question the closest to him, which happened to be me. He was the type of
teacher that seemed to just grab the closest boy to him.
He began by telling me calmly not to run, and then asked me for my hand,
so we could shake on it. I offered him my hand, as their did not seem to be
any need for concern as he asked in a non-aggressive way. However once he
had my hand he changed. He proceeded to slowly crush it with his own
while slowly explaining to the other boys present the rules of the
52
playground. I recall the joints popping in my fingers while trying to pull my
hand free. The pain became so intense, I began to cry. When he saw me cry
he stopped. That was his lesson for the day.
I decided to stay away from this Brother as it was humiliating to have this
happen to me in front of the other boys and it hurt my hand like hell! After
this, I noticed that he would do this to other boys as well. Only letting go of
their hand when they cried. Why did he only stop when they cried?
There was a teacher called Mr. Boat as well around this time. He took a
disliking to one of the boy’s in my class. I don’t know why. I don’t think any
of us knew. Simon was one of the youngest in my class and small for his
age. The teacher would hit him and others over the head at times with our
science book. They were on everyone’s desk, so he didn’t have to go far to
get one. This was a book that we all had for a year or two. It was an aqua
colour, about five hundred pages long, big and very heavy. The crazy thing
about this little story is I was not going to include it, as I didn’t believe that I
would give an accurate enough account of the book. The size, the weight and
colour. It was so long ago I thought I would most likely exaggerate.
Note: Not long after excluding the above memory from my writtings, I was
at a yard sale and stumbled across this big book. I picked it up and asked the
lady how much it was. “$2.00.” She said. I couldn’t even have it in the
house. One thing though, I remembered the book with 100% accuracy! One
day Mr. Boat nearly knocked Simon unconscious with this book. Simon was
about twelve at the time. I recall, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Bullying that came from the teachers was passed onto the pupils. Some of
these pupils that were bullied became bullies themselves or victims. Being
bullied in the school was seen as Ok. In fact the teachers that bullied pupils
they didn’t like, turned a blind eye when pupils bullied these pupils as well.
If you were a bully humiliated by a teacher, often the next thing was to bully
someone else. The whole bullying culture was cyclic and left up to ‘natural
selection’ to balance itself out. However, if both teachers and students were
victimizing a student, well, there weren’t many places to go at times. Like
some, I’d hide in the library. Sometimes this would work, sometimes not.
Bullies knew where to look.
53
I remember another time when our class heard a commotion outside. The
boys in the classroom next door were shouting and coming out onto the
balcony. Then a group of boys spilled down the stairwell. I recall that day a
collection was being taken to raise money for our school charity; the class
raising the most money being allowed to leave school early for the day.
Later, word passed around a boy in the class next door who had not given
his money to the charity was bullied by some boys and fell down the
stairwell. The police arrived a short time after this happened, and we were
told not to talk about what happened on the stairwell.
Note: Some twenty-five years later, I found out what happened. I met one of
the men that was in the class with the boy that was bullied. He told me the
boy was beaten up that day. That his mother had given him money to buy
groceries after school and his class needed a few more dollars to win and
this boy had the money. With discomfort on his face, this man told me a few
class bullies knew he had this money, so they beat him up in the stairwell.
The boy was later taken to hospital with serious injuries and the police were
called to the school to investigate.
This man recounted more than a few stories to me that were similar to mine.
He was two years ahead of me in school. There was one however, that stood
out above the rest.
He told me how his cousin and friend where asked to pay a visit to the
visiting cardinal’s chambers and how they where asked to undress. They ran
home and told their parents. They were told by their parent’s that a man that
represents God and the church at such a high level would never do such a
thing and not to go spreading such disgusting lies ever again.
It’s all got to do with power
54
Chapter 3. The Religious Adams Family
Really Creepy and Kooky.
In regard to home life I would always say that it was fine, that I was great!
That nothing was ever wrong, even though most of the time it was quite the
opposite. Home life was extremely difficult.
As a young boy having feelings of sadness and confusion when my family
and I would interact with other families was common. I would feel self
conscious and sad when I saw parent’s play and physically displaying their
affection towards their sons and daughters. I would turn this sadness into
anger and direct this inward towards the parts of me that needed attention. In
desperation I would try to make sense of these feelings, as did all my family.
No one had the answer, least of all Mum and Dad. It was so important for
my parents to demonstrate to the outside world that we were the perfect
Catholic family. Since our family were performers, even going down to the
corner store for milk was an opportunity to perform, to demonstrate to
outsiders that we were the perfect family. I would constantly overstay my
welcome at my friend’s places, and I know now some could see my
confusion and need, and let me stay just one more night.
One of my friends that I used to stay with was an Indian boy, he and his
family moved here from India when he was ten. In the 7 years that we knew
each other I spent some wonderful times with him and his parents. His
parents were warm-hearted, understanding and listened to me. Each time
that I visited them the Father would call me Jonathon Livingstone Seagull,
after the book written by the author Richard Bach. When he called me this
my heart would fill and my chest would open up. I remember how Michael
my friend would smile gently as his Father would say these three rich words
to me. He never knew it would almost bring me to tears when he did this.
Then.....
I would do my best to bottle these moments up and take them
away with me, but for the life of me, the memories in the bottle
were all but dried up by the time I arrived home.
A few years later I read Jonathan Livingstone Seagull. How I loved that
book. It has only been recently, that I’ve wondered whether or not my
55
friend’s Father recognised I was in need of help and that the only support he
could see might possibly assist me, was to plant the seed in me that I was
capable of going out on my own, separate from the rest, like Jonathan
Livingstone Seagull.
When I was around fourteen, I recall being very sick with a sore throat,
stomachache, nausea and fever. I was lying in bed moving in and out of
sleep and was not sure whether I was awake or dreaming. I recall waking
from a dream being very aroused; I think Wonder Woman or a Playboy
Bunny was chasing me. Actually, it was Wonder Woman! (These days I get
chased by Elfin Queens) Anyway, I woke up playing with myself and then I
remember this most amazing feeling within my body, I quickly stopped
playing with myself but as this feeling kept on increasing before I knew it, I
had my first orgasm. I will always remember this feeling, though more
importantly what happened next. I felt this sticky wetness in my boxer shorts
and unfortunately, this along with being sick with fever scared me so greatly
that I wasn’t sure what was actually happening to me, as a short time earlier
I had also thrown up. I started to feel bad and a shroud of shame fell on me
from what I had just experienced. I’d committed a sin, so after making
myself feel very anxious, I decided to call my Mum in and tell her what
happened. She came in and then quickly left to go and get my Father. On
their return my Mum decided to tell me that I had committed a Venial sin
and that I would have to go to confession. How could my Father stand there
and listen to my Mother say these things to me?
I felt so alone. A few days later I would go to confession and tell the priest,
he told me to say three Hail Mary’s and one Our Father. He didn’t exactly
mention not to do it again or that I would burn in Hell, so I thought, three
Hail Mary’s, one Our Father mmmmm? This is worth exploring again and
maybe again, and perhaps again ... ‘Hail Mary!!!! Hail Mary!!!! Hail
Mary!!!!’ I’m being light about this now but at the time it was very
distressing for me, as I had to make the decision not to speak of anything in
regard to my sexuality to my parents. To this day I still feel guilty at times
when I give pleasure to myself, having to ward off my shame. I also over the
years have hidden from my partners that I am sexually aroused by them for
fear of being shamed.
It was around this time that my Mother also commenced buying me boxer
shorts to wear to bed. Most of these would come from St. Vincent de Paul’s
Opportunity Shops, as did a number of my family’s clothes. She was an
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incredibly resourceful woman when it came to clothing and I was always
extremely well dressed. Every time Mum would bring home boxer shorts for
me, the first and foremost thing on her mind was to sew up the front. The
only confusing thought I had around this was, there was already a button
there holding the fabric together or the fabric was folded and stitched in a
way that nothing could get in or out anyway. Well, not unless I wanted it to!
It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I discovered and perfected the art of
masturbation. All those years of pull starting the lawn mower finally paying
off. It was around this time that I realised why my Mum was sewing up my
boxer shorts, stitching holy medals into the pockets of my pants and into my
sisters bras. To remind us of course that God was watching! Once again, the
denial of these natural things occurring brought more focus on to them.
Slowly the front of my boxer shorts came undone, I’m not sure whether this
was because my Mother’s sewing machine couldn’t take the twenty pound
breaking strain thread needed to withstand the extreme pressure that it would
be placed under, ha ha ha! Or, she just gave up! After all, if I was going to
play with myself, boxer shorts weren’t going to stop me. I recall seeing her
bite the thread off with such conviction after sewing my boxer shorts up. In
retrospect, I’m surprised she didn’t sew a titanium genital cuff into the front
of them to keep me pure! Genital cuffs can be ordered off the internet these days
(only in lots of ten) from: www.cathcuffs@risky.com
Now there was a time when like most boys I would wake up in the morning
with a woody needing to go to the toilet. Well, on this morning I was
running late for school and still half asleep, so the first thing I did was skip
the toilet and head off to the kitchen for breakfast and yes, I had my trusty
boxer shorts on. These ones alas had not passed through quality control as
yet nor given my Mother’s seal of approval, and guess who had thrown back
the covers to say good morning, you got it, my little friend! Well actually
my big friend and without me being aware that he was up and about. So who
do you think should walk into the kitchen at that moment to confront all her
unspoken fears?
“Good morning Mum.”
“Morning sweetheart, have you been to the toilet this morning?” (Pointing
in the direction of the toilet.)
“I will, after breakfast, I’m hungry.”
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“Yes! But maybe yooou go to the toilet nooow.” (Turning her head away
from the direction of my erection, screwing up her face as if she had just
bitten a lemon her eyes look down at my boxer shorts.) I look down, still
half asleep to see who was awake, looked at Mum innocently, smiled, shrug
my shoulders and went off to the toilet. I think Mum was a bit shocked, what
do you think? I thought she managed this remarkably well.
My Mother was so conscious of me growing up and changing, that it felt like
before I was given the time to become comfortable with what was happening
for me, with my body, my spirit and my looks, she would draw attention to
these changes in front of my family and friends. This made me extremely
self-conscious and not want to share any of my thoughts around this with
her, as it always felt like what was mine was hers.
Who I was becoming was not held sacred and allowed to grow
without her taking ownership of it.
It was as if at this age she would be constantly snatching my innocence from
me. I can’t find another way of explaining this. I became over conscious of
my sexuality and this coupled with my abuse at school just exacerbated the
situation, resulting in the problem having a far greater effect.
When I was fourteen my Father was making his way home from work and
was struck down by a car. This broke three or four of his ribs, his hip, leg,
gave him concussion and thirty to forty stitches in his head. For a man of
sixty years of age this was a major trauma that he would never recover from.
I was the first to find out that he had just been involved in a major car
accident and I remember how I hoped that he might die. Waves of
excitement washed over me as I entertained the fantasy that he may not ever
come home, as this would mean that I would feel safer at home, we would
all feel safer. I felt very guilty at having these feelings and couldn’t
understand why I felt this way about my Dad. And I definitely could not tell
any one of my confusion. My Father was a very angry man and didn’t like
the life that he was living. He felt trapped and with this went bouts of
depression and anger. His anger would spill out into his life and the hardest
area hit was his family. In the morning before I would rise he would get up
early to shower and get himself ready for work. While he was in the shower
I would be in bed asleep and I would be wakened by him calling out to God,
asking to be taken away from all of this. He would repeat this a number of
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times and I would lie in bed wondering to myself what was wrong, doing my
best not to listen to this by covering my head with my pillow. He was so
removed that none of us felt we could help; it was not even a consideration.
For me, I felt that if I got close to him I would be beaten, especially if I
questioned any of his behaviour. My Mother supported us all to be at a
distance from my Father, as she too feared him. I believe this also worked
for her as it created a situation where we were under her safety net and gave
her the control of the household, so there was a payoff both ways. Mum
could protect us from Dad while keeping us under her control, calling on
Dad and discussing matters with him only in situations that she felt out of
control. Dad didn’t so much strap us as get angry and when he did, my
whole body would shudder. We all would.
After Dad’s accident his physical and mental condition deteriorated and in
the following five years he would show signs of Parkinson’s disease. The
most damaging result of his accident would be that his depressions would be
of longer duration and he would commence communicating less and less
with the family. His anger and disgust of himself increasing to the point that
he could not cope with any conflict within the family, so he would
constantly be threatening violence if there was any hint of conflict of
interests. If anyone challenged him on an issue he would kick them out of
the house or raise his hand whilst moving towards them to back hand them
across the face, saying, “Get to your room!”. I believe there were two
reasons why he would do this, one was that he didn’t like anybody back
chatting him and the other was, deep in his heart he did not want to
physically violate us so before he lost further control of himself he would
tell us to go to our rooms. Whatever, this action would send us running. In
our home, the boy’s rooms were at the back of the house with our own
bathroom and the girl’s rooms were at the front of the house with their own
bathroom. We were not allowed to use the girls’ bathroom, unless the boys’
was occupied.
Sometimes Dad would talk about his experience of the war in a humorous
way with my brothers and I, although rarely exposing any of the painful
memories that he harboured. Sometimes he would tell us the most amazing
stories and we would all be fixed in awe just listening to him, he was a
magnificent storyteller. He would tell us stories about World War II and it
was as if while speaking of these memories he was set free for just a moment
from the shackles that bound him.
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My brothers and I would be entranced by the vivid recollections of his
sorties across Europe. It was as if a passage opened up before us to see into
this man, so we would all keep on asking him to speak more of his
experiences. Slowly, as the humour he’d sprinkled through these
recollections started to run thin another door would begin to open up to a
room where he locked away the pain from what he experienced. Dad would
then go silent, become uncomfortable and tell us that was enough for now.
All I can remember from this was a feeling of immense pain. So I would like
to share with you one of the stories as this particular one was the most
moving out of the few that my Dad passed on.
He was stationed somewhere in Greece and his crew was asked to fly a
reconnaissance mission through Greece travelling up the coast so they could
take pictures of troop movements. As they were coming back they were fired
upon by anti-aircraft. This damaged the plane considerably and
unfortunately the crew were injured also, especially the pilot. I’ll digress
here for a moment as my Father probably did when he told me. The pilot,
Paddy I believe his name was, liked a wee drop of the Guinness and on one
occasion whilst on a mission asked my Dad (who was the Bomber
Navigator) up to the cockpit. I remember Dad telling me that he wasn’t sure
why he was being called up. Paddy, still recovering from the night before
said to Dad in a fine Irish accent, “Johnny, would you mind having a look
out on the port wing for me and be kind enough to tell me of what you see”.
Dad said, “Sure! What am I supposed to be looking for?” Paddy replied,
“Johnny can you tell me whether the Leprechaun is still sitting there?” This
is all I can remember of the story, so now I’ll get back on track. Dad was the
only one who was capable of possibly flying the plane home, so he attended
to the crew, then took over the controls and managed to fly the plane back to
the base and land it safely. The only other part of the story that I recall was,
that Dad was praised for his bravery and how he got the crew back alive. It
was my Mother that filled in this part of the picture after overhearing the
conversation on one occasion, recognising the part that was missing. She did
this while cradling my Father’s war scarred head. I remember Dad at this
point looking extremely embarrassed. For me, it was as if in his recollection
of this time, he felt he had done everything in his power to change the course
of war but it just wasn’t enough...... Do you know what I mean, it wasn’t
enough.
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Reliving My Father’s War
When I was twenty-eight years old, I recall driving along a road called Beach Street in
the suburb of Coogee in Sydney where my Father grew up. I had not been in this area
before and it was around dawn. My partner and I had just rounded the bend at Coogee
headland and I mentioned my Father was in the Second World War and commenced
telling her one of Dad’s stories. At this I started to cry uncontrollably, and a short
moment later I decided to stop myself from crying as I was totally out of control. My
partner, being concerned asked why had I stopped myself from crying and I remember I
didn’t know why and didn’t recall what I was speaking about that made me cry. She
recounted my last sentence before I commenced to weep. I took a big breath and repeated
the sentence and on completion of the sentence I literally began wailing. I had to stop the
car, so I parked on the headland and got out whilst still crying, this continued for about
ten minutes. As this was happening, in my mind’s eye I saw vivid pictures of planes
blowing up in mid air, people being killed and propellers spinning around out of control.
As this went on waves of pain passed through my body, through my open mouth. This
was happening as I stood on Coogee headland, and I was not able to stop myself! Luckily
for me no one was around. As the wailing slowly subsided I dropped to my knees
exhausted and to this day I am absolutely amazed at the intensity of this experience, I
have never spoken of this to anyone, nor have I heard of any similar experience. I’m sure
there would be many theories as to why this happened to me. After this occurrence, I was
speechless for about thirty minutes, a shivering, snivelling mess. However, I felt as if a
great weight had been lifted from my shoulders and my Spirit.
My fear of my Father was great and this fear escalated after his accident. I
cannot remember ever feeling safe around him except when I was a young
boy. Through my teenage years my Father’s annoyance with me would grow
and grow until he would quite often not speak with me at all, other than to
remind me of my chores or say that I was a “shit head”, or a “cunt”,
“useless”, “a little Johnny wait awhile.” After telling me these things it
seemed that he would become more embittered within himself, and
withdraw even further. Dad became a tyrant; it was as if the whole world
would get him down.
He became extremely short tempered and his threats of physical violence
commenced playing a far greater part in my relationship with him. He
became unapproachable for days on end, telling us not to talk to him. His
silence was deafening.
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A situation that I recall occurring around this time was when I told my
Mother to ‘shut up’. Now ‘shut up’ was classified as a swear word in our
house and to say this to my Mother was a big mistake and at sixteen I was
sent to my room with my Father sent in to deal with me. He sat on my bed
and swore at me, telling me how disgusted he was with me, then began
hitting me on the leg while saying over and over that he had failed with
every other member of the family and wasn’t going to fail with me. He felt
very lost and distressed as he hit me and I was not able to think clearly
myself at the time, having confused thoughts around feeling sad for him,
feeling the pain in my leg from his hits and the pain in my heart from his
course action against me.
On occasions my brothers and I would talk with Dad in the lounge room and
sometimes we would get into these debates, he liked them while he was
winning, but on this occasion the debate turned into an argument and got out
of control as I expressed my opinion quite firmly on the topic. Dad said to
me that if it was wartime, and I was in his squadron and acted with the same
contempt that I was displaying, that he would have no option but to have me
shot. He was serious.
I decided at sixteen to acquire myself a motorbike to rebuild and ride to
school. This was a worthwhile challenge for me, as with this went a certain
kind of freedom. I had a friend Paul who helped me with the bike, as it
needed a complete restoration. The bike was an old Honda SL175 that had
been left out in the weather and the only part of the bike that wasn’t resting
in water was the gearbox. With my friend’s encouragement and lots of
elbow grease I would be able to ride this motorbike to school.
One afternoon, Paul and I were working on the bike and I remember how
excited we were as it wouldn’t be long before it was registered and both of
us would be riding to school together. On this particular afternoon as we
were working my Father walked by and said to me, “You know son, I don’t
think you are ever going to get this bike going, why bother, right Paul?” In
response Paul said to my Father, “You’re wrong, he will be riding this to
school in a month, you’ll see!” Paul was so angry, and Dad was left
speechless. Embarrassed he walked away. This however did not take away
the pain of the spear that my Father had just thrown at me which struck me
right between the shoulder blades, as once again he saw me as hopeless and
not being able to complete anything, just like Mr Rollo and Mr. Beetle at
school.
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I must say though, that this was the only time that someone stood up for me
in front of my Father and fortunately on this occasion the spear didn’t wound
me so deeply.
In the years that followed Dad and I remained distant, I would always fear
him and never speak what was truly on my mind, as he always had the
answer to my problems. Within that answer, there would always be
something about me not doing it right and that I should do this or that. He
would never just listen.
3.1 A Dad’s death
Many years later, I had the overwhelming urge to thank Dad for going to
war to protect what he believed in. I thought to myself, no problem, I’ll give
him a call now, (this would have been about three years before he died) I
picked up the phone, dialled the number and it started to ring. I became so
emotional I had to put the phone down! I collected myself and tried again.
Usually it takes Mum and Dad a bit of time to answer the phone, as they are
both slow and it is usually Mum that answers the phone first because Dad
had Parkinsons. This time Dad must have been waiting around the phone to
see who was ringing and hanging up.
“High Dad it’s John, how are you?” (Not the best start John, he’s 80 and
dying.)
“Fine son I’ll get your Mother for you.”
“Can you wait up Dad, just wait a bit, I want to tell you something.”
(Feeling the emotion build in me at this point.)
“Is everything ok son? Is there something wrong?” (Why does there always
have to be something wrong before he takes the time to talk with me?)
“No Dad, there’s nothing wrong and I want to tell you something.” (At this
point I’m really scared and I’m thinking, will he laugh at me, will he ridicule
me, will he for once take me seriously? as I start to speak my voice
crumbled under my words.)
“Dad, I...I want to thank you for going to war for me...... you know, for us.”
(There I’ve said it.) Then there was silence.
“Son.... Thank you..... And that’s alright. (He said this with such feeling and
warmth, and in that moment, I knew he was honoured by the sharing of my
thought with him.)....Now, I’ll get your Mother for you!!!” Little steps I
guess.
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Dad’s deterioration from Parkinson’s disease was extremely slow for me,
needless to say endlessly slow for him. In some ways he had been dying a
slow death for 15 years, deteriorating more and more as each year went by.
The last year being the most significant.
One day I received a phone call from my brother telling me that he was
weak and that it would be good if I could make it to Sydney to visit him.
Dad was at a hospital rehabilitation unit and all my family had been notified
to come to Sydney, as the general feeling was that he might not last too
much longer as his condition was deteriorating. It took me seven hours to
drive to Sydney to Mum and Dad’s home and after saying my hello’s to
other members of my family and being filled in on why Dad was at this
hospital, my brother, sister, Mother and I drove to the hospital. I hadn’t seen
Dad for twelve months and it was quite a shock to see him, his body had
deteriorated and he’d gone from being a man around six foot tall and
weighing approximately thirteen stone to a man of ten stone, with only short
bursts of energy to talk and now almost incapable of walking. I had not seen
him for so long I found it amusing how he still had everyone jumping up and
down at his commands. At this time we were told by the nursing staff that
Dad was not supposed to have any dairy products, as the drugs would make
him dribble and having dairy exacerbated the problem. This did not stop him
finding some one in our family to buy him his Cornetto ice creams, feed
them to him and then stay with him as he coughed and choked on the
phlegm that would collect from this daily fix. We all found this so sad even
though at times he would become so obnoxious that he was unbearable. We
all did our best to weather his spoilt child attitude, as we knew that his
condition was doubly unbearable for him. All he wanted to do with maybe
six months to live was not go to a nursing home. He just wanted to go home,
receive home care or stay at this hospital he was in. Unfortunately, the
hospital that he was in wasn’t a nursing home and they could no longer keep
him there as his condition was worsening and they were not equipped to
cater for a person in his condition for long periods of time. This hospital was
a half way house to help rehabilitate war veterans so they could go home or
be moved to a nursing home. This turned into a major problem as Dad didn’t
want to go to a nursing home and my Mother did not want him coming home
again as he was too demanding on her and she could no longer cope
physically or mentally with caring for him. It was decided that he could go
home and that Mum would get a nurse in to look after Dad. Mum had been
looking after him all by herself up to this point.
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Unfortunately only a few months would go by before Mum could not cope
with Dad at home, nor the nurse cope with Dad’s behaviour. Dad also had a
fall during this time and became ill due to a reaction to his medication. He
was taken to hospital again for observation. In a few days he recovered
enough to leave and was taken to a nursing home five minutes from home.
Three months passed and I decided to drive down to Sydney to see Dad and
Mum. Dad had not settled as yet and was still finding being in a nursing
home unbearable. Dad above everything wanted to die at home.
It wasn’t long after I arrived at my parent’s house that there was an urgent
phone call from the hospital notifying us that Dad had verbally abused one
of the nurses, was trying to get out of the hospital and acting extremely
aggressively. They requested one of us to come down and talk with him. My
Mother asked me if I would go to the hospital to calm Dad down and take
care of the problem. Little did I know that no one else wanted to go and it
was my turn to cop Dad’s abuse. Naive of this I enthusiastically said yes,
thinking that it was a wonderful acknowledgement coming from my Mum.
Oh well, you live and learn! Ten minutes later I was at the hospital and there
was Dad making his way up the hospital corridor notifying a nurse to call a
taxi for him and being extremely aggressive in the process. I hadn’t seen
Dad for a few months and he had deteriorated even further, here was a man
that still had a sharp mind wanting desperately to be in control of his life and
his finances and he wasn’t any more, Mum was. I went up to him and said
hello unsure of the response that I would receive, backing away as I moved
forward like I used to as a teenager. Is this me I thought?
“Dad, it’s John how you going?” (Another bad start.)
“Not very well son, I want to get out of this nursing home, I’ve found
another in the ‘Blue Mountains’ and I’d like to catch a taxi there can you
help me?”
“What do you want to do first?”
“I need you to drive me up to the bank so I can withdraw some money out of
my account.”
While Dad was saying this to me I had already been informed that he was in
the best place for him and whatever I did I wasn’t to drive him to the bank
nor entertain any of his ideas about my Mother’s plots against him, or his
around divorcing my Mother! This was certainly confusing for me, as I
couldn’t understand why he couldn’t go to the hospital of his choice or even
home. I was given a task and with the information that I was given around
Dad’s erratic behaviour by his Doctor I said…
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“Dad, I couldn’t even come close to understanding how frustrating this must
be for you and I’m sorry I cannot take you up the street to the bank, I can
however take you out to the park and we can chat and have lunch together.”
(Something that we had never done before.)
“I want you to take me up the street.”
“Please Dad, let’s get you back to your bedroom first and get you dressed.”
(Dad’s walking speed at this point due to the Parkinson’s was as slow as a
snail, it was 12 noon, and it would be dinnertime before he shuffled back to
his bed. However, with a little help from me coupled with his foul attitude it
would take five minutes, that’s if we didn’t get an attitude side track in the
meantime.) Back in his bedroom he asked me to lift him onto his bed. I did
and then I sat on the end of his bed waiting for his next move.
“Son, I think your Mother’s having a relationship with the doctor!” (My
Mother’s eighty, the doctor fifty. A bit of a generation gap I thought.) Dad
was sincerely concerned about this and asked me what I thought. I told him
that from my observations I thought it safe to come to the conclusion that
this scenario was highly unlikely. I felt so sad for him he was totally
paranoid.
“Son I want you to take me to the bank so I can make a withdrawal, that’s all
I want, please take me!” (Looking at me imploringly.)
“I cannot do that Dad I’m so sorry.”
“Son, do you believe that I have all my faculties and am capable with your
help to go to the bank and make a withdrawal?”
I was hoping that he wouldn’t ask me that, I had to think fast and hard.
“Dad you have times of great clarity and when you are feeling stressed you
do not think clearly.”
“Is this one of those times?”
“Yes I believe so. I believe you need to let go and trust that your family are
doing their best to care for you, please trust that we are doing our best for
you.” All of a sudden the anguish ran out of my Father’s face, his eyes
started to well with tears and then, the steel door shut.
“Son if you don’t take me up the street I’ll write you out of my will.”
“I can’t take you up the street Dad.”
“Get out and don’t come back.”
“Dad I’m sitting here, you’re eighty years of age and I’m still so frightened
of you.”
“That’s nonsense you don’t need to be.”
“Would you like to go to lunch now? I’m only here for two days, I’d love to
take you to lunch.”
“Can you help me out of the bed?”(Talking to me gently now.)
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“Sure Dad!” (Thinking that he is going to go to lunch with me. I walk him
out of the bedroom into the corridor.)
“John, take me to the bank otherwise I’ll cut you out of the Will!”
“Dad please do not ask this of me again and you can write me out of the will
if you wish!”
“Take me to the phone I want you to phone up your sister Jenny.” (I make
the phone call for him and get Jenny on the line.)
“Give the phone to me son!” (aggressively)
“Yes Dad.” (My heart pounded as I considered whether I could manage the
old feelings of fear that were present now and hadn’t been with me since
leaving home.)
“Jenny! Come down here, pick me up, we’re going to the bank.”
“I can’t do that Dad.” (Dad hangs up.)
“Phone your brother Bill up for me now. Just do it!”
“Ok Dad.”
I get back on the phone and call my brother Bill who is obviously stressed
by the situation while telling me he’s in a meeting and will see Dad tonight.
I mention to him that Dad wants to go to the bank. “No I can’t take him to
the bank and besides he cannot withdraw without my or Mum’s authority,
we have to co-sign everything, please don’t tell Dad that!” Dad then says to
me…
“You give me the phone now!.... now!!” (Very aggressively.)
“Ok! ok!”
“Son! Go and sit over there, do it!” He’s now treating me like his
subordinate, in fact like a piece of shit.
“Do not treat me like this!” (I’ve never said that to him before.) He ignores
me and speaks with Bill.
“So Bill I want to make a withdrawal.”
“You cannot do that Dad.”
“Why is that son, what’s your Mother done?”
“You cannot make a withdrawal unless I or Mum co-sign the withdrawal
slip.” Dad’s face dropped as he put the phone down. He felt betrayed and
powerless. I felt so much for him.
“Son take me up to the bank now!” Extremely aggressive almost physical.
“I can’t do that Dad.”
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“You fucking cunt you take me up the street now or I’ll.....” (Now I’m really
hurting as this is how he used to treat me as a teenager and now I’m an angry
adult.)
“You’ll what?” (He goes to punch me and head butt me and realises he
cannot do it. He’s too weak.)
“You’re a weak shit head and a cunt!” (Now I’m crying so I let him have it.)
“If I’m a cunt so are you! And I thought you said you never swore!”
“I only swear at people I don’t care for, (I’m fully in this now) you pathetic
shit head.”
“You’re the shit head Dad! Your behaviour is disgusting!”
“And you’re no longer my son, fuck off!”
“No, you fuck off Dad, I’ve always wanted to say that to you FUCK OFF!
And better still I’m leaving and your staying here, right here! Thanks for
nothing.”
I couldn’t stand his abuse of me any longer.
The build up within me of all the years of having him speak to me in this
way was more than I wished to bear. I walked away from the nursing home
torn between feeling a release from speaking back to him in the way that he
had spoken to me so many times before and feeling immense guilt and
disgust in myself for saying all those things to a helpless man desperately
wanting to make some sense of his life. I realise now that the way that I
treated him that day was abusive. I reflected back to him the words that he
hurt me with so many times.
In my teenage years Dad would threaten me with violence and speak this
way to me consistently. I can only imagine what it must have been like to be
him and live with this anger inside every day of his later life. Why didn’t he
feel he was worth more than this and do something, anything to ease his
pain? I believe he thought he deserved it.
I went home and two weeks passed by before I received a message from my
family saying that Dad had fallen over and broken his hip. In his condition
this was a major set back for him as he wanted to be able to walk again and
an operation to repair his hip would have to be performed for this to be
possible. This was not suggested to him because of his condition. With
Dad’s amazing determination he convinced the doctors to operate. Four
weeks later I received a phone call from my Mother asking me to come to
Sydney, as Dad was extremely weak. I decided to leave the next morning.
Before I left my brother contacted me with the news of my Father’s death.
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I felt sad that I didn’t get to tell him how sorry I was for how we treated each
other. I felt extremely sad for our relationship. The relationship that we
never had. Two days later I was on a flight to Sydney. At my Father’s
funeral my Mother asked me to read a passage from the Bible. I recall how
uncomfortable I felt as the time came around for me to read. As I read my
part I felt a cry pushing its way out from deep within my chest. A cry so raw.
I had to stop it I told myself, I couldn’t let go in front of all these people, so I
took a big breath, read the remainder of the passage then walked from the
altar back to my seat. As I walked back a weakness came over my legs and I
felt an excruciating pain shoot through my lower back, I started to collapse
onto the ground and then a voice inside of me said Breathe! Breathe! I
breathed in and my back freed, I was ok. I was so frightened. A short time
later the priest asked us to pay our last respects to Dad. I walked out to the
coffin, knelt down and had the most overwhelming urge to Salute.
Hot points
* Sons come home and care for your dying fathers. If this is not a possibility.
Find caring male nurses.
* If your child ever has a friend stay with you that doesn’t wish to leave your
family’s company, see what you can do to help, even if it is just a book, a
warm hand on the shoulder or the offer of a loving listening ear.
* Boys’ first orgasms are milestones in their development and need to be
recognised as such. Whether mother, father or friend, consider it to be
similar to a young woman having her first period, her first cycle with mother
earth. She is now united with all women. For boys it is their first cycle with
father heaven. They are now united with all men. A sign of transition from
child to young adult. Very sacred.
* The shame that was placed upon me by my parents for playing with myself
is still with me at times. It helps greatly to have a partner that is open to you
sharing the way you feel if shame closes in on your lovemaking. Keeping
eye contact through lovemaking helps heal the bond with shame.
* I still wear boxer shorts to bed and no one sews them up! Not anyone.
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Chapter 4. Crawling out of the cupboard
Disclosing abuse...
At thirty-three I believed the most practical way for me to begin my healing
process was to commence counselling and recommence my studies in
psychotherapy. Living in my isolated township distanced me from the
resources I needed to successfully achieve both these goals and I wanted to
participate in a group of survivors of sexual abuse, to meet other men who
had similar experiences to mine. From this I believed I could learn how they
survived. There were groups that were running for women in my area, just
not for men at the time, and these groups where not open to me, as I’m sure
you can imagine and understand.
The only practical way for me to fund the move, I thought, was to notify the
Catholic Education Office of my abuse and the way that I wanted to
commence my recovery. At the stage of writing them the letter explaining
my situation, I hadn’t sought any legal advice. However, I was aware of the
document ‘Towards Healing’ that had been compiled by Bishops and leaders
of religious institutes within Australia and released in December 1996. This
document was designed to outline the procedure that the religious orders
would adopt while responding to claims of sexual abuse placed upon them.
With much uncertainty and not wanting my process to be stretched out for
years and years through lengthy legal involvement, I naively wrote the
following letter.
Dear Sir,
Between 1971 & 1978 I was a pupil at a Catholic school. When I was 10 years of
age I am ashamed to write that a teacher under your employ sexually assaulted me
and in my high school years I was physically, emotionally and psychologically
abused.
This is an extremely difficult matter for me to write about, the most difficult letter
that I have ever written in such an unstable framework, not knowing the response I
will receive. The following matters of abuse should not have gone undetected
within my schooling.
In 1972 I was ten years of age and in 6th class, my teacher was Mr. Smitts. The
teacher would ask me, while his class was being run to sit on his lap, at his desk,
in his classroom. Then he would place his hand down my pants. I was one of
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several boys he would abuse, and he did this on numerous occasions to me.
Between the years 1976 &1978 my teacher a Mr. Rollo, (his nickname “Basher”
because of the way he would psychologically punish certain boys during his class
period) at times would spend up to 30 min. walking me around the school
threatening me with dismissal or suspension. During this time he would also tell
me that I would never make it and that I was hopeless, worthless, and that he was
going to beat me. He would take me to other teachers, interrupt their classes and
ridicule me in front of the other teachers and students. He would then cane me. He
did this to others as well.
I believe both these teachers were employed to protect me, build up my self worth
and prepare me mentally for the outside world. The events that I was involved in
with both these teachers still torment my mind and unfortunately still determine
decisions I make in my daily life, decisions about my self that I should not be
making. Sadly these events have effected my well-being. I want this to be known
to you, so these two teachers, wherever they are, are not still conducting these
abusive acts.
For my children, my family and others that have been affected wrongfully by their
Catholic schooling I wish to complete my studies in psychotherapy, so I can heal
the sexual abuse and psychological scarring that has occurred within me. My
objective then is to create a programme to help others commence healing the
dysfunctional attitudes and pain within their own lives, and reduces these
experiences being passed on to our children. I’m sure you are aware that the
figures of sexual abuse are forever increasing. I want for myself to become more
functional within society and in my family. The memories of my abuse have
weighed on my conscious mind for long enough.
I would prefer this matter to be resolved outside of the court system and I suggest
the following manner.
The training Institute that I wish to complete my study at is in Brisbane. I wish to
move to Brisbane this year to complete my research and study over the next 3
years. I want your organization to fund this project.
From me healing this trauma, completing my studies and receiving accreditation I
will endeavour to:
* Set up my own private practice as a counsellor and therapist focusing on the area
of sexual abuse in Catholic schools;
* Set up therapy groups for men who have been abused within the Catholic school
system, this will include working with the perpetrators as well;
* Work with teenage boys to build their self esteem & self worth within the school
system and pass on to them a mentoring programme that I have designed and
given a great deal of thought to; and work with Teachers, Fathers & Sons in a
combined programme.
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I believe the setting up of these programmes will in the long run minimise the
compensation claims that will inevitably be brought against the Catholic schooling
system and the Catholic Church within the years that follow. For people’s faith to
be re-established with the Catholic Church and educational system it must be seen
that this establishment is willing to go the distance.
I wish to discuss this matter more fully and am willing not to let this matter go any
further till the 8/2/97. I look forward to your quick response to this urgent matter.
Sincerely
John Saunders
4.1 The Catholic administration
At the time of writing this I had not realised the legal ramifications of
mentioning a compensation figure, nor the depth of damage that the abuse
had created in my life. Nevertheless, I cannot tell you the relief that washed
over me when I posted this letter away, it was as though all the traffic noise
around me went quiet and everything stilled as I placed the letter into the
mailbox. I believe it had something to do with me acknowledging that I was
abused through words. In January, I received a reply to my letter and from
this I arranged a meeting at my home in March ’97, with the representative
of the school that I had attended. Not long after I also received a reply from
the Professional Standards Association. From receiving this letter and
contacting the Professional Standards Association I arranged to attend a
meeting with them so they could compile a record and summation of my
abuse. At the same time I decided to ask a close friend of mine to be present
at the meeting, as a support to me. The representatives of the Catholic
Education Office suggested that this would be advisable as well. We
arranged to meet in February ’97. At that meeting the following statement
was made by me.
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Meeting Summary: Catholic Education Office
John Saunders reports that he had been repeatedly sexually abused by Mr Smitts, a
teacher in our Catholic School. These abuses repeatedly took place, sometimes as
often as twice a week in a manner as outlined in John’s letter. The abuse took
place during 1972 when John was in sixth class primary. John reported that there
were three other boys who used to get on the teacher’s lap. He is not aware if they
were sexually abused but he suspects so. A couple of years later while in
secondary school, one of the boys pointed at him and said that John was one of the
boys who got on the teacher’s lap. John reminded him that he was also one of the
boys, which sent the boy very quiet.
John has a recollection of going on a retreat that year of 1972. The teacher invited
him to spend some time alone with him that night. He believes that he was saved
by the invitation of another boy to engage in some other activity. He remembers
the teacher as being very annoyed when he came back from that other activity.
John reported that he never said anything to anybody. He is the youngest of nine
children and he never said anything to any of his family. He never said anything to
any school authority. As far as he knows, none of the other boys said anything
about it to anyone.
John said that over the last year he has had a developing awareness of what has
happened to him. He is aware that he has found it very difficult to trust other
males. He has always seen himself as inferior to other males. He has tended to
isolate himself from others. He has experienced lots of depression bouts and has
really had to pull himself up from that on many occasions. Sexually, he can be like
a cold fish and finds himself turning off sexually in a split second without any
apparent explanation.
The whole memory of the sexual abuse began to come back to him a couple of
years ago and he simply did not know how to deal with it. John said that when he
left school he went into retailing work but found himself moving from job to job
every six months or so. The longest he held a position for was about eighteen
months.
John reported that he had been having dreams about school. He dreamt about
being bullied and abused at school. These dreams began to subside at about age
twenty-eight which was around the time that he started to consciously remember
the abuse and began to verbalise it.
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John said that he has not sought professional help and counselling previously apart
from one attempt. This therapist threw the whole responsibility for the abuse back
on John when he admitted to the counsellor that he had some enjoyment from the
abuse by the teacher. He terminated the sessions with the counsellor.
The physical and emotional abuse he received from Mr. Rollo at the secondary
school is of great concern to John. He believes that it has contributed significantly
to his instability and needs to be seriously looked at. This teacher used to take him
from the classroom and parade him around other classrooms humiliating him in
front of these classrooms. This was in spite of other teachers telling him to get
back to his own class. This teacher would threaten to humiliate him to his parents.
In the end he was told to leave him alone by the Vice-Principal of the school. That
happened when John was in Year 12, his final year of school.
John was advised that he had the right to go to the police and report the matter of
the alleged sexual abuse. John replied with emotion that he still feels guilt about
what had happened and had not yet come beyond blaming himself about what had
happened. He did not want to become the abuser of the perpetrator by reporting
him. John reported that he just wants to heal himself.
Again the offer was made to John about going to the police with his complaints.
Both representatives for the Catholic Education Office offered to accompany John
in going to the police and support him as he made his complaint. John expressed
his appreciation for this offer. At this stage he does not wish to go to the police but
would think about that for a few days or so and maybe contact both representatives
to accompany him to the police if he decided to do so. End summary.
I was under the impression that it would be easy for me to give a summation
of the events of my abuse without any distress. This wasn’t to be the case.
As the meeting unfolded and I was asked to recall the events that took place,
I started to feel very threatened and uncomfortable, after all, the two men
that were taking the summation, even though extremely supportive of me
while carrying out the procedure and showing a great deal of compassion,
represented to me where my abuse originated. While recalling the abuse I
broke down and cried from time to time, as did my friend and one of the
Fathers recording the events. One of the final questions that I was asked was,
how I felt the abuse had effected me in my life? I hung my head and wept
uncontrollably as I struggled to find the words to answer the question. With
the interview over, one of the priests mentioned that he found it interesting
that the year my sexual abuse took place, was the final year my perpetrator
taught in the Catholic Education System;
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his employment being terminated with no reason given as to why he was
dismissed. In most cases, a reason is given.
I walked outside and rain had just been falling. I felt like I had just been
knocked over by a bus. I was physically aching and mentally exhausted and
kept on seeing myself falling over face first into the mud that lay beneath my
feet. It was as if I needed the earth and its resting place. This two-hour
process took me days to recover from.
I am extremely grateful for the way this process was managed as it gave me
the initial opportunity to talk of my abuse to the people who represented the
organization that it originated from, and they believed me. Both these
representatives suggested that if I wanted this matter dealt with expediently,
that I should write a letter to the head of that Archdiocese.
It was now March and time for my meeting with the representative of the
school that I had attended. He contacted me and asked whether I would meet
with him either at the church close by, or at my house. I invited him around
to my house. I recall how nervous I was before he arrived; I think he was
nervous as well. The meeting was extremely casual, and he didn’t mention
the sexual abuse, his primary concern was to find out how I was coping, and
were there any questions that I would like answered from the original letter
that I sent him.
He was curious about the bullying that occurred when I was in high school
from the lay teachers that I mentioned, and asked whether I would speak
more about this, if I was comfortable. He became noticeably annoyed and
uncomfortable with my recollection of this occurrence as this behaviour
disgusted him. We also discussed the compensation figure that I mentioned
in my letter, he stated very clearly that the Catholic Education Office would
not be at all interested in settling outside legal procedures, as the Catholic
Education Office could be seen as trying to cover up the incident. The matter
needing to be settled in a legally binding way. I agreed, however I found this
ironic, because of what I was told by certain representatives of the church;
that they were open to settling the matter outside of the legal system. At this
time I didn’t recognise that there were two camps. He advised me that I find
a solicitor and proceed with claiming compensation through legal channels
and that I would be suing the Catholic Education Office because the school
that I was taught in at the time, was a systemic school under the Catholic
Education Office, the teacher (perpetrator), being under their employ.
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I asked him about the compensation figure that I mentioned in my letter to
him, and whether he thought the figure mentioned was an unrealistic request.
I recall he smiled at that, and said that from his involvement in these matters,
it was unrealistic, and that he would expect that this figure would be at the
lower end of what he believed I would be finally compensated with. In
retrospect, I am grateful for his advice. I also mentioned to him, “What if the
Catholic Education Office tells me that I should be suing the religious order
that the perpetrator worked under, giving me the run-around?” He showed
his irritation at that question, and said that if I was given the run around to
phone him immediately, that he would personally rectify any
misunderstanding with whoever was confused with this matter. He also
mentioned that this matter should not take more than four to six months to
be finalised, as I edit this section it has been fourteen months.
I walked him out to his car, and on leaving, with heart-felt concern, he
acknowledged my courage to come forward and speak of this matter, and
that if I wanted to speak with him again, not to hesitate. As he left, I started
to cry, as once again there was someone who represented the organization
from where my abuse occurred, telling me how courageous and brave I was;
acknowledgements I had never received in my school days.
From writing my letter to the head of the Archdiocese in which I was
schooled, I received a direct response in March, 1997. The letter was brief
and supported me to make a statement to the police. After reading the letter I
walked straight to the local police station that had a direct phone link to a
larger police station servicing the local community fifty minutes away. In a
short time, I had made an appointment at the police station, where over a
two-day period, I made my police statement. After writing my letter and
receiving a response, I began to have an interest in the document ‘Towards
Healing’. It was not long after this that I became very disheartened by the
attitude of my solicitor and I had not signed any contracts as yet. At this
stage I was hoping there might still be a way to receive compensation
without solicitors being involved until the necessary legally binding
documents needed to be placed together and signed by myself, my legal
representative and the Catholic Education Office and theirs. I decided to
make a few phone calls to explore whether this would be an option, hoping
that it might, as I had been quite distressed on more than one occasion, by
my legal representatives requesting me to go over my sexual abuse again; as
my case had been passed on to an associate to manage and they had not been
brought up to speed on its current status.
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This was caused by the fact that the solicitor who I had originally asked to
represent me, was ‘in a meeting’ and had not taken time out to inform his
colleague about my case. Sound familiar! The business term of today, ‘in a
meeting’, ‘at a meeting’, ‘in meetings all day’. As an aside to this, one day I
decided to try something new. I was told that my solicitor was in a meeting
all day, so I sent a fax stating that if I was not contacted by 2pm that day, I
wasn’t interested in their legal services. Well, wouldn’t you know it, their
meeting must have had a few breaks as I was contacted before 2pm. Money,
where would we be without it?!
Back to the possibility of settling this matter out of Court. I decided to
contact the representative that came and visited me in my home. I mentioned
again to him whether it was at all possible to leave the solicitors out of this
equation, as it seemed to be stated in the document ‘Towards Healing’, that
the matter of compensation could be settled without lengthy legal procedure.
He didn’t think that this would be of any benefit to me and that to have legal
representation would most definitely be the course of action he recommend.
From this point, I decided to contact the ‘Broken Rites Group’ in Victoria,
Australia. This is an organization that has been set up to support victims of
sexual abuse by religious representatives and compile information on all
matters relating to this area. This organization was a great support to me.
They mentioned I should contact the Executive Officer at the time for the
National Committee for Professional Standards. This was the key person
who placed together the document ‘Towards Healing’ and the contact if I
wished to receive compensation without the lengthy and costly involvement
of solicitors. I spoke with the Executive officer the following day very
candidly about what point I was up to in regard to legal proceedings. I
mentioned to him that; I had received a psychiatric evaluation, completed
the summary of my abuse for the Catholic Education Office with their
representatives, had an interview with the representative of the Catholic
order whose school I went to and had given my statement to the police. He
was very supportive of me seeking compensation in the manner I was
requesting, and added there would not be any resistance in regard to
proceeding in this fashion and that if I meet with resistance to contact him.
Finally suggesting the only stage that needed legal representatives present
would be at the end, when legally binding documents and negotiations
needed to be entered into. During this time I also contacted the Professional
Standards Association set up by the Catholic Education Office and spoke
with the Ombudsman.
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The Ombudsman was also under the impression that there would not be any
problem proceeding in the manner that I wished. I felt as if I had just had a
huge weight taken off my shoulders and commenced compiling the
documentation that I had to submit to the Professional Standards Association
via the Ombudsman.
After receiving this information the Ombudsman contacted me and asked
whether he could now present this to the Professional Standards Committee
at a meeting that he would be going to within the next three weeks and could
this be viewed as a pilot as this avenue of seeking compensation had not
been travelled before. I said yes and contacted him shortly after the meeting,
he suggested to me that the committee weren’t sure whether they wanted to
proceed in this fashion, however they were interested in me disclosing to
them how I arrived at this compensation figure plus any other thoughts that I
might have regarding this matter. I started to feel a familiar sinking feeling
in my stomach so I decided to give this some very serious thought, as they
had not said at any stage that they were committed to going through this
process, even though the executive officer said that it would be possible. The
Ombudsman and I went over the main points that I had outlined in my letter
and he mentioned to me that the time frames that I outlined would not be
possible to adhere to and that the process that I was wanting to follow could
be long and drawn out. From this I concluded that the document ‘Towards
Healing’ though possibly well meaning, was placed together by academics
and was not practical. I believe that the Ombudsman with all his good
intentions had become the ‘pawn’ between the Catholic Education Office
and the Professional Standards Committee. In retrospect, I should have
listened to the representative for the Catholic order where my abuse occurred
two months earlier at my house.
The direction that I decided to take took a lot of energy and focus. Why was
I told by the Executive Officer that I could proceed in this manner for
compensation and that it would be a shorter process? Regretfully, I got my
hopes up that I was able in some way to play a part of authority in respect to
my reconciliation. I became quite depressed and despondent after
recognising that I would have to use solicitors. I found it absolutely absurd
that the document ‘Towards Healing’ suggested that I could settle this matter
in my preferred fashion. This document was of no use to me. The Committee
that had been set up to carry out the practical application of this document,
even though well meaning really did not want to.
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I was so sick of jumping through hoops. Being told one thing one moment
and something else the next. This was not a standard that I saw as being
professional. Realising that this was no longer an option for me there was no
reason to be in contact with the Ombudsman until financially I needed
assistance for counselling. This came around rapidly.
Needing the funds to pay for 1-2 counselling sessions a week at $60–$160 a
session, made my life even more stressful. The effect that all my pent up
anger and confused emotions was having on my parenting was extremely
obvious to me and becoming damaging to my family’s well being. As I write
this I feel shame and sadness around this fact, fearful of your judgment, and
I am aware of how I belittle myself. This indicates to me that I need once
again to do more healing in this area.
With no funding and my relationship with my immediate family becoming
stretched to breaking point, I had to do something. I decided to find out
whether the Catholic Education Office would assist me financially to pay for
my counselling fees. I contacted the Ombudsman once again. He said that he
didn’t see any difficulty in this and gave me a psychologist in my area to
contact. I contacted three psychologists in my area and found none that were
familiar with dealing with the trauma of sexual abuse. I decided to look one
last time. Fortunately, I found one that was willing to counsel me without
receiving any payments until I was compensated or could afford his fees. All
the others requested payment straight away and this gentleman was willing
to wait. I took this as being a sign of his worth. This therapist literally saved
my life.
Again I notified the Ombudsman of what I was doing. He said that before
the Catholic Education Office would pay for my counselling they would
need to see my psychiatric evaluation. As I had already had an evaluation
done two months ago, I saw there being no difficulty in fulfilling this request
and jumping through this hoop. I then realised that this information could
interfere with my legal case against the Catholic Education Office. I decided
to phone the solicitor and ask them whether I could send the Ombudsman a
copy of the report. Answer, No way! They advised me not to contact him at
all. I told them that I needed to pay for counselling and that the Catholic
Education Office was willing to assist me with these payments. They
thought that this was interesting as it could be viewed as an omission of
responsibility on their part. In their eyes this could be profitable!!
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I contacted the Ombudsman and told him this information; he said that under
the circumstances if he told this to the Catholic Education Office they would
run a million miles. He asked me whether or not I could find out if I could
send him just the prognosis? I asked him if he would talk with my solicitor?
He said yes. I checked to see that this was agreeable with my solicitors and
Hallelujah! The seas parted and they spoke.
As it turned out my solicitors were to have a meeting with the Catholic
Education Office that week and would be handing over my psychiatric
evaluation anyway. The solicitors told me that I could send the whole
evaluation to the Ombudsman, as long as I wrote on the top right hand
corner of the copy of the evaluation “Without Prejudice”. This meant that
the information contained in this document could not be used in court to
sway opinions in relation to the legal matter. Seven days later I received a
phone call from the Ombudsman stating the Catholic Education Office
would pay for my counselling fees up to a fixed amount and then after a
period of time funding for my counselling would be revised. What a relief
this was.
Hot points
* The Catholic administration endeavours to take every action it can to
continue to demonstrate to the world and their followers that they are world
leaders in spiritual matters.
* The Catholic administration will undertake all measures necessary to hide
child sexual, physical, emotional and spiritual abuse from the media.
* The Catholic administration will support victims of sexual, psychological
and spiritual abuse until it is no longer in their best interest.
* The Catholic administration uses the legal system to cover the tracks of
sexual, emotional, physical and spiritual abuse caused by their dying
religion.
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4.2 The law firm
The reason I have decided to write about my experience with my solicitor, is
that there were so many situations that arose that could have been handled
more professionally, with more forethought and consideration given to me as
a client and a victim of sexual abuse.
No doubt there will be some differences in the approach that the Australian
legal system has to these matters in contrast to the approach the legal system
in other countries may have. I suggest that this may also apply to the way the
Catholic Church responds to cases of sexual abuse in Australia rather than in
other countries. I cannot write that I was satisfied with the professional
conduct of the law firm that took on my case. I was appalled. I got stuck
with them and had to make the best out of what I chose. I have had the
pleasure of having contracts with some of the largest National and
International companies in the world and not at any stage during these
contracts did I ever have to constantly contend with such an unprofessional
approach. And these firms were paying me for my services! Why are law
firms so different? I can only imagine its because of the power we have
given over to them.
On a lighter note, what jumps to the forefront of my mind is a solicitor’s
comment to me, while urging me to sign an agreement so he could take on
my civil claim. “John”, he said, “if there is anything in this contract that you
are about to sign that you do not understand, please don’t hesitate to discuss
it with me, as I’ll be more than happy to explain it to you in more detail.”
Now, I’m not sure what you’re like when buying a used car, but I’m the type
of guy who listens to the person selling me the car, telling me of course how
great it is, then I get someone else who knows about cars to check it out. I
compare the two viewpoints and then decide. Only thing is, with cars you
can take them to be checked by a mechanic. You wouldn’t take the car to
another used car yard to be checked out. Well, regretfully, there is no one to
check out solicitors, except other solicitors.
The first and most important step to commence with if choosing to proceed
with litigation in regard to your sexual assault is: if you are not already
receiving support through counselling or therapy sessions, then begin. The
process can be at times extremely stressful and exhausting.
Recalling sexual abuse has been one of the most difficult memories that I’ve
ever relived, because I’ve had to unlock programme after programme that I
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created from the abuse. These programmes as I call them stopped me from
consciously remembering the abuse so I could survive and function daily.
These are the ones that have also kept me silenced and not living my life
fully. Many of these began in the formidable years that followed my abuse,
compounding the trauma and affecting multiple levels of my well being.
The second step is to tell your counsellor, if you haven’t already, that you
are going to proceed with litigation so they can prepare themselves to
support you whilst you go through this process. And finally, begin looking
for a solicitor that specifically handles cases of sexual abuse and compare a
few before deciding on which one to buy. Ooops!
I decided to contact a firm of solicitors and they said that the associate of
their firm familiar with this area would contact me the following day. In
between time I thought that I would prepare myself for this. I decided to talk
to a solicitor friend of mine, he advised me to be prepared for basic
questioning in relation to the sexual abuse, because they would want to
know the severity of the claim and whether there was a viable chance of
success for them.
The next day followed and the phone call commenced. After conversing for
approximately one minute the solicitor said that he understood that these
matters were sensitive, however would I tell him what happened to me.
From me telling him what occurred he asked me to send him copies of all
correspondence that I had entered into with the Catholic Education Office
and the statement that I made to the police. I did this and they phoned me
back a short time later telling me that they would be interested in taking on
my case and that the first thing to do was to file a ‘Victim’s Compensation
Claim’* (V.C.C.) as soon as possible. Shortly after this I received the V.C.C.
form to sign and send back. They also said that before they would proceed
any further they would like me to undergo a psychiatric evaluation to
ascertain the severity of my condition. They suggested a psychiatrist in
Sydney that was familiar with cases such as mine. They explained to me that
they would need this to support my claim and that I would need to be
prepared to have an additional one done as well. I decided to go along with
this, as I wanted to get this process moving along.
*
Victim’s Compensation Claim’
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This phone conversation ended with an agreement reached to send me a
*‘Costings Agreement’(The Contract) for me to sign and the time and
location of my appointment with the psychiatrist who would carry out my
evaluation. They informed me that I would receive this in a week.
One week went by and I had not received anything in the post so I decided
to make a phone call to find out whether the documents had been sent or lost
in the post. After leaving messages over a two-day period a representative
phoned me on behalf of my solicitor and asked me could I help him!?
Firstly, by outlining where I was up to in the case as he was unfamiliar with
this because he hadn’t been able to talk with the solicitor handling my claim.
I informed him of my situation. I found him extremely personable and
compassionate.
I mentioned to him the difficulty that I had at raising the funds required for
the psychiatric evaluation at such short notice and whether they had a
**‘disbursement fund’ to cover such costs? Unfortunately they did not,
however, he mentioned to me that there would be no trouble with me paying
half the amount on the appointment date and paying off the rest. He said he
would organise this with the psychiatrist. I felt relieved by the arrangement.
He mentioned that he would send me a letter of confirmation regarding my
appointment with the psychiatrist by the end of the week. Our phone call
ended and I directly became depressed and suicidal. I decided that
something in the phone conversation must have triggered my depression.
During my discussion with the law firm’s representative on the above
occasion, I spoke of the beatings and ridicule that I received during my
schooling. He said to me that this was not uncommon discipline for these
times and even though it was horrendous it was not a criminal offence,
therefore I could not seek compensation for it. Regardless, this is what put
me over the edge, the speaking of these events. Once again I thought I could
speak of these events without any trouble. I was wrong, they re-traumatised
me. I began feeling extremely isolated and depressed and I was the only one
home. I decided to phone a representative of the Catholic Church for some
one to talk with. I had never done this before.
*A ‘Costings Agreement’ outlines the financial contract that you and your Solicitor are entering into. It is
like any contract, needing to be read with great care, completely understood and negotiated accordingly.
**‘Disbursement Fund’ – This is an account set up by your solicitor to pay for any costs incurred by you
through your claim procedure. On completion of your claim the account of these costs is deducted from
your overall compensation figure.
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My first phone call wasn’t successful so I left a message. Fortunately the
second one was and I got in contact with one of the priests that took my
summation of the abuse. I commenced weeping on the phone to him. I felt
so embarrassed as I hardly knew this man, but I couldn’t think of anyone
else to contact that would not place any judgment on me and that knew of
my abuse at the time. This phone conversation turned out to be a great
release for me, as in five minutes I didn’t feel suicidal any more. I
recognised I didn’t treat myself the same way that I had done so often in the
past, which was to isolate myself with my feelings from everyone else. I
remember at the time all I wanted to know from the priest was that
everything would be ok, that I would be ok, that I would get through this and
that the pain would stop. He just listened to me and at the end of our phone
conversation he said that all too familiar phrase, “It’s a long road.” I’ve
grown to hate these four fucking words.
In the next two weeks I endeavoured to contact my solicitor three times as I
hadn’t received the letter of confirmation for my psychiatric evaluation or
the costing agreement. When a solicitor says “I’ll send this to you within a
week”, be sure to ask them within what week period they mean! As it turned
out, the caring representative that I spoke with earlier left the law firm.
After further phone calls and faxes, I finally received a phone call from the
original solicitor telling me that he would send me a letter confirming my
appointment with the psychiatrist and the ‘costing agreement’ for me to sign.
I was incredibly frustrated with their lack of follow up, nor did the solicitor
consider apologising to me for this unprofessional response. I decided since
I would be down in Sydney for my psychiatric evaluation, I would also
make an appointment with the solicitor to make sure he didn’t sell cars on
the weekend or have something to do with the solicitors for the other side. I
wanted to personally meet her and hand her the costings agreement. He
thought this was an excellent idea and would make sure that the costings
agreement was in my lap within two days. That way, I could sign it and
bring it to the meeting. I never received the costings agreement and at this
point numerous people had told I that this firm was one of the most
reputable law firms in Australia. I began having serious doubts about this
and started entertaining whether the jokes regarding lawyers were true.
I arrived in Sydney and had my appointment with my solicitor and the
psychiatrist over a two-day period. My meeting with the solicitor was
distressing to say the least.
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Within five minutes he aggressively proceeded to cross-examine me in
regard to my sexual abuse without forewarning. There is only one-way that I
could describe his behaviour and that would be arrogant and totally
insensitive to the stress that this type of questioning would place on
anybody, especially those who had been sexually abused. When I asked him
as to why he was asking questions in this aggressive manner, he replied. “I
didn’t need to know that”. His questions had no depth, were misleading and
if answered would imply what he wanted them to. I stated to him that if he
wanted me to answer the questions more fully, that he would have to tell me
why he was asking me these questions in this manner. He immediately
stopped doing this and then placed effort into turning the conversation
around once again to gain control. I couldn’t believe it! Here I was being
interrogated by a solicitor who had the attitude that if he was to take on my
case I should be grateful. I decided to stop the conversation. I mentioned to
him that he had the picture the wrong way around and that I was here to
check him out. At this point he became as slippery as butter and as slimy as
a snake. It didn’t cross my mind at that moment that he had no concern for
me. He was only interested in how much money he could make for him. He
said to me that he could get me $30,000 tomorrow if I wanted, with a glum
look on his face like a lost puppy. I said I was willing to go to court and his
face lit up like a Christmas tree. Of course I realised later, more money for
him. I continued having problem after problem with this law firm, so I
decided to write the owner of this firm a letter documenting what had
transpired over the last ten months. This also mentioned two months of
phone calls, faxes and letters that were sent to my solicitor, who had not
contacted me. I received a response to my letter within the month stating
where my case was up to. The letter outlined excerpts from correspondence
that I had entered into with them that I had not responded to. From this they
concluded that I too had a part to play in the unprofessional manner in which
my case had been handled. Well you wouldn’t believe it! I still had copies of
the letters they mentioned, so I looked up the sections that they were
referring to and can you imagine how surprised I was to find that they had
changed the wording around. And they did this to suit their means at
$225.00 an hour. I couldn’t believe it.
I phoned the solicitor up that was now representing me, as the case had been
passed on to yet another partner in the firm. I mentioned that I didn’t recall
ever receiving a letter with these words in it; she told me very confidently
and arrogantly that I had. I asked him to wait on the line for a moment, as I
would check to see if I had this letter on file (knowing full well that I had).
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Aaah! There it is, right in front of me, my goodness! I read the letter out to
her and the phone line went quiet. I think she stopped breathing! Then, you
wouldn’t believe it; she tried to convince me that the letter could be
interpreted both ways. Well I must admit, I’ll give her points for trying.
Look, if you aren’t laughing now while you read this then please do, cause I
am. At the time I thought that I was in an old Hanna Barbarra (Bugs Bunny)
cartoon. The conversation ended by her not admitting to any responsibility
that I was not equally responsible for. And Oh Yes! That we should move
ahead and ‘start afresh’. Oooh! I like that, ‘start afresh’, mmm.... sounds like
something that one would find in the hills of Scandinavia and spray in their
armpits to cover up the stench. Two days after this conversation I received a
letter from this firm in regard to my original solicitor. This stated the
following and I quote:
‘I regret to advise you that as at 30 June 1998 Mr. Shark will no longer be a
partner in this firm. After much reflection he has resigned from the partnership in
order to devote himself to his vocation in the Christian Ministry’.
During this time I was called to Sydney for a Psychiatric evaluation asked
for by the solicitors representing the Catholic Education Office. I was really
scared about going through with this, as I knew that the whole approach of
the evaluator would be to minimise the damage that the sexual abuse had on
my life. During the session I felt like I was being reabused. This man
believed that because I physically enjoyed the abuse it did not have any great
effect on my development. Where do these guys come from? Makes me
think that the whole Psychiatric system needs an *N.M.R. He asked me how
I would like the Catholic Education Office to respond to my claim and why I
thought they should pay for my re-education? I responded with the
following. “Do you have children?” His reply was “Yes.” Then I asked him
how he would feel, what would he think, if after choosing a school to
educate his children, (because of the moral and spiritual code of conduct that
he knew they would provide his children with to enhance their spiritual
development) he found out that one of his children was sexually abused at
the age of ten? At that he looked away from me! I said that my parents
worked hard to pay for my education, that this educational establishment
was like any company receiving money for what they provided. A service.
*N.M.R. Look in the dictionary under plumbing.
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I then asked him, “What do you do when a company does not provide you
with the service you pay for, keeping in mind we are talking about our
children here?” At this point this man was speechless.
Hot points
A help guide while disclosing to solicitors
*When you have your initial meeting with a solicitor have a friend or
counsellor go with you.
*Not being communicated with clearly by my solicitors during the legal
process exacerbated my daily stress. Therefore, I suggest when your solicitor
states that you will receive information eg. (Forms, phone calls fax etc.)
from them within a specific time period, trust them once. If you become
dissatisfied with their communications and it becomes stressful for you,
make a note of which you are speaking with and ask them to advise you of
the specific day that the information will be in your hands.
*Speak to your counsellor about any stress that you have surrounding your
communications with your solicitor. This could be important information
down the legal track and your counsellor can document this and also support
you to find ways to de-stress.
*Request that your psychiatric evaluation be taped and/or request that your
solicitor or counsellor be present at the evaluation.
*If you consider your evaluator to be biased eg. (minimising the effect of
your abuse) inform your solicitor and (if in Australia) the ombudsman for
the Professional Standards Committee for the Catholic Education Office.
Request another evaluator.
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4.3 The Police department
The sooner one gives their statement to the police the sooner the solicitors
take action. The police system revolves around claims that can be
legitimised in your statement, claims that can be substantiated by other
people. It takes time for these people to be found and these people need time
to decide whether they will come forward and make a statement to support
your claim or not.
What prolonged my case even more was that I gave my statement to the
police three months after writing of my abuse to the Catholic Education
Office. The statement to the police is the first step. This is why I’ve outlined
how one can care for themselves while seeking compensation. Cutting down
on the miss-takes and red tape is the key. Hopefully reducing the time
consuming process of prosecution and litigation while keeping the process
as stress free as possible.
Before making an appointment to see the police, realise that the
representative who takes a statement, is there to gain as much information as
possible that is factual and willingly disclosed. I decided I would go by
myself to make my statement because I wanted to get it over and done with.
I had to constantly fight the great urge not to proceed with this, as there was
a part of me that believed I was setting out to punish my perpetrator, that
these events did not happen anyway, that they were a figment of my
imagination that I must not speak of.
I knew if I kept silent now I may never speak of these events again.
Making my statement by myself was extremely uncomfortable as I
constantly went blank because of the overwhelming emotions and memories.
Fortunately for me when I was asked to recall specific events, the police
representative was extremely supportive. Making a statement is all about
specific events: when, where, who, what and how. When did it occur? What
time of day or night was it? Where was the place? What was familiar in this
place? What were you wearing? In my case, some of the questions were:
Where was my desk situated? Which direction did the building face? Where
was the door? Where was the teacher’s desk? Were there many windows?
Who was there? What was said? What happened? I needed to answer all the
questions as accurately as possible, without saying anything that was an
assumption. I was also asked to draw a picture of the room where I was
abused.
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I found making the statement a healing process in that it made me anchor the
reality of my abuse through the recollection of specific events. There were
events that I didn’t place in my statement initially, because they were not
completely clear (eg. strong bodily sensations with no picture memory in my
mind associated with them).
After I gave my statement, the policeman suggested I take a copy home with
me to read and if there was anything I wanted to change, omit or add, to do
so. I took my statement home, and read it over and over again. I couldn’t
believe that what I was reading was about me. After resting with what I had
written, and becoming comfortable with it, I made the changes that I saw
would make it more accurate. I went back to the police station and signed
the final statement. This was then sent to the investigation unit that had been
set up to deal with these cases. The policeman that took my statement
suggested I be as patient as possible, and that I should contact him if I had
any more concerns. I commend him for his support. I found that as I spoke
of my abuse to people in authority (who incidentally were moved to tears by
my recollections) there was an amazing healing effect on me, as my abuse
was carried out by a person in authority, and these people were contradicting
the belief that I carried. That I would be betrayed. One may choose to go
through this procedure with full support from their counsellor. A good
choice, as this process can be a beneficial way of desensitising a person
around their abuse even further and may possibly aid them in recovering an
aspect of their memory not as yet recovered. It is very important that
counsellors and carers support a victim to recall what truly happened.
Assisting them in rebuilding their own memory of events. Not building on
top of their’s with their own interpretation.
Because a person may need to feel that they are not being overpowered or
interrogated whilst talking of their abuse, it is very important that their
statement is given at a police station to someone who is familiar with taking
statements from sexual abuse victims. When a person contacts the police to
make their appointment, they need to make sure that the police provide this
specialized service. If they do not, ask them where the closest police station
is that could provide this service. You may find that they will bring someone
in specifically who has been educated to take statements such as these.
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Take as much time as you want in giving your statement, remember you are
not under any obligation to finish it and they will not commence the
investigation unless you give them the go ahead and sign your statement. In
giving your statement to the police they act on your behalf, you are a witness
in your claim that you give them. There will be no cost to you in Australia.
As I mentioned earlier, after giving your statement the police representative
will offer to give you a copy to take away with you. If they do not offer this,
request it, as it is very important that it is as accurate as possible. After you
sign your statement the police will then assign one of their people to
investigate your claim. I have nothing other than high regard and respect for
the policemen that were involved in the taking of my statement and the
investigation of my claim. I was amazed at the sensitivity that was shown to
me by the policeman that took my statement. I recall as he typed into the
computer my recollection of the abuse, he gave me time and space alone to
collect myself and sob. At one point I felt like I was not worthy of being a
man. What happened to me didn’t happen to men, and if it did you did not
talk of it. At one stage I mentioned to him that I was feeling extremely guilty
around making this statement against a person that would now be an old
man. He reminded me that I was ten years of age at the time and if a ten year
old boy came to me today and told me this story that I had just told him
would I want him to feel guilty? Would I silence him?
The giving of the statement was confusing for me at many stages of its
compilation, as I would ‘space out’ and forget where I was up to at different
points of its recollection. The policeman would then gently bring me back by
reading me what I had just said and ask me to begin again in my own time. I
remember at one point I felt extreme gratitude for the policeman, then, over
the top of this loving thought I had the urge to place my hand between his
legs and fondle him the same way the teacher had done to me.
It was as if I wanted to somehow destroy and take back the
innocence that had been taken from me so long ago. Betraying
the moment of this man’s innocent display of tenderness,
caring and trust, as mine was.
After all, he was living his pure caring and I was not. And what was even
more distressing was that he was expressing this towards me. I sat there full
of shame from what I had let happen to me as a young boy and my present
impulse towards him. I felt weak as if I would always be less than a man.
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A little over three months went past before I received my first phone call
from the policeman investigating the claims that I made in my statement. He
introduced himself and said that he had been investigating similar claims to
these over the last few years and would it be ok if he contacted me from time
to time to answer questions that he may like to ask me? I said yes and with
that we ended our phone conversation. There was definitely a part of me that
was frightened by his phone call and at that stage I didn’t know why. Over
the next few hours I began feeling a familiar anxiousness rise up in my belly
and my legs commenced aching and going weak under me. I went for one of
my long runs, as this was a great way for me to release the heaviness and
stuck emotions that would lock inside me. During the run I realised that my
legs wanted to kick, kick my perpetrator away and get him off me!
Two days went by and I received another phone call from the policeman.
Once again speaking very gently to me he mentioned that he had just been in
contact with one of the men that I saw sitting on the teacher’s lap. He said
that this man was willing to come in and make a statement saying that he
saw me sitting on his lap as well. Now there was a part of me at this time
that didn’t want this part of my life to be real, because of the associated pain
that went with this, so when I heard him say this, tears formed in my eyes. I
mentioned over the phone to the policeman that this was great news. He
explained to me that claims such as these were extremely difficult to
substantiate especially when they happened so many years ago. People were
either untraceable, had passed away or preferred not to remember, and if
they did, didn’t want to be involved. He was very pleased with his find. I
became very upset and said that I needed to get off the phone. He understood
and added that these events do have long lasting effects and took time to
heal. He remained silent for a time, and then said that he’d call me soon after
he’d taken the other man’s statement, which would be within a week. I said
that if he wanted to give the other man that was in my class my contact
number I’d be happy for him to call, as I would really like to thank him for
what he was doing.
After the phone call I walked out to my partner. As I was telling her the
information that I had just received a wave of emotion struck me. I cried out.
“I wish I could tell my Mother, maybe now she would believe me, as there
was someone else who saw it happen!” I don’t recall ever thinking of
sharing this with my Mother until recent years and this has made me wonder
whether at some level she knew something was wrong at the time of the
abuse.
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In four days I received a phone call from a person that I hadn’t talked to for
eighteen years. I couldn’t thank him enough. He had just made his statement
to confirm my story and stated that he too was abused by this teacher. Then
a short time later the policeman phoned again to inform me that he had just
been in contact with three others that had been in my class. He mentioned
that one man worked for the Catholic Education Office! At the time of
receiving his phone call he was attending a conference on sexual abuse!!
How ironic I thought. I thanked the policeman for his effort said goodbye
and hung up the phone. I started hearing in my head No! no! no! As if part
of me was refusing to hear the truth. I walked into the kitchen where my
partner was and began to cry as I told her what had just been confirmed. I
didn’t know until that moment how much I wanted to believe it didn’t
happen. Part of me would have been happier to find out that the whole thing
was just a lie, so I wouldn’t have to deal with the pain of the reality of what
actually occurred.
The policeman’s commitment to following up on the information was
extraordinary and the sensitivity that he displayed relaying information back
to me has helped rebuild my faith and trust in men. Here again was a man
helping me realise that not all men that are sensitive and compassionate
sexually abuse, or are untrustworthy and steal the innocence of ten-year-old
boys. In the next two weeks three other class members would give their
statements in regard to what they experienced and observed. In the weeks
that followed others would be contacted.
This again was overwhelming, as the part of me that constantly minimised
and endeavoured to convince me that this didn’t happen was being
challenged absolutely. Every time I was told that another man was making a
statement confirming that he saw me being abused, it was like recovering a
lost memory. At last after twenty-six years the truth was going to be told.
Amazingly enough through others confirming my memories of the abuse.
Now I know why I dreaded this for so long. As more of this uncovered with
the help of other men, I healed the betrayal that I felt around men.
I look forward to the day I stop feeling ashamed when I walk amongst
men. Feeling worthy to stand alongside them. No longer feeling less
than. I hope that my trust in men will outgrow my mistrust. As now,
every time a man helps me through this journey I feel I recapture a part
of my spirit that I’d bound and locked away out of disgust for myself for
ever letting this happen. I now know that I did this to survive, to bring
me to this present moment in time.
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Hot Points
Preparing yourself to make a statement
It is important that one only writes down in their statement what they recall and
that it is kept factual without any provocation from counsellors or support persons.
If this is your path, recognise your limits around disclosing these memories and be
extremely gentle on yourself while doing so. Please do the following exercise
taking as long as you wish. Discuss this with your counsellor to see whether this is
an appropriate exercise for you.
1a. Recall and describe the clothes that you wore at the time.
1b.Write down the name and description of the perpetrator; what they looked like;
hair colour, height, type of clothing they wore, nationality or any other
distinguishing characteristics.
2. Describe in as much detail as possible where the abuse used to occur (inside or
outside). The address, type of house or building, multi-story, single-story, what
was the location, eg. school yard, hall, bedroom, library, park, car etc.
3. Describe the configuration of the room in which the abuse took place eg. were
there tables, chairs, beds, windows and pictures ornaments etc. Where were they
situated? Draw a floor plan.
4. As gently as possible, recall a specific abusive event that took place and
describe this in as much detail as possible in writing eg. verbal communications,
specific actions that took place, the way that you were abused. What was the date?
The time of day?
5. Do step 4 as many times as you are comfortable with.
6. Write down the names of any others that you believe were molested or that saw
you being molested. Note: Any names of people that you give in your statement
may be contacted and asked to give a statement in regard to claims you make in
yours. They may also be asked to appear in court.
7. Write down when you first recalled your abuse. What situation were you in that
triggered your memory? (There may have been a period of time you had a loss of
awareness of your abuse.)
8. Write briefly if possible on how this has effected your life. Note: If you find at
any stage of doing this exercise that it is too distressing, take time out to talk this
through with your counsellor or support person, after all, this is a task that requires
a lot of courage and effort.
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Hot Points
Managing stress when making a statement
1. Organise someone else to drive you to and from making your statement to the
police; take a bus, or ask the police to drive you to and from your home.
2. How much you recall of your abuse may depend on how traumatised you are by
it. So I suggest before you even think of making a statement to the police, place
aside some time to sit down with your therapist or counsellor and focus even on
one incident that you recall, and write around this. So when you go to record your
statement with the police, you are clear about what you want to write. As
distressing as this may be, it will help desensitise you around making a statement
to the police, and minimise the time that making a statement takes. More
importantly, it will help you in your recovery from the abuse.
3. I suggest you have a support person accompany you while you go through the
process of making your statement.
4. When you ring up to make an appointment at your local police station, make
sure they place you in contact with the Sexual Assault Division. If they do not
have a Sexual Assault Liaison Officer, ask them to arrange one for you.
5. Speak to your counsellor about making a statement, and ask them to help make
the arrangements and be there for you.
6. Organise a session with your counsellor as soon as possible after you make your
statement.
7. Book yourself in for a massage after making your statement if you are open to
physical touch. I found this extremely healing because my body commenced
physically aching as I recovered further memories.
8. Take the following day off work, or better still, organise your meeting with the
police when you know you have the following few days off.
9. If you are in a Men’s Group, or Sexual Assault Support Group, make your
statement before it meets, so you can receive support from the group when you
attend. Notify the group of what you are doing as well, so they can be prepared.
10. Realise as more memories surface an additional statement may need to be
made.
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4.4 Sisters and Brothers
Letter writing isn’t my forte, so I was really proud of the way the following
letters came together. I place these letters in the book, because from this I
gained a fuller appreciation of myself as a brother and as a man. This also
supported me in re-establishing my place in the family from were I had
placed myself in the past. At the bottom. At first, every time I went to write
to my family, my motivation sprung from my great need to be believed and
accepted by them. So I would end up not writing at all. Not knowing how
they would respond to my disclosure and questions was far safer. In
retrospect, this was a pivotal moment, as it was from this I began to build my
discerning adult carer and rebuild my inner worth.
The following letters were my way of reaching out to my family. This was
my attempt at bringing us closer together. Did it work? I feel closer to some
and the distance still remains between others. Most of all I feel closer to me.
First Letter
Hello to everyone, Testing ... testing
I just had this image of being on a microphone knowing that you will be able to
hear me and I won’t be interrupted by anyone. Hmmmmm? I guess this goes with
being the youngest, though now when I think about it, I realise that this is part of
being a Saunders and why I’ve come to write all of you this letter. Thanks to Jesse
for her excellent idea because it was her that initially did this and rightly so. I do
not expect you all to agree with what I’m going to write, you may agree with some
and not with others.
Please use what you want and let go of the rest. If anyone else writes a letter like
this and I hope that we all do, I’ve thought of a couple of guidelines, such as not
blaming or inferring anything and being open to receiving clarification from any
area that has been asked to be clarified. You may be able to think of some more.
I’ll do my best at demonstrating rather than preaching.
If in this letter you feel that I am blaming you in any way, please understand it
would only be because the pain I carry within me in relationship to what I’m going
to write is too great for my shoulders and my heart to bear at the time of writing, I
intend as always to have the intention to do my best and I feel at this point my love
for you all.... God I love you all. So I’ll begin.
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When I was 24 I became suicidal, I was lucky to make it to 25. I worked with a
psychotherapist and let go of a lot of pain around a relationship that had ended at
the time. Then we got into the ‘Saunders family’. At 26 I actually thought I had
passed through the worst of it, as I’m sure you would hope as well. Not the case.
My daughter is now four years old. She has the same birth date as Jesse. I helped
deliver her, I cut the umbilical cord, and she was a home birth. Every day that she
has been in my life I have in some way relived the first four years of my life. They
have been some of the most beautiful years of my life and some of the most
fearful. Almost every night for the past three years I’ve checked to see that she
hasn’t been abducted from her bedroom, and if I’m not fearful of her being taken
away, I’m fearful of me being taken away, spiritually or physically, I am scared of
the dark. I do not know where this fear comes from at present, however, it seems
to be not just one thing and it is a Pandora’s box that I am now once again
opening. I am fed up with just surviving through this life.
Last year my business almost collapsed, after growing so well it has diminished to
the point where we need to move to the city so I can promote my work, be around
my peers and complete my studies in Psychotherapy. There is another reason for
moving. When I was 10 years old and in 6th class at school a lay teacher sexually
abused me continually. He used to place his hand down my pants and fondle me. I
have known this now for three years, that is to say the memory has surfaced.
Coinciding with this are suicidal tendencies. For those of you that are freaking out,
when a person is suicidal it means they have so much pain inside of them that they
want it to stop. This is something I am familiar with and have worked on with
others in this area for the past 10 years. These feelings usually come around twice
a year. In the last three years it has escalated to the point were this occurs a couple
of times a month. This is my indicator that stuff needs to be looked at more
continuously.
I have reported the sexual abuse to the police and the Catholic Ed. Dept., I have a
solicitor who is representing me and I am seeking compensation. It has been so
uplifting to be positively acknowledged by the religious order from where the
abuse took place, the Catholic Education Dept. and by the Police Dept. They have
all spoken with heartfelt emotion and shared tears about this. I cannot tell you how
releasing it feels to have a priest and a brother on two different occasions
acknowledging me for my courage in talking about what happened. They also
expressed that this wasn’t supposed to happen and they wish that convincing me
that it wasn’t my fault could be accomplished without going through the process
of shame, guilt and grief.
This shame and guilt I feel is similar to what I feel in regard to my own family, I
have this heavy load that I carry around with me in regard to my family life. It’s as
though I know that we all share some common ‘experience’. I am afraid to write
about this, because acknowledging the family life that we had from my experience
will I’m sure create varied reactions amongst you.
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I have blocked so much of the memory out and there is a part of me that thinks if I
open this up, I will never stop crying, never stop being angry and never stop
feeling a victim capable of being able to truly forgive and love...So I’ll lock
myself up nice and safe. Ah aaah, No! Not this Saunders, I am not going to be
silent and never know who I am. The silence is so deafening I cannot stand it any
more. Is this what a Saunders is? You know I’ve never known what it is to be a
Saunders other than, ‘The keeper of silent pain’.
If any of you want to share information, in regard to stories about me to help me
gain clarity on why I would be feeling this way, please do. I have little memory of
my childhood and I would really like for you to be my memory for me, to share
with me what happened when I was younger. The only recollection I have of my
younger years is being scared of Mum and Dad. Dad being either drunk, angry,
quiet or working all the time to deal with his physical and emotional pain. With
Mum, I have a memory of her maybe cutting her wrist as in being hysterical and
suicidal. I think I was about 2 or 3 years old and she had a piece of white sheet tied
around her wrist and was sitting on her bed. I was in a closet or behind a door
hiding from her because she wanted to find me. I don’t think anyone else saw this
except me. Memories like this don’t paint a balanced family life whether this
happened or not. The ‘Saunders Family Singers’ were not a happy family.
I just want one thing from you all, the truth. What I have just written about Mum
is my truth at present. I’m not interested in reading the good times from you, they
will come to me as the other ones are addressed and I would only read that as you
trying to rescue me, restrict me and steer me in your desired direction, not
allowing me to choose the direction in which I want to go, to create. I’d rather you
have faith and know I am responsible for myself as you are for you.
I guess at this point some of you may want to tell me to stop feeling so bad.
Unfortunately to accomplish that I would have to stop feeling altogether, I am not
willing to do that, when bad things happen it is appropriate to feel bad and to
express those emotions, not start singing ‘Wools-a-moral’*. This is an essential
part of the healing process. Emotions are a response to trauma and they tend to get
confused with the hurt itself. As one author by the name of Mike Lew wrote in his
book ‘Victims no longer’.
“The mistaken idea is that; if the person would only stop expressing the pain, they
would stop feeling it and it would go away. Well, it just doesn’t happen that way.
Crying is not grief; it is a way of getting over grief. Trembling isn’t an expression
of cowardice, it is a way of moving out of the paralysis engendered by fear”.
*‘Wools a Moral’ was a happy little Jingle my Dad composed for the Aust. Wool Corp. back in the sixties.
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If you decide to write me a letter please consider photocopying the letter and
letting all of us read it, as there is such a healing in the release of common
experience. Maybe think about it as writing a chapter in a book for people to read.
For me, when I read a book I have my judgments on the style that it’s written and
the information that it contains, however I take what I can use, deny what I fear
and throw the fear away with the rest of it, until of course it comes back to revisit
me in another form or the same, asking that I face its truth once again.
The way I have kept my pain around my family real all these years is by isolating
myself from it, by ‘sweeping it under the carpet’. With this I’ve isolated myself
from you all.
I’ve allowed the pain to convince me that if I keep it a secret long enough, my
mind will forget and distort the truth of what happened. That’s okay for some,
however I want to have the freedom of making the choice of sweeping things
under the carpet myself, the choice I never had.
I believe I have the right to freely express what I want so long as I don’t blame
others in that expression and that healing and union is my motivation. Every time I
get together with one of you, I feel we are like long lost war buddies, heroes and
heroines from a war that we all experienced and would somehow like to forget
about and move on from. The only trouble is that there are some of us still
bleeding from wounds received in this war. For those of you that think that you are
not bleeding, could you please give the others a hand that are still bleeding and if
you can’t, that’s okay, though you might give this some thought. Are you trying to
sweep under the carpet your own pain that comes up for you when you think of
helping the others, and is this creating difficulties in your life? It is for me, that’s
why I am writing this letter.
All I’m proposing is that we allow each other to speak, to write and be heard.
That’s usually all the help that is needed. Unfortunately when a group of people
have shared a common experience their own pain is so deafening they find it
extremely difficult to listen to another’s.
It always brings tears to my eyes, the song (I don’t know the name of it but the
words are)
“Two little boys have two little toys, each had a wooden horse, gaily they played, each
summers day, warriors both of course, do you think I would leave you crying when
there’s room on my horse for two.”
There’s also another verse when they’re older and soldiers at war, the battle is
roaring, Jack has been wounded and his brother finds him and says;
“Do you think I would leave you dying, when there’s room on my horse for two, climb up
here Jack and we’ll be flying, I can go just as fast with two”.
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If you get the words, have a read. Unfortunately my physical, emotional and
spiritual bodies have locked in some memories and the longer I leave the recovery
of these memories, the longer I leave recovering part of myself, the part of me I
left behind.
My fear has grown over the years to protect me from the memories and hurt that
occurred at the time, doing the job it was trained to do. However, the longer I
leave this the harder it will be and I don’t want to create illness.
In regards to the words of this song, it’s only been recently that I know why it
brings up so much emotion, it reminds me of my life as a little boy and us all
being wounded and trying to stop each other’s bleeding, while we were mortally
wounded ourselves. In the end it was every man or woman for himself.
I’m not sure how to end this letter to you all, other than to write that I would like a
response from you all. Wow, it feels great to write this, I might even give it
another go in a couple of months, or just send the same letter again. Stay well, be
good, be bad, and be brave.
All my love John.
From this letter I received no response; in fact two of them were thrown into
the waist paper basket. I wrote the letter thinking that I may not get a
response from anyone; so not receiving any letters was not such a great
shock to me. Slowly I received phone calls though and it was as if some
members of my family would send people ahead, like scouts to see whether I
was safe enough to approach before the other more timid ones would
venture forward with their response. I had this hunch that there was this
feeling of; leave him alone and he won’t be heard, leave him alone and he
won’t tell ‘Mother’.
It seemed to me that this was the only time in our family’s history that noone wished to leak this information to my Mother no matter what the cost. I
remember going around to my brother’s place and while visiting asking him
if he had read my letter? He told me he had not read it and thrown it in the
waist bin, because I was a ‘trouble maker’! I said to him that all I wanted
was to be heard. I guess we all see and hear things differently at different
times. It felt like in some way deep down inside this brother felt like he was
responsible. My Dad would tell him always to protect me at whatever cost,
he was only one class ahead of me at school. I couldn’t want for a finer
brother.
Slowly other members of my family rang up over a twelve-month period, the
responses ranged from; “Why can’t you love your Mother and accept her the
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way I do?” To, “Sooner or later you will have to let this go you know”.
Another was; “I know you hate her, I know you hate her, I know you hate
her!” With this last one I recall thinking how it sounded like a Mantra! I
even had the urge to join in!!! Who was trying to convince who here? At one
stage in this conversation I remember saying to my sibling, “Alright!
Alright! I admit it! I admit it! I hate my Mother! There, I’ve said it! And I
feel all right with that, that sits fine for me, sometimes I hate her guts and
some times I love her. I’m OK with this”. The thing was at that time, this
idea didn’t sit well for the other member of my family, it was as though they
wouldn’t leave me alone until they were absolutely convinced that I was
insane or something. I haven’t needed as yet to work this one out, as I
already know the answer to this one.???? I’m certifiable! It seemed to me
that this sibling had never been able to acknowledge Mum’s dark side and
boy oh boy did she have one! Besides, this letter had nothing to do with my
Mother, well, so I thought? And yet a lot of the responses surrounding my
sharing of my experience were that it was a direct attack on her, a direct
threat to her and that she was the one in need of protection from me.
I decided to write another letter and take a lighter approach; after all, the
response to this one reminded me of getting sucked down the face of a tenfoot wave backwards while trying to paddle over it! I mailed this next one
about four months after the first.
Second Letter
Hello,
Testing, testing, testing.
So I guess the last letter went down well !@#~? NOT!
Must have sent you at least 10 more letters by now and I haven’t received one
back! And on the back of this page is your name, so I’m trusting you all not to
read the name if it’s not you. Have you ALL turned the page yet? I bet you have!
Stop fighting over it; otherwise you’ll all have to go to your bedrooms.
Well, I am flabbergasted at the responses to my letter. Thank you for all those
letters back!!!???
So enough ‘clowning around’ for now. (I’m sure Dad used to say that.) Frank, I so much
enjoy getting to know who we are by exploring each other’s lives as brothers in our
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earlier years. I seem to be gathering together the fragmented parts of my heart that I left
behind as a child. We’ve healed the pain we caused each other as children through
accepting our treatment of each other and forgiving each other and ourselves for this
treatment. Jesse, Jill and I, also shared a night at Frank’s; it was so wonderful that I want
to share this as well.
I have not spent much of my time with Jesse or Jill, though; on this night we stood
in a circle, held hands and were still and quiet with each other for about five
minutes. I felt so at peace, so blessed, we all acknowledged our love for each
other, wanting to heal the pain that had bound us all these years, and we asked for
love to surround us, comfort us, cradle us in its arms and give us the strength to
continue our journeys with each other and courage to uncover the past and reclaim
ourselves. We ended by hugging and wishing the same for all our brothers and
sisters that weren’t with us that night. For me this is what transpired. I am sure the
others have their way of explaining how it was for them, their version, and I hope
this does it justice.
Every time that one of you has told me a heartfelt story about my younger years or
yours my spirit fills up, I feel more alive, as if through forgiving you (the ones that
I’ve shared this with) I gain something back and you do too. From what I’m told
by you, these stories heal.
Jill and I just spent four days together, she came to say hello with her daughter. It
was such an honour to have her stay and uncover so much, her courage and beauty
of spirit I really admire. We went down to the beach on the last day of her visit
and chased each other around and splashed in the sea. I got a giant octopus on my
face like in the movie “Alien”, but we laughed and used the car jack to pry it off,
so I’ll be writing more letters from now on! The bit about the giant octopus and
car jack isn’t real but it was funny! You know what I did do though! I stepped on a
snake, never done that before, lucky it was cold and wasn’t fast enough to bite me!
Barefoot too!
Thanks to all of you for sharing time with me in Sydney, I know I’m pretty full on,
but hey! I am the last of nine. I’ve decided not to type this one up so do your best.
I could write more, though I wanted this to be a short letter to us all, I’ve had such
rewarding times with you all lately, very emotional, angry, sad, happy, confused,
joyful, sorrowful ...full of life and love....full of life!
I urge one of you to write a letter to us all, it beats paying $80.00–$160 to a
therapist. Remember some of the guidelines I suggested in my first letter, no
blaming, no inferring, no judging. If one of you do, or better still, the one that
does I’ll send on an all expenses paid trip to Bali flying Qantas with two weeks
accommodation at the Bali Royal, Hyatt, Chevron Hilton Hotel, plus! Wait,
there’s more, a set of matching his and hers bath robes with steak knives!!!
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Well I must go now; it’s late, my love to you all, stay well,
Love, John.
I didn’t receive any responses from this letter. I was content though, as I
gave all the choice to respond. Around this time my relationships with some
members of my family moved rapidly forward. In this short period of time
members of my family came together not only because of me, but also
because of the forthcoming passing of both my parents over a two and a half
year period.
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Hot Points
A help guide while disclosing to siblings
* The decision to inform families of abuse and ‘family secrets’ takes time.
Be kind to yourself; take all the time you need. They may take time as well.
* When you arrive at the point when only a minor amount of anxiety rises in
you when considering your disclosure, take this as one indication that you’re
ready for this step and will see your way through it.
* Anxiety when considering disclosure, is an indication that your self worth
is depleted and out of balance. Possibly, you are measuring a far too greater
part of your worth, on the acceptance of your disclosure to others. Be
discerning with whom you speak to about abuse, surround yourself with
people who believe you and continue to accept you for who you are. This
will help build up your worth. In time you may find your self worth no
longer hinges on your family’s response. When I finally got to the point,
where I no longer needed acceptance and a favourable response from
disclosing to my family, it then felt right to send. This was such a gift.
* Not disclosing my abuse to my family before I was ready, saved me from
dragging myself through more abuse and shame. Watch out for this one!
* Writing the disclosure in letterform is self-supportive. It gives you time to
become clear within yourself as to what you want to disclose and to whom.
You may want to consider writing ‘Without Prejudice’ in the top left hand
corner so it cannot be used as evidence in a court of law. Check this with a
solicitor if you are unsure.
* Ask yourself. From informing my family, is there something I want in
return? What is that something? Am I seeking it in the right place? You may
wish to discuss this with a supportive friend or counsellor.
From the betrayal of my innocence at ten years of age, I lost sight of my
discerning adult carer and inner worth. I believe now, these develop from
the nurturing of innocence. Consequently, I lost faith in these aspects ever
existing inside me and in the world. These aspects of me had not matured
like a frozen chrysalis. For twenty-eight years I kept drawing abuse to me.
Not anymore, I’m learning to fly!
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Chapter 5. Healing the Soul
When I was about 28 I decided to study Chinese Medicine. This would turn
out to be yet another career path that I would not complete. It turned out well
however as it put me in contact with people of like mind and helped heal the
part within me that was afraid of touch, that didn’t trust that touch could be
innocent, kind, healing, gentle and have positive meaningful intent. To pay
for this course I commenced planting trees on a resort that was located on
the east coast of Australia. About twenty to thirty of us would start planting
the trees at six in the morning and our day would end at three in the
afternoon. At the end of each day we were completely covered in dirt and
mud. If that wasn’t fun enough the camaraderie that was shared with the
other men was great. On about the fourth week of planting trees I came
down with fever and one night when going to the toilet I noticed blood in my
urine. Very briskly I took myself off to the hospital, as I thought my little
buddy was going to die and drop off. For those of you that haven’t had this
experience, let me inform you it placed me in direct contact with what the
heck I was doing in my life that attracted the experience of high fevers and
blood pissing. It was suggested to me that I had an infection in my blood and
that there was no indication where it had possibly come from, though
antibiotics would fix it up in no time. The other train of thought offered to
me at the time was to look at; who was it that I was really pissed off with
and what had they done that had wounded me deeply enough that I was
bleeding? Well, I really didn’t want to look at it from this angle and I
convinced myself that maybe I had just got a bug? At this time in my life
taking antibiotics was a more familiar method of working with sickness, or
should I write, of not working with it. ‘Out of sight out of mind’.
I got back from the hospital at about two in the morning took the antibiotics
and lay on my bed. Across my mind flashed the thought of my partner who
had just left me, how I had been sweating so much I’d gone through four
sets of clothes and that I’d just been to the toilet again and passed blood in
my urine for the third time. Na Na Na there’s nothing I’m pissed off
with.......Well, maybe there is, maybe I could give the latter ‘train of
thought’ a little test run down the track, after all, I don’t have to tell
anybody. I’ll just keep the little experiment quiet, you know, keep it to
myself.
As I laid there I decided to focus on slowing down my breathing and as I did
images started to flash across my mind. My partner leaving me and taking
her children who I missed and loved (although hadn’t admitted to). Wow!
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I actually love and miss them. And then I started to get angry. Well! Didn’t
the images and feelings start to piss pour out of me then!!! I was angry that
my partner had left me and I was angry with myself because I instigated this.
I began to cry, as I felt abandoned by her. I was angry that she had taken the
children that I loved away and I was angry that she was not there to look
after me while sick.
I felt helpless and alone. Then the image of a little boy crossed my mind and
it was I! Me as a two year old with a Mother who didn’t have any time for
me, in fact, I saw myself all alone, hungry and needing to be cared for by
her. At seeing this moment I started to scream (I’m glad no-one was in the
house). I was so angry at this scene. And what made things worse was I
recalled it was only a week ago that my Mother, knowing of my four year
relationship with my partner and her children, still would not acknowledge
my partner or our relationship and told me that this ‘girl’ was not for me
because she wasn’t Australian. I screamed again and punched the bed, I was
so angry with my Mother. I was so angry with myself for cutting off from
my partner and her children and convincing myself to give up what I
cherished and held dear to my heart. Then I realised that there was a part of
me that thought…
if I showed my Mother that I would give up what I held more dear to me than anything
else in the world that maybe then she would finally love and accept me in return.
I yearned so much for her love and acceptance of me. I was really distressed
and tears streamed down my face as I lay shivering on my bed with fever
while rain and wind blew furiously outside. It wasn’t too long before I went
into a deep sleep. Hardly surprising. I woke up in the morning, the fever had
lifted and my bleeding had ceased. Even though I was fragile and vulnerable
I felt much more peaceful inside.
Well, sometimes when it rains it pours, so it wasn’t too long before I would
get a foot infection. I thought it was a mild case of Athlete’s foot, which
would go away with the prescribed powders and creams, so my first
approach was to see a doctor so a swab could be taken to find out whether it
was fungal or bacterial.
I waited enthusiastically for the results of the test, as we would know what
conventional medicine to treat this with as soon as the tests showed what it
was. The tests came back and it was neither.
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The doctor suggested that it could be a form of psoriasis and that he didn’t
know what to do conventionally and that I may wish to explore a
complimentary medicine, Homeopathy, Chinese Medicine, Herbs, and
Naturopathy etc. It’s timely to add here that the infection spread to covered
one third of the top of my left foot at this point. I couldn’t wear a sock or
shoe as the skin would, itch, go red, (as if sunburnt) crack, peel off and
bleed. It constantly wept and each cycle took about three weeks. The itching
was extremely uncomfortable and would occur three to four times a day. I
would wear a gauze sock over my foot and sandal to protect it from getting
infected. I really didn’t want anyone to see it, as I felt ashamed about having
something so ugly on my body.
At work, I would scratch my foot until it bled. The itching was unbearable.
Finally, to stop myself from scratching I would place my foot in a stainless
steel basin that was close by and run hot water over it. This would bring me
waves of relief as I gradually increased the temperature of the water. In the
end having to stop otherwise scald myself. I remember doing this for three
months at this basin and every day I would ask myself why this wouldn’t go
away? I’d exhausted every avenue open to me (except maybe looking at the
cause). I’d changed my diet completely, ingested Chinese herbs, placed
herbs on the wound and taken homeopathic remedies. All had little or no
effect and this ugly thing on my foot was not going away. And yes I’d been
to four medical specialists as well. All of which said that basically it would
be something that I may have to live with for the rest of my life. Diabetes
was also looked at and ruled out.
I decided to talk to a friend and he suggested a book for me to read called
‘Healers on Healing’. This was a compilation of writings from doctors who
were leading the world in their research on recovering from major diseases
such as aids and cancer. On more than one occasion a few of the writers
mentioned that to love your disease and ask it what it represented to you,
(through contemplation) was a simple method that some people were using
to recover completely from their disease! They couldn’t explain why this
worked, they just knew it did and that being committed to this on a daily
basis helped.
It wasn’t long before I started to limp occasionally, as the skin would tear
apart on my foot from being so thin and dry. I became so angry with myself,
which made things worse because I couldn’t crack this thing. So I decided to
take up meditation.
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I thought that if I was going to try this I would do it every morning and
night. I had done this for approximately four weeks and even though I felt
calmer there was still no change in my foot. I continued sending my foot
love, although I hadn’t asked it yet why it was diseased or what part of me it
represented. In meditation I would imagine waves of love washing over me
and this would make me feel at peace, then I would visualize bathing my
foot in this peacefulness. This last bit of the meditation I always had such a
resistance to and could never quite finish. So I gave up and with nothing to
loose I decided to ask my foot what this disease represented. Very loudly
and sharply an inner voice/feeling, call it what you want responded.
“I am the part of you that you see as ugly.” (Oh my God!) I was so struck by
this insight I asked myself, “Why on my foot?”
“This represents the part of you that wishes to move forward in your life and
right now you think you are ugly and shameful for doing so.” I was amazed
at how I received this without hesitation. I asked one more question. “Why
does this look so angry?” At that, a silence fell and a distant image slowly
came into focus. The image of my Mother. Then words came…
“This represents the rage you hold towards your Mother.” I was stunned.
After recovering from this little experiment I thanked myself for the answers
and sent my foot love. There now seemed to be a difference in the way I
looked upon my foot. This ugly part of me I now felt different towards. It
wasn’t separate from me any more, it was a part of me that I now loved and
accepted. And guess what? Over the following weeks my wound began to
heal. In my meditations I would visualize my foot, not try and change it, just
accept it the way it was. Every time I did, I wept tears of sadness over the
relationship I had with my Mother.
I discovered through stilling myself and my mind, that as my foot wept so
did I. Weeping over the love and acceptance that I didn’t receive from my
Mother in the past as her child and wasn’t receiving in the present as her
son. The times my foot was itchy, represented the part of me that was
screaming out to be touched.
At some stage over the top of this, I had told myself that to be touched was
dirty, ugly and shameful. And the times my foot was red and bleeding
represented the shear red rage I held inside of me towards my Mother and
the man that sexually abused me.
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Over the next eight weeks the itching passed, the redness softened into pink
new skin, the weeping ceased and I thanked God the Creator for the gifts of
good friends, good books, knowledge and perseverance.
I’ll mention here, at one point this angry sore on my foot started making its
way up my leg and commenced at my groin making its way to my foot. This
was really freaky and fortunately the symptoms ceased in a week, as I think
that this would have been a little more than I could have coped with at the
time. Ugliness, dirtiness, shame and guilt were housed in my upbringing and
in the educational system adopted by the Catholic religion of the time. It is
my personal opinion that Catholic mores and tradition still cultivate abuse,
turning the blind eye is systemic in their administration. As above, so is
below.
5.1 In Counsel
A significant amount of my healing came from my counselling sessions and
the gifts that I received from trusting and honouring the counsel of others.
This chapter holds a selection of some of the more significant moments that
I felt inspired me to keep feeling and rebuilding my life. In retrospect, it
wasn’t the method that the therapist used that made my sessions significant;
it was the honesty of human expression, rapport and heartfelt concern that
acted as the catalyst to turn moments into little miracles. I bow my head in
honour of all who have shared this road.
In one meeting with my counsellor Bill, we commenced by relaxing my
body, and stilling my mind before we proceeded with visualization. Bill
asked me to imagine seeing myself as a little boy in a field. In an instant I
saw myself as a young boy with my pet dog ‘Hereboy’ playing on a grassy
field, (this was good because I remember in the last visualization I gave the
gift of Hereboy to young John to play with) I asked young John if he would
like to see some magic. He said yeah! Right! Sarcastically. I mentioned this
to Bill, so he asked me what time of day it was. I said to Bill it was in the
middle of the day so he suggested I change it to just before sunrise. I did and
young John thought, yep!
That’s good magic! Bill suggested to me that I ask young John if he would
like to come to the beach and watch the sunrise, the stars were still shining at
this point and it was peaceful and warm. Young John did not want to walk,
he was exhausted.
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I reached down offering to carry him and he let me pick him up. As I held
him he fell sound asleep, his head nestled into my neck, a perfect fit and his
body a perfect weight. We went to the beach and I made him a sand seat to
rest in. Hereboy sat between us and together we watched the sun rise up over
the ocean, turning the sky from red, to orange, to gold. The sun then pushed
its way up over the horizon, its golden rays flowing over us and in its wake a
bunch of just budded red roses appeared and placed themselves on my lap. I
then recalled as a child to take myself away from my reality, I would smell
flowers. In thinking this I gave them straight to young John hoping that he
might like them. To my surprise he actually smiled at me and received them
knowing that I had taken him into consideration. He was happy.
Visualizing Young John
Often I am presented with images in my visualizations of me as a young child in actual
events that took place. More often than not the events that are presented are ones that
have had their fabric damaged and that young John wants help with reviewing and
repairing. I find that in these visualizations if I say to him that I have the intention of
coming back and looking at these images once again, I am more prepared on my return
journey to intervene in a positive way, remain with greater focus in the visualization
session, take in more fully the information being presented, and not come out of the
visualization sooner than I would of wished. Childhood memories are sacred moments,
we can all learn from them if we realise that it is not their memory that weakens us, but
the energy it takes to keep them silenced within us.
The following is a conscious memory that I have done no work on and this
will be the first time that I have written of it, so I’m not too sure how it will
pan out. It will however give you an idea of the feelings and internal
dialogue that can sometimes arise when doing an exercise such as this. I start
the process by getting myself comfortable on my favourite couch with a pad
and pencil and making sure my surroundings are peaceful. I would suggest
for your first attempt do this with a friend or therapist.
I was extremely sick and lying in bed when I was about 7 years of age.
Delirious with fever the Darleks appeared, (the Darleks were alien characters
that appeared in the British sci-fi series Dr. Who) blew up the wall of my
bedroom and began calling out “Exterminate! Exterminate!”....
They started firing at me. I tried my best to jump up out of bed, but my legs
could hardly move. Why were my legs so heavy?
Your little body was sick and weak, in need of rest. Delirious, dreaming and
hysterical I started to run....
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I jumped across my brother’s bed to get out the door and slipped, grazing
my shin along the wrought iron bed base. I got up crying, my leg was really
sore. Why are they here? They’re going to take me away!!! I pulled myself
up again and felt dizzy. I looked behind me and the Darleks were shooting
their lasers at me. I was running now and the door was in sight. Then it
happened, a laser struck me in my side between my ribs knocking me down
onto my other brother’s bed. I WAS NOT GOING TO GIVE UP! I reached
out and grabbed the pillow off the bed, got to my feet and started to run. I
threw the pillow back at the Darleks and kept on running until they were far
behind me. I reached the lounge room and leapt into my Dad’s arms shaking
with fright, he comforted me as I told him what happened. I felt so warm and
safe that I was at last in my Father’s arms.
He held me more when Mum was not home.
Note
Doing this small piece of work made me recognise that Dad, after a long day
at work, enjoyed being with me and my brothers and sisters, just sitting
down doing nothing and relaxing. He was not as relaxed with us nor paid us
as much attention when Mum was around. I don’t know why. Despite this, I
do know that I have fallen into my Father’s footsteps on occasions with this
behaviour and I am becoming conscious of treading a different path when
this pattern arises in me. Doing this piece of work also drew my attention to
the caring aspect of my Father I had not realised existed. End.
One day in a visualization session I recovered the memory of being in a St.
Vincent De Paul second-hand clothing shop with my Mother as a young boy
of ten. At one stage during this visualization, I relaxed so deeply that the
only thing keeping me awake was my finger tapping my other hand that it
was resting upon. With this tapping came the voice of young John telling me
to stay awake! I couldn’t believe it! I will always remember this, as I have
been under the impression that imagery is evoked by me consciously. I
wasn’t counting on ever being brought back to consciousness by the little
boy within my subconscious, especially by him taping my hand to get me to
be present. This session made me re-evaluate the power of my mind and that
maybe young John did live inside of me.
There is a part of me that finds all of this too far fetched, that this type of
communication is not possible, though once I get my mind out of the way, it
is. Regardless of what my mind thinks, it was absolutely beautiful and
remarkable that young John was the one that got my finger to tap my hand to
acknowledge our parallel existence together.
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I’m shocked and absorbed by his sheer honesty. He has been let down so
many times that there are no words I can speak to impress him, he is beyond
being impressed by me. Another aspect of him is totally hopeless and in
shock, thinking that this will never change. I hold this part of young John
like a child that needs to be in the arms of someone he knows will keep him
safe. This part of him only communicates through gestures and visions. I
believe that with my nurturing he will gradually know I love his company.
After telling my counsellor of the lightness I was feeling after our last
session, we decided to further explore my relationship with my little boy.
After focusing on my breathing and visualizing myself bathed in the
beautiful golden warm light of the sun, Bill asked me to imagine myself
holding onto my little boy’s hand. Passing the feeling of peace from the
golden light on to him. I began to feel agitated and found it difficult to even
imagine my little boy. After struggling with this for a while I asked Bill if he
would mind if I opened my eyes, he suggested that I keep them closed for a
little longer. I did and he kept on asking me to send love to my little boy
who by this time was very aggressive and angry within me. Bill kept on
suggesting sending him love. I became impatient because I couldn’t find any
love inside of me. I felt hopeless. I kept on endeavouring to send love, then
to my surprise a memory came to me. I saw young John trapped in a fortyfour gallon steel drum. The drum had a few small holes drilled in its side but
was also full of water....
The top of the drum had jammed itself shut and I couldn’t get out! I could
hear people outside but they couldn’t hear me, it was my brothers and
sisters.
I started to feel anxious for my little boy, as every time Bill suggested that I
see him out of the drum I couldn’t imagine it. No one could hear his
screams....
There was so much water in the drum I found it difficult to make a lot of
noise. The drum wouldn’t echo. I hit the drum with my fists and grazed my
knuckles trying to pop the lid.
Young John became hysterical out of terror from the thought of not being
able to get out of the drum and he was starting to shiver.
I couldn’t seem to change the situation by sending it light and love, so I
imagined myself going into the scene and telling my brothers and sisters that
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young John was trapped in the drum and needed help to get out. They told
me that they didn’t know he was in there and remained complacent. I
decided to act. I pried the lid off the drum and lifted Young John out. I held
him close and kept him warm. I did this until he looked at me and said, “that
was close”. I smiled back at him and said, “Yeah, you got into some scary
situations”. He nodded his head and looked deeply into my eyes.
Note
As I wrote of this in my journal, the old part of me that questioned young
John’s memory came to my attention and I once again realised how often he
was told that what he experienced was not real, didn’t happen. I believe my
older brothers and sisters would have been in serious trouble if my Mother
and Father found out about some of the experiments that I was the guinea
pig in. They would lie to cover-up and escape from being blamed, after all,
none of us wanted to be on the other end of our parent’s punishment. End.
While having my counselling session today I recognised another
fundamental error within the Catholic upbringing that I had and that my
parents and others who indoctrinated this religion into me suffered from. At
a young age, I recall having very fond feelings for the creator of all things
and revelled in the enjoyment that was generated within me as I felt part of
this creation. Being one with it and not knowing that there was anything
other than this. I embraced God’s vibrancy and celebrated the awe of living
in the womb or palm of creation, I was physically alive and in God’s hands!
The joy of knowing I was alive was a wonder to be seen as my brothers and
sisters told me recently. I brought life and love into a family suffering from a
lack of love. As a young boy I recall enjoying listening to the stories about a
man named Jesus of Nazareth who loved children and was kind and
compassionate. He was a man of creation....
Just like me!
Yes, just like you. Though it wouldn’t be long before I would be introduced
into the concept that there was an opposite of creation. That everything I did
that I was told was evil, naughty, bad and wrong was creation’s opposite....
And I was the one that created this! God the creator, the man who I was told
was the father of Jesus, wouldn’t love me if I didn’t do what he liked. I didn’t
know these men, but I was told this by my parents who knew them intimately.
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I was sure of that! So I found out through them anything they knew that the
father of creation and his son liked or disliked. Mum and Dad knew of
everything that I needed to know!
And since not much value was placed in what I had to offer....
They must have known of something that was even better. That I could
aspire to.
After all I loved them unconditionally and believed literally in every word
that sprang from their mouths.....
So I would listen to every word, watch every deed and feel everything I could
to find out what I needed to do to be one with them. I could be one with
nature running through Dad’s garden. I could even be one with the sun and
the river. I could even feel one with my dog, but for some reason Mum, Dad,
and everyone else were running away from themselves. Why didn’t they
want to be still and feel the peace placed within, under the blanket of stars in
the night sky? What was stopping them from remembering why we decided
to be here together? I was told that Jesus died on the cross for my sins and I
should always remember this. I could always remind myself by looking
around our house at the crosses that poor Jesus my friend died on.
There was a cross in every room....
I loved Jesus, why did he choose to be nailed to a cross? Boy, that would
have hurt; it hurts me when I just graze my knee! Sins were the things that
God didn’t like and if he didn’t like what I did I could be punished. I would
soon learn that most things that were sinful were things that people didn’t
like that I did or said. Mum and Dad could punish me if I did anything that
was sinful. Well I knew I couldn’t do anything wrong so I’d be fine.
The older I got, the more I did that was wrong, and I couldn’t seem to stop
myself. I knew I loved Mum and Dad and I wanted them to love me back and
tell me they thought I was wonderful, play with me and do things together
with me. Why couldn’t they spend time with me? I knew I was lovely, well I
thought I was, wasn’t I?
My older brothers and sisters, when they were bad and sinned were beaten
with a strap and sometimes they were told that they would be taken away to
the orphanage and wouldn’t be allowed to come home....
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I loved my brothers and sisters; I didn’t want Mum and Dad to let this
happen. There was also a place called Hell, that grown-ups would go to if
they were really bad and sinful, it was there they would go to be set on fire,
to burn and die. There was also a place called heaven where the creator
lived with his son. This was where all the good people went.
Packing my bag for Heaven
I was about three when my older brother told me that it was time for us to go to Heaven
and that I should go and pack my bags. I was so happy as I wanted to go to this place
more than anything in the world. I was led to believe that this of course was where Jesus
was and the Father that created him and me. I rushed to my room and jumped across my
bed to the other side where my cupboard was and commenced packing my clothes and
toys that were dear to me. I must have got ready in three minutes flat. I remember my
little brown ‘Samsonite’ school case being a little small for everything that I wanted to
carry with me, so I had to sit on top of it to squash it down to snap the locks closed. With
this complete, I went outside into the living room looking for my older brother. I was full
of excitement knowing we were going to a place where I would be loved as a little boy
and accepted by the God who created love. I cannot express in words how much this
meant to me. I found my brother and asked him whether he was packed and ready to take
me. He looked at me and started laughing. He told me how silly I was to have believed
him, that this wasn’t real. My heart sank in my chest, I felt so betrayed, lost and confused.
I was alone.
I spoke to my brother about this incident 33 years later and he asked me with
tears in his eyes if I would forgive him for playing such a cruel trick on me. I
told him I had and we both realised that as much as he thought at ten it was a
joke he played on me, he as well desperately wanted to leave and believe
that there was a place called Heaven where he could go and be loved and
accepted as well. At ten he really wanted this for me too, as he found it
unbearable watching me change from an amazing, carefree loving spirit, to a
frightened child bound by fear. I believe he would have given anything to
change this for me, to change it for him. Like him, it is my belief that all my
brothers and sisters gave up on themselves, as our environment did not
support us to love each other and ourselves. It wasn’t long before I started to
think that God (the Creator), Jesus and love were outside myself, living
somewhere in a place called Heaven, and that the Creator who was outside
myself could ‘read my thoughts’ and see and hear everything I did,
especially what I did that was wrong, sinful and bad. Even if I thought it! I
was also told all of this gave me a lesser chance of getting into Heaven, and I
could even be sent to Hell, where nothing existed, only pain.
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The Creator became less and less a part of my life. I was led to believe that
the Creator was separate from all that I was and then abandoned me because
I was born no good anyway and now he lived somewhere else.
By the time I was four there was a devil, who destroyed everything that was
creative, there was God, who created all things and there was me, who if
misbehaved would go to Hell where the Devil lived. F o r e v e r. Now for
God and me there didn’t seem to be much hope, as the system didn’t allow
me or God to be very creative. So the only thing that I could do was to
follow what everyone else did, because if I was to do something different,
anything that reminded others of what they’d given up to survive in our
family, in our religion, I would be punished in some form, crucified,
banished, we all would. I remember being still and at peace meant anything
but you were sitting with God. In our family it meant you were planning evil
things. An idle mind could be used by the devil. I remember being
interrupted constantly by my brothers and sisters when I was being still,
trying in vain to reconnect with who I was. At the age of three I recall
having the choice to live or die. Because living was all too painful for me. I
write this with certainty because of the following experience.
Dream
I was outside playing in the garden and it was a day like no other. Quite suddenly a
beautiful woman approached me, she lifted me up, cradled me in her arms and kissed me
on my lips. I remember a soft warm breeze blew and a wave of peace washed over me. I
felt extremely blissful, safe and at peace. After a short time she said to me if I wanted to
feel like this all the time that I could, though I would have to leave and let go of this life
and couldn’t return. Everything would be taken care of. I would be taken care of. I
remember I was just about to make the decision to let go and I hesitated because I didn’t
want to leave my family behind. She left and I awoke from the dream knowing that I
would never be given the choice again.
Having no concept of the structure of religion, it was time to begin my
Catholic education. I had already learnt that the devil was a large part of my
life and now by going to school I would find out how big a part he played.
How little I was taught about inner beauty, self love, care and respect for
others and the greatest gift that one could pass on to any loving child. How
to stay connected to the light of God within. Our true resting place and
home. I guess one can’t teach what they don’t know.
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5.2 Spirituality and a religious God
I begin this part with this thought. Could you please read this as if you were
reading a whole new book, because to me this is a book within a book? I
have always wanted to make an account of the spiritual events that have
taken place in my life and I can easily see reasons why it would be beneficial
for me not to include these in this book as they could quite easily be
explained away as aberrations that have occurred due to my dysfunctional
childhood years. I hope that as you read the events I write of that you remain
open. And in doing this, if you feel the winds of truth brush past your brow,
sit firm in your knowing. Let it sit in you.
I mentioned earlier of an extra visionary experience I had with my Mother
when I was a young boy. I do not recall any other spiritual experiences
happening to me after this time. I believe, this was because I was constantly
fed man-made perceptions, of what spirituality was through the Catholic
Church and education system. My spirituality was squashed with fear. It
wasn’t until I was far enough away from this influence that I commenced
receiving my own intuition. My communion. Most of the time when I was
asked to search within as a child, it wasn’t to reinforce how beautiful I was,
but to convince me how bad, naughty or evil I was inside. To plant bitter
seeds of doubt. I know that events in my life have directed me to explore
who I am as a spiritual being and focus my sight on caring, honouring, and
surrendering to love. I know that these events were all meant to be. The
thread that has been a constant throughout my life has been my inner and
outer awareness that there is more to life and me than what is seen through,
and presented to, my physical eyes. I love myself more now than I ever
have.
Surrounding myself with people who have accomplished great things, I have
always been told, was the key to success. Unfortunately, most of the people
that I have met who have wanted me to follow them have wanted money as
well, and lots of it! I believe everyone is gifted with greatness and if I
surrender and accept that a great man lies inside me and follow him, then as
I set about recapturing my own greatness, other people’s greatness will be
activated as well and hopefully their search within. I have been so elitist in
my approach in the past. This may well be another effect of my religious
upbringing. I’m cracking up with laughter now as I write this down. I always
thought that I was, wait for it...... ‘The Chosen One’. I can’t part the oceans
as yet, but I can sure clear a path through the kitchen!!! Oooow Dad!
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Not again! You’re gross! What have you been eating again? Macca Burgers?
No! Not that bad! Actually, sulphur dried apricots.
Spiritual Experience
When I was seventeen I had my first spiritual experience, which made me
recognise, what I could physically see was not all that existed.
I had been out late one night and I decided to start hitching home. A good
friend of mine who was a policeman at the time was on late shift and saw me
hitching. I waved as he went past and indicated to him I was fine. It was a
warm night and I felt safe, familiar with the area that I was hitching from.
Then at one point, in my mind’s eye I began seeing the scene of a car crash
and a person being helped from a car. I became quite concerned as the scene
was extremely vivid in my mind and it would not diminish nor go away. As
I thought that this related to my brother, I decided to get the first lift home.
I put my finger out to hitch a ride and a car that was moving quite fast pulled
up along side of me and I hopped in. I didn’t recognise that the driver was
quite speedy himself and before I knew it, we were travelling in excess of
120km / 70mph. I decided to place the seat belt on me, as earlier on it was
too short to place on and now I had a good reason, even if it was extremely
tight. A short time later we rounded a corner and the driver lost control of
the car narrowly missing another car head on. Still out of control we side
swiped a parked car and now were travelling sideways at approx. 80km into
oncoming traffic and I was facing this traffic. The front of the bus hit the car
with incredible force and as it hit everything slowed down, the impact being
dispersed along the side of the car, with the car lifting off the ground and
tilting onto its roof. Almost every window of the car exploded from the
impact and glass fragments sprayed my face. Then, the car came to rest. The
driver looked at me, asked if I was OK, I said Yeah, then he climbed out the
car window and ran away, never to be seen again. Amazed that I was ok I
jumped out of the car as well, as I was frightened it might explode. Pumping
with adrenalin, I wasn’t aware of the state that my face was in, (fairly
bloody) so a bystander offered to wash my face and tend to my cuts. There
were so many cuts, it was difficult to gauge whether I needed to place any
pressure on them while waiting for the ambulance. As people got off the bus
to recover they could not believe that I was the passenger and alive with
only minor cuts and abrasions.
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I waited by the side of the road for the police to arrive and it wasn’t long
before I found out that the car was stolen. Fortunately for me, since someone
on the bus had seen the driver run away, and my police friend had only seen
me five minutes earlier, I was cleared of any part in the stealing of the car. I
went to hospital and was placed under observation. Two hours later I was
discharged from the hospital and it was suggested that I go home and rest.
The next day I told my parents. My friend the policeman phoned as well to
see how I was, as after seeing the condition that the stolen car was in, he
found it difficult to comprehend how I was not critically injured. That night I
decided to go to bed nice and early. I had just closed my eyes to go to sleep
and I felt the mattress of the bed rise as someone commenced tucking me in.
I felt such a warmth as no one ever did this any more. I thought maybe it
was Mum or Dad and I wanted to thank them for their kindness. I called out
asking who it was, they didn’t answer. So I sat up in bed to see who it was
and as I did the person walked away from me to the middle of my bedroom.
Once again I said, “Who is that?” At that, they turned around and looked at
me. I’ll always remember the eyes, they looked right into my soul with such
love. I felt completely safe and I filled up with peace knowing that
everything was ok. If that wasn’t amazing enough, the figure then
disassembled itself like grains of sand blown apart by the wind, its form
breaking up into a million stars that scattered in every direction having only
come together to form for that instant.
I got out of bed feeling extremely peaceful and accepting of what had just
taken place, as if at some level I knew this to be as natural as breathing in
and out. I went to the toilet, jumped back into bed and had the most restful
nights sleep, knowing that someone somewhere cared for me deeply. After
this event you would think that I would have questioned a few ideas. Well I
did, for about a week! The thing that made the biggest impression on me was
the love that I received through the face and eyes of the person that visited
me in my room that night. I will never forget their look. As for the rest, I
couldn’t explain it at the time and didn’t associate with any one who could.
Who would believe me anyway? So life went on.
A year passed and I decided to go on a working holiday to New Zealand and
visit my brothers. One of my brothers went to a Christian spiritualist church
that had been established for nearly eighty years. It was here that I found
some answers. The challenge I constantly faced was to confront the belief
that I was truly evil. When genuine love presented itself to me I became
extremely fearful and very egocentric.
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This next experience that I’m writing about I’m still ashamed of. I have only
told two other people. At nineteen when it occurred, I was very insecure and
egotistical, confusing egotistic power with love. This experience cleared up
my confusion and gave me newfound respect for spiritual matters that I
knew nothing about.
One night I was expounding my spiritual greatness to a girlfriend of mine.
We decided to sit opposite each other and look in each other’s eyes and wait
for it, ‘feel the energy between us’ (Well, it sounded good to me at the
time!). What happened next was scary beyond belief. As we proceeded to
look at each other I could see she trusted in me deeply and I felt the pure
beauty of both her spirit and physical being. Then this other feeling came
over me. I began feeling powerful, beyond anything I had ever felt before
and didn’t realise that this was not love. As I looked in her eyes the
attraction to keep on feeling this power was incredible. Part of me did not
want to resist it. I felt so full of myself. I felt I could consume the life force
out of this girl, who was now just an object to me in a state of complete fear,
not able to resist in anyway. I was growing powerful as she diminished.
Then for a moment I saw the fear in her face and the vulnerability of her
human spirit. At that point I realised what I was participating in was wrong
and my chance to put a stop to it. I wanted this to stop! From thinking this
thought, the power became stronger and I was no longer in control, I was
just a fleshy pawn being used as she was by me, or so I thought. I felt myself
being seduced by a loveless power as she knelt looking almost lifeless in
front of me. I wanted to destroy and absorb everything that this friend was.
The body wasn’t the prize; it was her spirit and life force that I wanted to
covet. Drawing on all my strength I ceased my eye contact with her and
what ever was happening vanished. We sat and held each other not saying a
word, petrified from what had just happened. Then we both discussed
whether what I experienced was what my friend went through. It was! And
we thanked God for protecting us both that night and helping me focus on
love.
From this, I gained a new found respect for making sure my intentions could
remain focused in love before I went looking into another’s eyes that were
pure and full of love for me. This was a very humbling experience, which
brings home the importance of positive intentions. This process that I
somehow activated felt so familiar to me, and writing of this feels of utmost
importance. It made me realise that spirituality is an extremely large part of
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life and educating people about their spiritual nature is of great importance.
Spiritual teachers need to know their own spiritual nature and the ways that
spirit guides them and supports them in their daily lives. Egocentric power
and love are two totally different things with no similarity. Love has no
degrees, encompasses all things and is complete unto itself. I am either a
vehicle for its presence and bathing in its beauty or I am not. This event that
I was a part of was remarkable and showed me a pathway that I could have
walked, had I chosen to. I chose at some level to have this experience, to be
overpowered in this way. Maybe so I could recognise never to overpower
any one else in this way. Or maybe in a past lifetime I was an abuser myself.
Slowing down
I woke up this morning feeling really uncomfortable with myself. The
family decided to go up the coast to see some friends and maybe camp at a
beach. I went out to the car, the car wouldn’t start, I looked up at the sky and
the weather wasn’t right. I couldn’t find the things that I wanted to take with
me and my family were not sure whether they wanted to go. So I thought to
myself. No! We’re going to go, even though the voice inside of me said stay.
We said our goodbyes to our four-month-old family dog Honey and jumped
into the car. Then I remembered again that the car battery was flat! What is
happening here? Then it started to rain! We got out and pushed the car out of
the carport so I could clutch it down the driveway. Everything was telling
me to stay put. As usual our dog was running alongside the car saying
goodbye to us and I was thinking to myself (sooner or later this dog is going
to be hit by the car, I just hope it doesn’t hurt itself too much. I should slow
down because she cannot hear the engine, no I don’t need to). Then I ran
over the dog! I was such a bloody idiot for not listening to my intuition.
When was I going to learn to read the slow down signs! And now I had to
make the decision to either fix the dog up ($2000 John) or put her to sleep.
Great Xmas present for the kids. Great Xmas present for me. We took the
dog into the vet and I decided to have her x-rayed to determine how severe
the damage was. Before she went to x-ray we sat around her holding each
other and holding her, as she was very much awake.
At one point both my daughters looked at me imploringly with tears
streaming from their eyes, as they knew I had just been told how much it
would cost to keep her alive. I felt so responsible because I was the one that
ran over her, I was reckless. My family told me that it wasn’t my fault but I
felt horrible, I crushed Honey’s hips and broke her leg and now I had to
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make the decision as to whether she lived or died. I didn’t want to have this
decision.
Then I started to think about my own dog Hereboy and how my Father just
took him away one day and I never saw him again; never got the chance to
say goodbye. We sat around Honey and wept and I really cried deep tears of
grief. This was to be the last time we saw her alive.
When the car ran over Honey it did so much damage that the Vet thought it
would be a better decision to put her to rest, as she could possibly have had
further complications in the future. This of course didn’t make my feelings
of guilt go away, but it did make me realise how I made it my responsibility
to make the decision as to whether we went ahead with fixing her up
because we had the money. I thought of my Father and all of the decisions
that he would have made without consulting with his family and how he
isolated himself in that. I wonder whether he would have fallen back on his
isolating behaviour as much if he had been more capable of expressing his
emotions? I believe the answer to this is yes. I imagine the reason he
continued to fall back on being ‘head of the house’ was because he was
incapable of expressing his emotions. This position of control supported him
in feeling some safety and connection with his family. From this place
however he could never feel part of his family. He could only participate
through control watching his family grow from the sidelines. I’m thinking
that this is a position we all put ourselves in as fathers, sometimes to greater
and lesser degrees. Sometimes I don’t want to give this up as I get so
seduced by the control. Now I find this simply isolates me from those that I
love. I talked about this with my family. They agreed it would be better not
to isolate myself from them in this way in the future, cause it hurt everyone
and that it didn’t mean that the end decision would not be mine, it just meant
that I wouldn’t isolate myself. We cried on and off for a week about Honey
and I’m glad we did, as it helped me complete my sadness around my dog
Hereboy and our dog Honey.
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5.3 A therapeutic pathway
Seven hundred years ago...
People took dreams as seriously as psychiatrists do today.
T.H.White (1906-1964)
English writer
The most transforming component in my recovery was participating in
therapy sessions and group work specifically modelled for people who had
been sexually abused. There are a number of different methodologies that
therapists use to assist them in their counselling. Some draw on a wide range
of tools while others may draw only on one. I have not found this to be of
great importance in regard to the potency of any therapist’s work. However,
what has made the therapists that I have seen potent and worthwhile
committing to has been: they were living their lives in a healthy manner;
they were connected to their humanness; saw me as an equal to them; didn’t
offer me drugs. And finally and most importantly, my intuition told me that
they were right for me.
While dealing with my abuse I also dreamt vividly in relationship to my
sexuality. I will insert dreams that marked major turning points in my
healing. Dreams gave me something to work with in my counselling
sessions. They were invaluable in the role of informing me of how I was
truly relating to my abuse. They were my gauges as to how I was
progressing with my way of repair and directed me to areas of my life still
diseased. It feels important to spend some time writing about my experience
with therapy and I understand this may not be the road you choose, though it
could give you some ideas on how to approach your own life experience.
The sexual abuse affected so many areas of my life and from the onset the
reason why I went to counselling was to acquire some understanding on why
I felt so depressed. In retrospect, part of my continual depression, exhaustion
and stress, was generated by me using large amounts of my energy to hold
back my feelings and stay in the denial that I couldn’t possibly have issues
that needed to be explored, clarified and healed. In the end I had no other
road to go down, so I decided that I would see a Dr. Smith.
Dr. Smith, a psychologist, was very willing to counsel me. I saw him every
week for approximately four months and it was during a session with him
that I recalled the sexual abuse. In this session he asked me whether I would
like to do a relaxation session using visualization. Since I had not
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experienced creative visualization for a while and in the past found it
extremely relaxing, I said yes.
Dr. Smith asked me whether I would like to sit in a chair or lie down on the
carpeted floor with my head on a pillow. I decided to lie down. He asked me
to slow my breathing down and focus on my breath. We had just
commenced when I recalled the perpetrator placing his hand down my pants
and fondling my penis. Upon recalling this I blushed openly and felt an
uncontrollable shiver go through my body. I looked at Dr. Smith and felt
exposed and threatened at being on the floor. He asked me what was
happening and I told him what had occurred. After him dismissing the
recollection as not being anything of great importance, we ended the session.
I went home feeling quite disorientated and during the next two weeks
started to feel uneasy and sexually cut off from my partner, not wanting to
be touched in a sexual way or even affectionately. This would also be the
start of me masturbating a lot for sexual satisfaction rather than sharing
sexual satisfaction with my partner. I became anxious around my selfpleasuring and saw it as wrong. Consequently, I would also reach orgasm
very quickly during intercourse and have great feelings of uneasiness around
sexual play. I began telling myself that I was useless.
During the next two weeks I started to become quite angry and recognised
that I was angry with my perpetrator for his abuse of me. I decided to talk to
Dr. Smith about charging the perpetrator. Dr. Smith said to me that he didn’t
believe that his abuse of me had done any significant damage. He suggested
that because I enjoyed the experience at the time and that I cared for the
man, it was a productive relationship and that I should get on with my life.
At this time I wanted so much to get on with living life that I went along
with Dr. Smith’s advice. He also suggested that he couldn’t do any more for
me and that we end our therapy sessions. I decided as well that this was the
best thing to do. From this point in time my productiveness in my day-to-day
world gradually deteriorated. As I write this, I find it relevant to add how
important it is to choose a therapist that specialises in counselling sexual
abuse victims. Dr. Smith assisted me remarkably in the areas that he was
capable in. However, as soon as we stepped out of his comfort zone, his
resistances overshadowed his counselling of me. Distortions commenced
and his ability to facilitate my healing ceased.
For sixteen months I didn’t receive any therapy and in this period I focused
my attention on my work, hoping that ploughing my way through it would
make it go away. During this time, I became very self-conscious and found it
difficult to gain contracts and expand my business as I had been doing
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successfully in the past. Every time a large contract would come my way I
would somehow lose it and not know why.
In this period of time one of my female employees was also sexually
harassed on two different occasions and my reaction to this was a feeling of
helplessness, that I was powerless to respond in any manner that was
appropriate. I began to feel like a powerless little boy more and more each
day.
Dream
I become aware in my dream that I am observing a past employer of mine, he is sitting
down on an old wooden chair. He is approx. 45 years of age with black receding hair and
wears black square framed glasses. He has on a short sleeve shirt. My four-year-old
daughter is enjoying herself playing on his lap. My heart fills as I become acutely aware
of her joyful innocence. He looks at me then smiles and kisses her. I become uneasy, he
looks at me once again, smiles lecherously then turns to my daughter, arching her body
back, he then opens his mouth and licks her from her naval to her chin. She giggles and
laughs innocently not knowing of his agenda. He looks at me again and I am powerless, I
cannot move. He is the one with the authority and in control; I have no power in this
situation. I start feeling extreme guilt as he laughs at me, then I wake up and it’s morning.
After a few weeks of living with the shame created from having a dream such as this, full
of fear, I decided to tell my partner. With her great support I slowly recognised that the
employer looked exactly like my perpetrator! In the past he had also been a
schoolteacher, had the same tanned skin as my perpetrator, wore similar glasses and used
the expressions, ‘baby’ and ‘gorgeous’ when trying to seduce me. At the time I was
employed by this man, he had propositioned me sexually on a number of occasions and I
felt an attraction towards him that I didn’t understand, as if he had something that I
needed, that I could only receive back if I somehow gave him what he wanted..... I
couldn’t do that; I would have been betraying myself if I did and everything that I
believed in. It’s good; my tears are falling now as I begin to understand that I was
betrayed at ten by someone else who may have been trying to recapture their innocence.
At some place inside of me I new that exploring my attraction with this employer would
not take me back to recover what I had lost. I thank my spirit for this. Sharing this dream
created a giant leap forward for me. From this I recognised that the connections were too
alike for me to dismiss any more the far-reaching impact of my unresolved abuse.
I had not mentioned this dream to anyone sooner as I was scared and
ashamed that I would not be accepted by them and turn on myself with
greater severity (greater shame) than before I told them. In the past I
wouldn’t take the chance of telling anyone, it was too risky. The pain of
isolation was a far better option, (familiar) than the shame I would feel if I
was not supported to believe that I was much more than this experience by
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another. I would always think that the odds were stacked against me. This
little action played a major role in keeping me isolated, silenced, and in
awesome pain.
This justified my silence and guilt, and set the foundation for me to keep on
running old messages such as eg. That I was sick in the head, not worthwhile
and dirty. With these messages I would at times become suicidal. I would
have a thought or a dream, judge my whole nature on the basis of the dream
or thought, then isolate myself with this in my mind. When I did this, it was
like living in a windowless room with a carcass tied around my neck! Next,
I’d convince myself that everyone else in the outside world had the same
opinion of me as I did, that I was wretched.
It’s been a slow turn around for me, but I have realised the only way to stop
myself from going suicidal, is to talk with someone who understands, not
just anyone. I have had to look for people that will just listen to me, that
aren’t Your ‘Fixer upa’. Unfortunately, most of these people are therapists
and cost $$$. Guess what, in the past some did it for nothing, or whatever I
could afford at the time, what great people. So now, the sooner I find
someone to listen to me, the easier it is to let go of my isolation and pinpoint
the moment in time I made the decision that I was anything but innocent.
Placing shame upon myself. The trick is not to let thoughts that shame you
stack up! These days, I recognise my mind at times is full of babble and that
this babble is not me, it’s babble and that’s ok. It’s just a lot of chaos! Like
trying to make breakfast in the kitchen in the mornings while getting the kids
off to school. You know what I mean? Chaos! I reckon when you can make
head spins in the chickens in the mornings while getting the prickles off to
stool, or snatch the pebble from my hand. Then it is time for your kids to
leave. Where! Did that come from? Look, there’s a perfect example.
Babble!!
Around this time I was involved in a retreat to heal abuse. During its course
I discussed an incident of sexual harassment of an employee of mine that
had taken place earlier on in the year. The group consisted of all men; they
found it extremely difficult to believe that I didn’t respond to what occurred
to the female employee. Once again I went numb in my body and felt
powerless to respond in any way to the situation in question. I felt guilty,
weak, worthless and extremely scared at what the consequences might be if I
was to act on these events involving an international company and a wellknown sports figure. I decided with the support of the men in the group that
I would take action on what had occurred.
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With the retreat over I returned home with a fresh outlook to my work.
On arriving home I collected my messages and one of them was from the
corporation where the abuse took place, requesting my assistance in their
organization.
I recall how threatened I felt knowing that I was going to discuss the sexual
harassment with them. I contacted them with my heart pounding. After
listening to the company representative outline what he wanted from me, I
decided to mention the sexual harassment of my staff member and the
employee that did the harassing. The company representative knew straight
away who I was speaking of out of 65 people and mentioned that this type of
behaviour was common to this individual and accepted by female employees
within his organization. I suggested to him that I wasn’t willing to work for
his organization until he was willing to look at the culture that condoned
sexual harassment created. His response was that his superiors would not be
interested in changing this culture, as the organisational structure that they
promoted produced results. The by-product being this type of behaviour,
which wasn’t prevalent enough to look at organisationally. He had no
interest in taking this matter any further as the employee that we were
discussing was extremely good at achieving results. I ended the conversation
realising that I had said what I wanted and articulated what I felt. My final
comment to him was that I had no interest in being associated with a
company such as his and would only be willing to work for his company
when the company wanted to work on this issue. I’ll let you imagine
whether he has been in contact.
Three months later another incident would occur that involved a well-known
sports figure and I responded in a similar way and the matter was resolved.
Looking back, it astonishes me how I attracted these situations to be
addressed in my life. It doesn’t surprise me though, as events similar to these
have come up to challenge me all through my life in one form or another.
It had now been sixteen months since seeing a therapist. Rachael was a
counsellor extremely interested in hearing my story. In the two previous
months I had charged my perpetrator, informed the schooling organisation
that the perpetrator had worked for and commenced legal proceedings. I
would see Rachael for one hour a week and she would do her best to listen
and support me through painful times. Mostly, she would attend to damage
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control, working with the problems that would arise on a daily basis with
me, this was very helpful. Rachael worked in the public sector and as her
workload increased, I could only see her once or twice a month. I decided
that I needed to work more extensively with the abuse, as I wasn’t moving
ahead. I wasn’t going backwards anymore, down into the black hole that I
had been in, but the quality of my life I was leading was extremely poor. I
became aware that I had been at this point many times before and
desperately wanted something better.
The abuse highlighted a lot of problems that I already had for many years,
negative behaviour against myself that had gone unnoticed. Cyclic
behaviour that once occurred every twenty-four, twelve, six or three months
was now occurring daily and weekly. I struggled the hardest with my
depressions. From when I first recalled my sexual abuse in my counselling
session with Dr. Smith my depressions increased to the point of occurring
every day, it was unrelenting and like living in a constant nightmare. I kept
on seeing Rachael every four weeks for another three months until I found a
psychologist who was willing to see me and work more intensively.
Peter was in his early sixties and was a loving kind man, his counsel helped
me gain clarity around aspects of my life and assist me when managing my
flashbacks and the waves of emotions that would wash over me and leave
me feeling exhausted. He also helped me place together a regime of
visualizations and written affirmations to build my diminished self esteem.
This was most helpful, as when I felt myself slipping it would assist me in
maintaining objectivity around my depressions and remain focused on the
awareness that the depressions weren’t who I was, that they were the effect
of the abuse and the acuteness of the trauma that I was reliving.
I arrived at my session with Peter with the intention of exploring the
relationship I had with my partner and the man that sexually abused me. I
had been having extreme difficulty in having a sexual relationship with my
partner. Every time our sexual relationship was brought up to be discussed
by my partner I would sink back into myself, feel overwhelmed and turn off.
Only feeling safe enough to masturbate while fantasizing about women that I
didn’t even know. I had this intuition that the reason for this shut down
towards my partner was once again related to the sexual abuse. So in this
session I set the intention to work directly on my perpetrator, as so far I
hadn’t even been able to dialogue with him. I found it difficult just to
imagine him in the room let alone responding to his persona. After I had
chosen a place in the room for my partner, I placed my perpetrator in the
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room as far away from me as possible. The initial verbal response from me
to the scenario I set up was, “I will only be sexual, feel sexual when I am
ready and now when I feel sexual it’s too overwhelming for me so I don’t
want this feeling especially if someone else instigates it”. And the doors
stayed shut.
I didn’t know this was resting underneath me at the time. We ended the
session and I sat with this for a week. Now with this clearly in my awareness
and my partner loving me and wanting to share everything with me, you
wouldn’t believe it, the protective doors still stayed shut! So I carried this
through to the following session and once again I was asked to place chairs
in the counsellor’s room to represent my partner and my perpetrator. I found
it just as difficult as the previous time to place a chair in the room to
represent my perpetrator. I couldn’t find a chair that felt correct nor a
position for the chair that felt safe for me. As well as this, I felt a sort of
sticky, glueyness between his chair and me. Taking my attention away from
this for the moment we focused my attention onto dialoguing with the chair
that represented the place were my partner was seated (I began to talk to my
partner and then I would sit in the chair that represented her and respond
back to me). As this dialogue progressed it became obvious that I was
protecting myself from anything that was going to activate me sexually, as
there was a fear of not being able to contain or handle the way I was feeling.
It was too much too soon.
At one point my counsellor acting out the character of my partner said to me
“I want you to remain hopeful and not give up.” With that I commenced
weeping, as I felt that hope was something that I had lost in my life. Then
the feeling left. Then an extraordinary action took place within me. Out the
corner of my eye I saw the chair that represented the sitting place of my
perpetrator. I spun around and with full rage exclaimed “You are the one
that took this from me by fucking me up.” I spat the words out with such
clear conviction and accuracy as tears streamed down my face. Just as I was
about to release more of this rage a thought crossed my mind, that I was
wrong in thinking these thoughts. Then the feeling left again. At that I
became very frustrated and started feeling like there were psychic hooks in
me from my perpetrator and a sticky web connecting me to him. I acted out
pulling the hooks out of me and throwing the sticky web to the ground and at
the perpetrator. I yelled out in frustration how horrible it was to feel that I
would never regain what was taken from me. A feeling of extreme
hopelessness swept over me. I became like a little boy. I withdrew from the
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dialogue, walked to a corner of the room where there was some pillows,
grabbed one, squatted in the corner and started to sob. I felt like I was not
able to express myself verbally.
I felt like I couldn’t win. Then rage against my perpetrator built up again and
I screamed out at the top of my voice. ‘How could you do this to me!’
Once again I felt a stickyness touch now the left side of my body. I again
commenced to act out the pulling away of the sticky web. This happened
about four times and then my therapist and I decided to break to discuss how
I was feeling about this. After brief reflection, we both agreed that this was a
big piece of work that could do with a few weeks to find its place of rest.
Note
In the past I have always escaped into my head, gone numb or withdrawn
into a corner as a little boy where there was no hope that anything would
change. At least this time I articulated my rage towards the abuser. Up until
this session I never knew how angry I was and how much anger I had been
turning back on myself. I came away from the session exhausted. I also
came away feeling a lightness and calmness that I hadn’t felt before. My
load was lighter and I felt hopeful. Over the next few weeks I realised that
all this was about making inroads into me. Inroads into regaining my lost
hope and my peace of mind. Now I see hope as simply the belief in oneself,
in the moment that extends to all moments from the present. One lives in all
moments in the present. Maybe doing this is faith in oneself. End.
At times I’ve caught myself feeling calm not anxious, peaceful not
concerned, centred and not feeling out of my body. At these times I would
not go to my counselling sessions until one day, as if by some freak of
nature I did. Saying to myself every step of the way. Why am I going? I feel
ok, I have nothing running, and I’m feeling fine. Normally, I would wait
until everything was collapsing around me and I was at war with myself and
everything else before I’d ‘seek help’. This time I decided to look at my
abuse from a point of calm centeredness. This would be a minor experiment.
I arrived at Peter’s still wondering why I was there and wanting to work on
the physical and emotional abuse that took place in my high school years at
a Catholic college. At this present point in time I had not gained enough
courage, wisdom or understanding to look directly at the issues surrounding
my sexual perpetrator, so I thought I would look at something less
impacting, or so I thought. After speaking with Peter about the school that I
went to, he asked me to pick out an object in the room to represent the
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founder of the Order. And since I had mentioned the lay teacher that
physically and emotionally abused me and another Brother who was
considered amongst the pupils to be a paedophile who didn’t abuse me, (how
bizarre that even the students knew to stay clear of him and accepted this as
normal) I chose two chairs to represent these people as well.
Peter asked me to hold the object I chose that represented the founder and be
him. He asked me who I was, why did I start this Order and what were my
beliefs. As I answered these questions with the little bit of knowledge I had
of this man, I experienced aspects of myself that were confident, honourable,
capable of making a difference, clear in principle and capable of
transforming ideas into reality with passion. Peter then asked me to be me
and direct questions to the founder. At first I was very untrusting of the
principles that I felt emerging in me while acting as the founder. It seemed to
me his well-meaning disposition was just a front for something else. Then an
extraordinary thing happened, he asked me as I was acting as the founder
what I thought about the two men that physically and emotionally abused
John? I was stunned, I didn’t know what to say back, and then finally I said
that I didn’t know this happened and that I was sorry. Slowly I was drawn to
tears, feeling shameful that this happened within my school and in my
Order. I reversed my part in my play and became me and as I did my
wariness grew, not truly convinced that he was being honest again. After all,
to me he represented the system from which my abuse originated, even my
sexual abuse. Peter pointed out that he didn’t abuse me and that he didn’t
know that this happened; in fact he had long passed away. Again I
recognised that not everyone abused.
From this I again reversed my part in my play and felt the reestablishment
within me of what the founder stood for. I then reversed my part again and
stood there being me as I am. I filled up with the part of me that was solid in
my principles, honourable, confident, humble and passionate about what I
wanted and how to go about achieving it. As I stood there recognising these
parts within me I glanced back at the two chairs that represented sexual,
emotional and physical abuse. I found it hard to fathom even talking to
them; I wanted to, I desperately wanted to break through the silence that I
for years had been carrying around within me. All I could muster up was
silence, a deafening silence that I wanted to give voice to, even if it was just
to scream back all the wrongs and deceptions.
I became fucking angry and once again turned the anger back into me,
because I didn’t, couldn’t, give my anger voice. I even had another
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paedophile that didn’t abuse me representing sexual abuse in my drama,
because I still could not manage to have a direct representation of my
perpetrator in the room! This made me reflect on why I felt comfortable with
this paedophile and then I realised. He didn’t get to me, that’s why I could
have him in the room!
I remember how this Brother would look at me and size me up. I recall at the
time how I felt myself curiously being drawn to him, though at fourteen
knew what he wanted and he knew he would be taking a risk to approach as
I was older and wiser. I now know that he could sense within me that I had
been abused before. As I write this I’m feeling nauseous and now I’m
thinking about the commandments around coveting. This man had molested
many boys over his teaching career. In fact one of the official letters that I
received from my solicitor regarding the perpetrator in my case mistakenly
had his name in it!
Note
The session finally came to a close. I left thinking that it was a good idea to
look at issues when clear headed calm and peaceful. Rather than while in
chaos. Further, I gained an understanding and empathy for my long running
responses to my broad mistrust in men. I also now comprehend why I
mistrust and lack confidence in my ability to honour my own principles and
capacity to transform ideas into reality with passion. For a long time, I saw
myself as not worthy and that created a very small keyhole to view the world
through. Being not good at anything or passionate about anything in my life,
was my way of protecting myself and side stepping further abuse and pain of
betrayal. These days, more and more I’m introduced to men of good
intentions and I think one of the reasons that this is happening is that I am
more open to that they exist. I guess I’m more open to the man of good
intentions that rests within me. You know, I’m getting to like this! End.
Therapy
Chris was a Psychotherapist in her early forties. From speaking with Chris
about my dead father and how when I thought of him now he presented
himself as a man in his early twenties and loving of me as his son, we agreed
to explore the following. I decided to choose an ornament in Chris’s room to
represent Dad and place this ornament (I think I chose a sea shell) on a chair
in the room. This memory of Dad always presented itself in a loving way,
fully acknowledging me for my courage and abilities (a personality aspect
that I needed to develop a great deal more of). I sat down in the chair where
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the shell was that represented my Dad. (I had placed the ornament on a chair
directly next to where I was sitting.) As my Father I stretched out my hand
onto the armrest of my loving son John’s chair, in a firm and loving way.
Endeavouring to reassure him of my commitment as his loving Father, as
this is what I didn’t demonstrate to him when I was alive.
I then sat back in my seat as me. I recognised how I was balking at
responding to my portrayal of my Father. Chris then asked me what was
happening to me, as I was noticeably uncomfortable. I told her that I felt that
he was not committed to me.
Chris then pointed out a most important observation. That when I portrayed
my Father I always reached out my hand to hold my arm. And when I was
me, I withdrew my arm!? Chris asked me to have a go at responding to the
commitment that I embodied as I portrayed my Father, to allow my arm to
be held. I told her I would give it a go.
Chris then portrayed my Father and reached out to hold my arm.
As me. I slowly, slowly reached out and let my arm be held by my Father’s
hand. Tears fell freely from my eyes and I just sat there with my head bowed
down grieving for the touch that I so rarely received.
Note
From this session I realised that the aspect of me that is committed to me is
held within the benevolent Father within me. Dad in his life did not
demonstrate his commitment to me from this aspect. He so rarely touched
any of us. This moment was truly important for me as I realised that I had
this commitment inside of me. This was a major turning point in my healing.
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5.4 A Mother’s death
I’d been in Sydney for two days and it was only three days earlier that I
received a phone call from one of my sisters to say that my Mother was very
ill and it might be a good idea for me to fly to Sydney to see her. As it turned
out she would pass within a week. I wrote her a letter not even knowing that
she was so ill, it’s ironic how things happen that way. I read Mum the letter
that I wrote to her at her bedside the day before she died. It felt so healing to
just sit with her and hold her hand while I read the letter. She could barely
talk to me she was so weak. Eighty-two years of age. She at one stage asked
me what I did when my mouth was dry. This wasn’t like my Mum to ask
such a question. I answered and told her about sucking on an ice cube or
something of that nature. She asked me if I could get her an orange and cut it
up into small pieces so she could suck on them. I went out to her kitchen and
a short time later was back with her. I held a piece of orange up to her mouth
and she commenced sucking on the small piece of orange. She couldn’t open
her eyes and she couldn’t hold the orange, so for the next twenty minutes I
sat with her, feeding her orange beside the same bed that Dad slept in before
he passed away. I fed her orange like she was a baby. After feeding her I
asked whether she would like to listen to a letter that I wrote to her recently.
She said yes, so I sat in her room and read her the following letter whilst
stroking her brow and snuggling up to her chubby arm, the arm that I
remember snuggling up to and falling asleep upon as a little boy.
Letter to my Mum
Dear Mum,
Thank you for your letter. I’m sorry that you are not feeling so good and that passing on
to your next life isn’t as easy as a walk in the park. I’m sure you will enjoy not having
people such as myself wanting to get to peace with you, as I am also sure Jesus does not
judge either of us for not seeing ‘eye to eye’ on issues that are a concern to us as
individuals.
I feel excited for you that you are going on one of the most extraordinary journeys that
any person can experience. In some ways I envy you, however this is where my learning
is right now.
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Be extremely content and at peace with the effort that you put into being my Mother. You
did the best you could, and when you thought you weren’t doing your best I wonder
whether you may have felt a little like I do sometimes, alone and helpless with no one to
hold me and accept me for not knowing the best way to turn.
Know that I hold you and care for you and will do this next time I see you, and you need
do nothing to prove yourself worthy of receiving this, nothing. You may be inclined to
think that a 37 year old man would not be capable of this especially a man that you once
cared for as a helpless child.
Like you I have chosen wounds that I carry around, you can see the scars, as I can see
yours my Mother and some I have turned into gold and these golden scars have created
hope and in hope there is a resting place where nothing need be done.
My only wish that I have for us both in the future, is that we give to each other by sharing
what created these scars, our frailties (the stories and tears). As not sharing our pain and
stories is what creates the distance between loved ones and friends. When I speak of the
future here I am speaking of when I see you in Spirit unless you choose sooner.
I love you dearly Mum and I release you from any chains that bind you to me, and picture
you as you may see yourself, standing on top of a magnificent mountain, bathing in
God’s grace and love, as it falls upon you ever so gently like a passing summer rain, and
then, he calls your name.
I will always love you and will see you soon.
John. XOX
Mum fell fast asleep after I read her the letter, telling me that she was very
tired. I drove back to my brother’s place and slept, spending the next day
collecting my feelings and making sure that I didn’t squash any during the
day. I felt so relieved that she was going and felt excited and peaceful that I
had the opportunity to read her my letter. That night was very serene, as it
was one of those beautiful Sydney nights where the air was fresh and the
stars were shining. I recall being outside and a cool breeze touched my face
with the softness of a baby’s hand and I got to thinking. If Mum were going
to die, this would be the night to go.
Speaking with my brother two days before Mum’s death he mentioned to me
that he was learning how to box. His next-door neighbour having fought at a
professional level had offered to spar with my brother and his thirteen-yearold son. Frank showed enthusiasm when speaking of the approach that Jeff
the teacher had and that he saw boxing as an art that was very much a mental
game and to be taught through respecting one’s opponent. He also assured
Frank and his son that while teaching them he would not harm them and that
his purpose would be to build confidence through the use of this medium.
I thought to myself, I’ve gotta see this! My experience of boxing
commenced at five years of age, when my Father came home one afternoon
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with a boxing bag and two sets of 10oz. gloves and told my brothers and I to
go for it!
Anyway I’d not been home at my brother’s place for very long when there
was a knock at the door and wouldn’t you know it, it was the boxer at the
door looking for my brother, shaven head and built like a brick shithouse. He
could probably split me in two just by looking at me!
“My house is yours please do come in, is there anything you would like?
Just name it, really!”
For the next two hours we sipped tea and spoke of philosophy. At the end of
the conversation he said to me, “by the way, could you tell your brother that
I’ll see him after dinner in the garage for sparring. And John! Come along, I
promise I won’t hurt you.” Now I’m sure I’ve heard those words before,
that’s the famous one-liner I heard from my brothers when I was five, before
feeling my jaw spin around to the back of my head as I made my way to the
canvas of the bedroom floor. There was something about this guy though
that I liked and I could tell he was different in some way. Two hours later
my intrigue had got the better of me and I needed to do something other than
wait for my Mother’s death. She was being well taken care of and visiting
time was over. So there I was, absolutely petrified as I placed these boxing
gloves on my hands, readying myself to spar with a professional boxer,
while on the other side of town, my Mother was drawing her last breaths
before her lights went out! It all seemed so bizarre. I just wasn’t sure
whether I’d be getting my lights punched out before hers got turned off! I
felt so many boyhood anxieties arise in me as my hands were bound in these
gloves. At this point I can truthfully tell you that the only thing that I was
worried about was me. Though somehow it felt right to explore my past
through activating a memory twenty-eight years old.
As I started to fight, with every block and punch I recalled the pain of being
hurt and hurting others. The big difference this time being, that this teacher
was saying to me, “I’m not going to harm you, I will not hit you, I will not
punch you, and we will do this at your pace”. The more this was said the
more I realised the decisions I had made while boxing between the ages of
five and ten, especially around achievement and success.
I remembered how my Father would stand by and watch me as I fought my
brother who was eighteen months older than I. Oww how much I wanted to
be recognised by my Dad. If I could just get a punch in, I would be given
that soft nod and a ‘Well done son’ (This is what I believed was success in
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my Father’s eyes at the time). After landing a punch I would look back at
my brother and see the pain on his face as he held back his tears.
What we thought was a game, was a game no longer, it had become another
competition for us to gain our Father’s love and acceptance.
So there I was boxing Jeff and I recognised that as I saw an opening to
punch I couldn’t put all my effort into it, I didn’t want to succeed in
connecting my punches. Jeff stopped the sparring and asked, “Why aren’t
you following through? I know what is happening for me John! What’s
happening for you?” I recognised that I decided at a young age that my
success meant others got hurt by me and I got hurt by others. So the best
way not to hurt in anyway was not to succeed, after all, people that
succeeded hurt others. I didn’t want the responsibility that went with this, so
I stopped myself achieving at five and have carried part of this with me ever
since. Another belief to re-write. I took a break from the boxing, walked out
of the garage and looked out into the clear night sky. As I lowered my eyes
to the tops of the trees, a warm breeze like a wave rolling graciously across
the ocean, seemed to press against their canopy, giving them expression. At
that moment I thought about my Mother and how if she were going to pass
on this would be the perfect night. I knew at that moment, that something
had happened.
Jeff and I decided to spar once again and every time I saw an opening I
hesitated and lost my focus and strength. I thought to myself, I’m going to
work through this, I’m going to change the decisions I’ve made around
being successful because this is effecting my life. The memory of the
decisions I had made in relationship to being successful was in the muscular
system of my body and I wanted to clear this. A short time passed, then my
sister-in-law walked quietly into the garage and told us that Mum had passed
on a short time ago.
I felt so good that I had read my letter to Mum the night before, because
when I did, she became so thrilled about seeing Dad, so I told her about the
vision I had with him in it. She was keen to listen. She was in her early
twenties and Dad was about twenty-four years of age. Full of life he had a
spring in his step and a fantastic smile.
They were holding hands and the sun was shining. Brief and exquisite.
That’s it, that’s the vision I had. Now let’s stop here for a moment because
something is happening to me as I write this at my desk. I can feel Dad
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standing behind me and he’s saying, “How are you going son?” (When Dad
was alive and full of life and love for me, this was what he would say to me).
Now he’s placing his hand on my shoulder and I’m breaking up here as I’m
thinking, “Dad, if this keeps up I’m going to have to buy waterproof paper to
write on”. And now I’m inquisitive. “I wonder whether or not he knows
Mum has passed away?” Now I’m seeing this young woman standing
alongside of him and now they are both standing at each side of me. I know
now they are together and at peace. Guess this was for me as well.
Seeing Mum’s body was a great relief for me, as it didn’t have the impact I
thought it might. Her face had relaxed, she in fact looked much younger, I
guess she would have liked that. I didn’t really know her, who she was I
mean, although at her death I found out that above all; she wanted to be a
Ballerina.
The next day I returned to my parent’s house to support the rest of my
family and to explore. There was so much I didn’t know about them; so
much I wanted to know. I think this exploring was my way of grieving and
letting go of both of them. As an example, my parent’s room had always
been off limits to me as they were extremely private people and it felt at
some deep level I now had the chance to look, feel and touch things that I’d
never been able to before. At one point I was walking down the hallway
when I heard my brother call out to me from Mum and Dad’s bedroom.
Mum’s body had been taken away the night before so each of us was
spending a little time sitting in her favourite chair beside her bed. As I
walked in I looked across the room and there was my brother sitting
peacefully in the chair. My brother held out his hand and said, “John, take
this, I believe it’s yours. Only open your hand to see what it is when I’ve left
the house”. My brother left and I opened up my hand, in it was Dad’s dog
tag from W.W.II. This was one of the two dog tags that Dad pressed himself.
I can imagine him sitting down with a punch and hammer pressing the
numbers onto the metal at twenty-two years of age with the rest of the boys.
The last number he’s mucked up, so he’s had another ‘crack at it’ to make it
worse. I can’t believe it; he gave me such a hard time about being perfect.
Crazy ol’ goose. Maybe he was just shit scared as he punched the numbers.
That would be OK. As a young boy I remember sneaking a look at these
when he was at work.
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I used to hold them in my hands and wonder who he was and what happened
to him in this war. I so much wanted to know who my Father was when I
was growing up.
I didn’t think much about these numbers until three days later when my
family and I went to bury my Mother’s body; it was then I found out what
his serial number was. It was on his gravestone.
Mum’s funeral went as planned, everyone that knew Mum was there and it
was a great farewell as everyone that knew her socially had something
wonderful to say about her. It seems the area of her life that she excelled in
surrounded the church.
So there I was in the church trying to get in touch with how I felt about my
Mother. This felt more like a funeral for her social friends than for her nine
children that were there. At one point during the ceremony I began to feel an
immense pressure in my chest and emotion rose up in me. I became caught
between sorrow and rage, as if a huge injustice was going to slip by, by not
laying to rest the beautiful aspects of my Mother as well as the horrid
aspects that only her children knew of. It was as if by me standing in this
place of worship and being presented with all the positive aspects that my
Mother embodied, that I was in some way being asked to automatically
absolve Mum of the negative aspects that she embodied as well. I wanted to
cry out at the top of my voice how unloving, cruel and manipulative she was
at times with her children, with me! I wanted to grieve the loss of all things
about her. I found it almost unbearable to stand there and listen to only half
the truth. I know that she was responsible for all actions in her life as I am in
mine, the ones I cherish and the ones that weigh heavily on my heart. How
can a person grieve fully for a loved one when only half of them is presented
in a time of mourning, when forgiveness has been misconstrued to the point
that it means not talking about any of the grievances that one has on a day to
day basis with another.
In our family, having the courage to express your grievances was seen as a
great sign of inadequacy. “You should be ashamed of yourself for bringing
this up and not being able to forgive your brother!” Forgiveness had taken
on new meaning, it meant suppress it, keep it silent and hold it in.
Forgiveness is a journey not a destination. Love is a journey not a
destination. I’ve never been able to ‘Think Forgiveness’ or ‘Think Love’!
This is a religious hat. It’s more something that I prepare the ground for by
setting love as my intention above all when an issue is running its course
with another person. This is how I pray for forgiveness and love.
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Most of the time when I’ve dreamt about little boys or children they’re
between the ages of one and six and have looked frightening to me as if they
were in a catatonic state. After my Mother’s death I had the following
session with my therapist and the dream that preceded that night indicated to
me that the work that I had been doing was helping me move ahead.
I decided to talk a little about the teacher that abused me and so after a short
time Chris asked me to choose one of the chairs in the room to represent
Him. I did this with hesitation and then sat back down, feeling agitated at
even touching the chair that was representing his presence in the room. Then
I remembered the time when my teacher was in the schoolyard saying
goodbye to the class as we left to go home at the end of the day. I recall how
excited I was that afternoon as my Mother was picking me up from school. I
had asked my teacher to come over and meet Mum as I was sure that she
would like him and maybe he would like her and that this would somehow
change things at home.
Chris asked me to choose a chair to represent my Mum and place this in the
room where I would feel most comfortable with it being. I placed the chair
next to my perpetrator’s chair about ten feet away from me. I was amazed at
where I placed the chair in relationship to the teacher. Then I sat down to
take this in to see where I had placed these chairs. I began to feel cold,
almost like I had gone into shock; my body began to get Goosebumps and
shiver. Chris asked what was happening for me and I responded by saying
that I was cold. I then stood up and began to pace the room, which made me
shiver more. Then I saw myself as a small boy at four years of age on my
first day at school. My Mother had left me at school and I had begged her
not to leave me. I recall at the back of the class there was a large roll of
carpet and I had crawled inside the carpet to hide.
Chris asked me to find an ornament on the shelf to represent young John. I
chose the most beautiful shell I could find. As young John I felt cold and
was shivering. The carpet was dusty and I was so frightened that all I wanted
was my Mother. One of the corners of Chris’s room had cushions in it. I
walked over to the corner, squatted down, curled up and tears just poured out
of my eyes. I had completely cut off from myself. Chris asked me what was
happening, I didn’t respond. I was in shock curled up on the floor, trying to
get warm – get away from this dread that I was experiencing but couldn’t.
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Chris asked me to move out of the corner and come back to where I was as
the adult in this drama. I did and Chris asked me to respond to my Mother.
I became enraged and screamed out at Mum telling her how much I hated
the way she treated me, how cruel she was and if she didn’t want to look
after me she shouldn’t have had me. This happened three times and after
each time I would go cold, feel dread and be speechless. Chris told me to
stay with myself and not give up! I felt I couldn’t do it any more, that it was
hopeless.
Spontaneously Chris held me tightly. I began to cry and scream out
incredibly loud like an animal in pain. I was in pain! I felt as if Mum’s
sexuality was sticking to me, it was like a spider’s web connected to my
arms, my hands, my chest and my groin. I started making the physical action
of pulling it off my body while I was groaning and screaming. Every now
and then I would feel incredible fury towards her and my arms began to itch,
I started to get a visible rash on my forearm. I started to scratch my arms
aggressively and Chris quickly reminded me not to damage myself, that I
wasn’t to blame for this. I began pounding the wall with my fists then
cushions were placed under my hands. I was so infuriated, why didn’t she
love me, why? I walked over to the corner where I had placed myself earlier,
brought my knees up into my chest and started to shiver. I felt that my
creativity had been destroyed, that my Mother owned everything. What was
mine was hers. Chris asked me to sit in the chair where I was John the adult.
From this perspective I recognised how much of my creativity (who I was
inside) was squashed as a growing boy and that I more than anything in this
world wanted to know this part of me again. I chose a cushion in this room
to represent this part of me, the part of me that was my creativity. Then I
recognised that my little boy held all my creativity. I decided to go over and
sit with my little boy to find out about my creativity. He said, “Please stay
with me, and take me with you please.” I didn’t know what to do, I felt he
was too much to handle and that if I was going to rediscover my creativity
that I would have to leave him where he was. I started to leave and felt
overwhelming sadness. Chris yelled out, “Don’t you remember? This is the
way you found your creativity!” Once again as an adult I got amazingly
angry and yelled out why! After expressing this anger Chris explained that
this was not something that I did to myself, it was the abuse that created this
destructiveness and that my little boy and my creativity were one and the
same. I spoke to my little boy. “I had to squash you to survive.” Again my
eyes welled up with tears, how could I do such a thing? After sobbing for
what seemed like forever I came to the realisation that I did this to protect
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myself, to survive these times. I slowly got up and walked over to the shell,
the most beautiful shell I could find my wondrous little boy.
So very gently I picked up the shell and placed it on the cushion representing
my creativity. I thought to myself. What a perfect place for young John to
be. With that, the counselling session came to an end. That night I had the
most amazing dream.
Dream
I was in the basement of an old building that had been sealed off. It had not seen the light
of day for many many years. I stood there in the dark and slowly recognised that I was
standing in a large factory, where many carpenters had worked with machines that were
designed for specific tasks. Even though I could barely see, I did see that everything was
covered in a thick layer of sawdust and I was finding it difficult to see even more now
because only the area just in front of me was lit up. I started to become nervous and
frightened of what was beyond the light and out of my awareness. My fear of the dark
started to creep in so I did something most unusual, I walked backward into the dark
while reaching behind me with my hand, hoping that I would find a light switch on one of
the support beams for the roof. All of a sudden I felt a light switch and turned it on,
hoping that it would still be connected after all this time. To my amazement rows of
fluorescent lights began to flicker and come on. I could now see everything!
There was nothing the light didn’t touch and there in front of me, was a large beltsanding machine in perfect working order. It had been maintained beautifully and
preserved by a clear plastic cover placed over it, this had protected it from the sawdust
and dust that had accumulated over the many years that it had remained idle. All the other
machines having deteriorated from not been covered over. This machine had been
meticulously taken care of by one man in preparation for the day that I might find it. I
then realized that the man was my dead Father. I was incredibly moved by this.
I then became startled, as out of the corner of my eye I saw a small figure scamper across
the workshop floor. I turned to look behind me to see what it was. It was a young boy no
more than three years of age, a ‘wild boy’ that had survived down in this basement alone
and by himself all these years. He was very fast and agile, hiding in the cupboards and
making pathways between the machines so as not to be noticed. I decided that I had to
catch him, as I thought this was the best thing to do. I quickly made my move and
cornered him and as I reached over to pick him up I became concerned that he may lash
out and attack me. To my surprise he didn’t, he willingly let me hold him and comfort
him. I immediately thought, I will look after you, there will now be four children in our
family and I know my partner will accept and care for you, as I will. Then I woke up.
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I awoke so light that morning and as the day progressed I felt once again a ray of hope
touch my heart, the heart of all hearts, the pure innocent heart of my inner child where all
my creativity grows from.
5.5 Following dreams
I decided to take the following to a session with Chris. I told her how
recently my relationship was not experiencing any peaceful moments and
how the old feeling of ‘It’s the relationship that’s holding me back’ was
coming up for me again. I told her that I wanted to set up a scenario with my
Mum and Dad so I could speak to them about this, as my hunch was I would
find some answers there.
Chris asked me to choose chairs in her counselling room to represent my
Mum and Dad and then position these chairs in the room. Chris then asked
me to ask my Mother whether she could help me with my dilemma.
I sat in the chair that represented my Mother and portrayed her. I remained
speechless for a moment and then said…
Mum: “You’re attacking me, why have you got to ask these questions? There
are no problems, lets just have everything happy.” (I almost felt sick!)
I quickly moved out of portraying the role of my Mother and became me.
From this I recalled that more often than not, when a family member asked a
question of Mum regarding the truth about past family history, Mum would
play the victim and say they were attacking her. When I realised this I felt
cheated and now it seemed I would hardly get anything out of her. What
made things worse was I was the one portraying her character. How
infuriating! Finally, after sitting back in the chair that represented my
Mother Chris asked what I thought of my son John?
Mum: “He attacks me and the past should be left in the past and I love John”.
Then I sat in the chair that represented my Father and portrayed his
character. Chris then asked Dad the same question.
Dad: “She was responsible for a lot of the goings on in our family.”
Chris then asked, “What goings on Dad?”
I reversed roles and portrayed Mum.
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Mum: “Darling, you’re not well, don’t pressure your Father John, he’s a sick
man! I love you sweetheart.” (I said this with a disgusting slimy look on my
face). Chris responded.
Chris interjects: “What you are really doing here Pat is telling your husband
to shut up and not answer any more questions.”
I then stopped this role portrayal and became me as I am. Agitated and in a
very controlled manner I said.
John: “You always stop this Mum, your relationship is so horrible and
you’re so controlling of Dad. Why didn’t you support Dad and go and live in
England with him when he was offered the position over there? Why do you
keep him quiet?”
Portraying the role of Dad I replied with…
Dad: “I really wanted for us to go, it was what I wanted to do, and it was a
great opportunity for us all. Why were you so frightened?”
Mum: “I was scared that you would be free again and I knew about your
lover from the war.”
John: “You didn’t support Dad in realizing his dream! If your relationship
could not weather this then it wasn’t a strong relationship. You don’t not
support someone to realise their dream because you fear you may lose them!
You contributed to a one-sided, unproductive, non-communicative
relationship! And nothing got spoken of your dreams either!”
Chris interjects: “Hang on John, your Father could have gone.”
I then responded by saying, “I know, I know, but he didn’t want to leave his
children, he wanted all of us to go together”.
I then mentioned to Chris that my Father was a bit of a lad. Chris replied by
saying, “You mean he had a girlfriend in England and he slept with other
women?”
“I believe so.” I then portrayed my Father and said…
Dad: “Pat hated sex, part of being in a loving relationship is having sex. She
wouldn’t have sex with me.”
Mum: “Every time we had sex we would have another child. I hated that!
(Very irate now) I hated that you could go off and be free.” (I started to cry,
as I felt trapped, not free). I then moved out of my Mother’s role and became
me as I am.
John: “I didn’t trust my Mum, I felt that she snatched something from
between my legs, my sex.” (I became uncomfortable around my groin; I
curled up on my chair to protect myself from her and began to cry.) “You
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didn’t have to snatch everyone’s joy and own it! You didn’t just cut yourself
off from love you cut off from receiving love from me and....
I wanted to follow my dreams!
My dreams, and own them for myself!
Not have you own them over me!”
I then had an overwhelming feeling to leave the session, to walk out; this
was the same feeling that I had been carrying around with me for days at
home with my family. And the same feeling that I’ve carried into every
relationship that I’ve been in with a woman. I started to feel anxious as I
desperately searched within myself for something that was of me that I could
hold onto that would not be taken away. Chris asked me what was
happening.
John: “She wants to own what’s mine, my joys, my life! And if I leave home
she can’t take that away from me anymore.”
I then start to weep and said…
“I have nowhere to go! There’s no one that will look after me and love me. I
can’t leave.”
Chris interjects: “This is a good enough reason why you would feel like you
want to leave home.” I respond by nodding my head.
Chris asked me to step out of this scene that I created. After a short break we
discussed what I was having difficulty with completing at present in my life.
I told her that I was not doing anything and that my life was going nowhere.
Chris then asked me what it was that I really wanted to do? I said that I
wanted to complete my manuscript. She then asked me how this was
progressing? At that I started to feel emotional and sad, as I was finding it
almost impossible to complete. Tears began to run down my face. Chris
suggested that I couldn’t hold anyone responsible for not following my
dreams, that none of us could. I agreed, and with that my session came to an
end. I left feeling a little wiser and less blaming of my relationship for my
struggle with my dream.
Note
I feel very strongly about the expression ‘living our lives through our
children’. I believe my Mother and Father became bitter and twisted inside
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because they didn’t follow their hearts and dreams. Mum was asked to train
with a famous Russian ballet teacher. Dad was asked to fly the Prime
Minister of England’s plane. One of my sisters at seventeen wanted to be a
dress designer and this was her dream above all things that she aspired to.
My Mother told her that there was no future in this for her and convinced her
to become a nurse.
She stayed with nursing for a few years and then became sick with
poliomyelitis. After almost fully recovering she worked in my Father and
Mother’s fabric shop. She told me this when she was forty years of age as
she sobbed by my side.
It’s my belief that bitterness forms from not following one’s dreams and that
this can turn into blame and resentment towards anyone who does. Our
children are overflowing with short and long-term dreams. Their dreams stay
alive; they stay alive through us believing in them, affirming them. What is
there to lose?
Hot Points
* Childhood memories are doorways that lead down corridors to sacred
healing places. Childhood memories are sacred moments in time. We can
learn from them once we realise that it is not their memory that weakens us,
but the energy it takes keeping them silenced within us.
* Contemplating or meditating and asking your disease what it represents is
a superb exercise and rewards one with unique insights. This can be used
even when feeling anxious or depressed. Any moment of unrest in the mind
can be seen as a dis-ease.
* Doing an exercise around a childhood memory can be a challenge that
holds great rewards. Anticipate that it will be emotionally unstabling and
until you have developed your own internal caring skills, it is wise to
commence your exploration with a caring friend or therapist by your side.
* Personal experiences that cannot be explained move us in a way that is
unique. These experiences are spiritual in nature and can touch those around
us in a most unique way as well. Our busy lifestyles can convince us to play
down these moments and brush them off as psychological aberrations
because they cannot be explained by the ‘nine to five brain’. This brain has
its place, though I believe it is from the sharing of these experiences that we
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connect with others in a most beautiful way. It is in the sharing of these
moments that our sons and daughters gain hope in life.
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Chapter 6. The Kingdom of God lies within
The kingdom of God lies within what? For most of my life to look inside
myself has been extremely frightening. Full of demons, devils, vampires and
dark spirits. Being still, meant I had to be vigilant that these evil creatures
wouldn’t overpower me and take me away. The closer that I travelled
towards what I thought was myself, the more selfish, sinful, greedy,
dreadful, evil, unlovable and unloving I would see I was. As I am writing
this I sense my old core belief system creeping up on me, trying to convince
me that this is who I am by stepping back into my centre and into my heart.
The fact is, I’ve been affirming to myself I am not part of God all along.
What loving being would want to live in a place such as me? This belief
does not want to stand down. I remember the commandment “Thou shalt not
place false gods before me”? Well, this is what I’ve done by placing the
belief system that my parents and Catholic upbringing created at the heart of
my being.
If a man called Jesus of Nazareth found a way in his lifetime to get back to
his centre, the centre of all creation and stay there through practising
forgiveness and compassion, then the religion that I was taught was
definitely not his. If it was at some stage, then it most definitely has been
corrupted. When I was attending my religious schooling it was about
convincing me that I was impure, imperfect and always would be. The only
way to get ahead being through focusing on people’s weaknesses, to
manipulate them through their fears. Only by this could you control them
and gain power over them. I was taught this nearly every day. And now I
have to take responsibility for the truth behind the fact that most of the
decisions that I’ve made in my life, have been based on a belief system
that’s foundation is not love but fear. I feel so overwhelmed at times with
sadness. The truth is, I have to take responsibility for all the lies I have been
living and all the untruths I have been sowing throughout my life. I can’t
blame anyone and fortunately for me, I’m learning to place responsibility
where it lies.
Journal. 17/9/97.
While waking up this morning I heard these beautiful little birds chirping
away outside my window and peacefulness swept over my whole being.
Then, I remembered waking up of a morning when I was just three years of
age and being snuggled up in my bed at home.
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There was this big old gum tree right outside my bedroom window and a
large flock of starlings lived in this tree. Each morning, I would wake up to
their chirps and squawks. I found this such a beautiful time of day when I
was a young child. End.
Note
So this is what I’d remembered. I don’t recall ever feeling as peaceful as this
upon waking at any other time in my life until now. I’d let go of this ever
being a possibility again, though at three years of age it was and now I know
it is at thirty-six. I can’t believe that finally my life may be changing for the
better, for as I start to break apart the fortress surrounding my heart, made
from the blocks of negative thoughts created around this time, I am
accepting more of the good parts within me, more of me! The parts within
me that I trained myself to overlook all these years. I now consider that
when one blocks out one painful moment (memory) in their life, they block
out whole or parts of other memories that surround that moment, good or
bad. Memory blocking is not precise. It blocks out the life memory
circulating around and through traumatic moments and the longer the
healing of these moments is left, the more of a life it blocks out and affects.
This has lead me to believe that my life span of thirty-six years could be
viewed like a cross section of a trunk of a thirty-six year old tree. Each
growth ring counting as one year, Just like it does in nature. This is how I
envisage my lifeline to be, though with one big difference, it’s not a line
from zero to thirty-six, it’s not linear, it’s cyclic. Circles within circles. With
this in mind, lets reconsider the abuse at age ten, which I decided to blank
out of my consciousness. A ten-year-old tree that has been damaged
(scarred) will slowly cover its wound to survive, to protect itself from further
damage. In the beginning the damage can be seen on the outside in the bark,
then slowly it’s covered over. Not so on the inside, as it shows up in the
growth rings. It ripples outwards into the years that follow and the tree’s
growth is affected. I was raised to believe that I could block out just one
memory and the rest would not be altered or affected. I’ve changed my
belief.
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Journal. 18/9/97.
I feel exhausted by the sheer weight of my life and I just want to go to sleep
and wake to find my life has changed. I want to feel at peace. I feel like my
relationship is going to end soon because I am holding my partner back and I
think she will make the decision soon if I don’t. End.
Two days after this journal insert I had my first meeting with Peta, a
psychologist that works on patterns of dysfunctional behaviour by
incorporating both a mainstream and spiritual approach. In this meeting, we
spent nearly three hours dealing with the emotional pain that builds up inside
of me and that every two weeks at present needs to be expressed, otherwise I
become depressed and possibly suicidal. I most definitely don’t need this
any more! And now I know all it takes for me to stop feeling depressed and
suicidal is to express my inner feelings and cry if I need. This meeting led
me to look at the raw truth of who I am and the truth of what I have created
in my life up to this point. A very fearful man.
After this original counselling session with Peta, I shed many tears. Almost
every life decision that I have made up to now has been from a central point
of fear. I realised, that I had been projecting my Mother onto my partner and
this had been one of the fundamental reasons why our relationship came to
the point of separation after ten years. I couldn’t do this to my partner any
more and after becoming aware of this fact a whole lot more of the puzzle
fell into place.
My partner had been nurturing me very much like a Mother, caring for me
extremely well during the last ten months, especially in the area of helping
me manage the often times acute and overwhelming realisations about my
behaviour. These stemmed from the trauma of recalling the abuse only
months earlier. Regrettably, this magnified the Mother role within her to me
and I started to withdraw even further away from her as my lover and
partner. I was not willing to look at this, as at the time this would point out
how debilitated a man I was and bring up my unexpressed rage I held
towards my Mother. I continued unconsciously starving my partner of
physical love and caring. On one end of our relationship there was me;
feeling disgusted with myself and not worthy of receiving or giving any love
and physical nurturing. At the other end of the relationship there was my
partner; yearning to receive love and nurturing from me. What a horrible
mess.
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One night after having an argument with my partner; which ended in us not
wanting to place any more effort into the relationship, I decided that I should
sleep on it.
I woke the next morning with a tremendous fear and anxiousness in my
being, as it seemed like our relationship had finished. The situation was
pretty desperate as I lay there in bed, so I thought I would do something
completely different. I commenced to breathe into my belly saying the
following affirmation, ‘I am John and love is my centre’, I visualized a white
ball of light in my solar plexus and I also called upon Christ to help me. In
about ten minutes I felt centred in truth and love and not bound by fear and
other thoughts that were holding me out of my centre. Thoughts such as, eg.
that without my partner I could not look after myself and would die. I was
really scared to look at these thoughts for fear I would be driven back into
despair. However, there was also the impulse to look at this from this
peaceful place inside. I decided to look at it from the point of being solid in
peace, even if it was for just a moment. So I did and the major difference
this time was that I had centred myself in love not fear and now when I
looked at it, I could see it was just an illusion and the following information
came to me crystal clear.
As a little boy my Mother would break my will and punish me by not
feeding me or locking me out of the house. This helped place within me the
beliefs that I could not survive on my own and was not worth caring for. As
a little boy I believed I could not survive without my Mother. That I must do
what she told me to do, or she would withdraw her love from me. With
every intimate sexual relationship that I have had this has always been
present. I had never seen this so clearly before this time. I told my partner
what I had realised and again the tears of truth ran down my cheeks. My
Mother’s treatment of me was painfully apparent. From this I further
realised why I always became anxious when my partner and I didn’t see eye
to eye. I’d projected the belief onto my partner that she would abandon me if
I did not do as she said or agreed with her. I believe this treatment of me by
my Mother commenced at a very early age. At times I used to believe I
would die if my partner and I would break-up.
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There was never a win-win with my Mother, even up until her death. I don’t
recall ever a compromise being reached on important issues between us
without their being some thing that I had to do as payment for what was
reached. My Mother didn’t know that win wins existed. It was awesome for
me to uncover this truth.
Journal. 17/9/97.
I have become so intolerant of everyone’s personality and I’m noticing how
excessively I’m bitching about how false and fake everyone is. I’m
becoming reclusive and cut off again. I’m not willing to look at how false
and fake I have become, even if it is to protect myself. I thought I was
always real. When people talk to me now who are coming from a loving
place, I become threatened and confused and want to verbally attack them. I
caught myself doing this the other day with my loving five-year-old
daughter. I feel so ashamed. End.
6.1 To enter into the Kingdom of God, become as a child
Most of the time without any problem my daughter knows she is lovable. In
fact, she is love, how beautiful is that! Because she is so often a reflection of
where I came from, I at times catch myself feeling jealous of whom she is.
This activates a part in me that wants to break her and destroy her will, to
make her fearful and forget who she really is. I feel so deeply ashamed upon
writing this....
This is the same way that I was destroyed and forgot who I was.
I know though, there is one big difference. Like you, my daughter has a will
and heart as strong as a lion and her Mum foster’s her magnificent spirit, as I
am learning to do more of. I am remembering through her that you are too.
On the following page are lyrics from a song that I wrote for my daughter
before she was born. Her middle name is Hope.
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House of Hope
Looking at a man made life, touched by the coming of new life.
Impressions of innocent hands, cupping my face I see.
The letting go of Mothers and Sons, pain of the play so deep.
Fathers to men become one. I shade my eyes to the life I see.
Thinking about my baby and my wife, bringing to me a new life, joys
of my life rain down, open my eyes to the light I see.
I want hold my grace, step to the pace, all my hopes bonded so close,
like a baby’s calm and saving grace.
In the house of hope, I want to write my name on the walls.
In the house of peace, where my sculptures stand so tall.
I want to write, write my name, I can hear my name being called.
I will write, write my name, I hear it echo off these walls.
Fixing my gaze held in high esteem, seeing me as she believes,
my little baby cries, and on raising my eyes, there’s a path back to me.
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Early in my daughter’s life as I have mentioned, I became aware of an aspect
in me that at times wanted to break her will and loving spirit. Her will and
loving spirit reminded me of the boy I once was, a being of love and light
and of the Creator. My active participation in my daughter’s early life
triggered the sadness and pain I had been carrying with me from this time in
mine. I wanted to rid myself of my pain by attempting to destroy anything
around me that reminded me of mine. I became jealous of her, as she still
had her will and loving spirit. I became aware of the bitterness inside me. I
now know that I have to have compassion for myself, forgive myself, for
seeing myself any other way than I truly am. Within my daughter lies the
key to remembering the truth about whom I am. I just need to take the time
to look and nurture her. On occasions I’m still confronted with the urge to
squash her spirit and my shame around this urge existing in me makes me
feel so isolated and hopeless. Keeping what I’ve written a secret is the worst
thing I can do. My shame feeds and keeps me from gaining knowledge on
new ways to strengthen my spirit and my daughters. Shame binds me with
lifelessness, down in hell. Well, the only hell that I believe exists!
Shame holds us in a contract to repeat the past.
This is the legacy of my ancestors, their Catholic schooling and religion and
now mine. And how I have kept my self-punisher alive and well all these
years, holding me separate from myself, my five year old daughter and my
family. Even God. Up until now, I haven’t been able to understand why at
times when she would be playing happily I would feel emotionally upset and
go into sadness. I now know why.
My Catholic upbringing and the Catholic education system that I was part
of, most definitely made me a good candidate for sexual abuse. In fact I
became like so many others, a victim of the system. A system perfectly
designed to make victims and perpetrators of; spiritual, sexual, physical or
emotional abuse, be silent. It didn’t matter what wrongs were done. Right or
wrong, you kept silent. Shame and guilt around sexual pleasure is still
widely spread in this religion. What is suppressed and dismissed returns ten
fold. I was raised on the belief that sex was dirty, wrong and sinful, as were
any thoughts around these areas.
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Venial sins
Even up until 1978 in my last year of school, we were told that playing with
ourselves was wrong and took our minds off God. As sexuality is such a
large part of the human experience, to make this wrong and the work of the
devil created a large imbalance within me. My teachers largely denied their
sexuality and were extremely awkward when expressing any love and caring
through physical touch, in fact this was pretty much non-existent. Any
nurturing by a member of the Catholic order quite possibly had sexual
overtones; hyper-arousal wasn’t uncommon amongst the clergy and
brothers. They were told that their sexual thoughts were impure and they
would then become filled with shame and guilt around their body and
mind’s natural responses, as I had as well and I was still a young boy. The
big difference between being a young boy having a distorted sense of reality
and an adult, is that an adult is in a position of power and a brother, priest, or
nun can enforce these distortions onto children. For some their suppressed
sexual creativity distorted their delivery of corporal punishment to the point
where it became sadistic violent abuse. An example of this is how a nun
would pinch my eight-year-old sister until she bruised and how a brother
punished me for running by forcing me to give him my hand. With
excitement in his eyes, he crushed it until the joints in my hand cracked and
saw I couldn’t withstand the pain anymore and began to cry. Luckily for me
this guy got shipped off to another school where he could crush someone
else’s hand. It’s not funny, but it’s the truth. A close friend of mine once told
me the story of one brother who made the boys stand with their hands out to
the side in the shape of a cross, facing away from the brother so they
couldn’t see when they would be hit.
The god the Catholic religion designed for me, that I substituted for my own
true self, my God within, has always been a god of judgment. One who
placed shame on me if I should do anything that was wrong in his eyes. In
the eyes of the people that created him.
At the age of ten I began to search for another male role model that I could
trust to fill me with knowledge and contrast my Dad’s. To contrast my
Father in a way that would reflect back to me an image that I could then
commence moulding myself from. Then, with this man’s reinforcement,
acknowledgement, honouring, admiration and praise of me, I’d commence
building my spiritual code of conduct. If this were done correctly at this very
innocent and sensitive age, then when I would reach transition (puberty) the
building blocks that were present would draw together to form a confident,
safe and trusting picture of myself.
154
One that I would have believed was a worthy reflection of God’s handiwork.
My Father was an extremely hard worker and not big on praise and
acknowledgement. From this, I had a tendency to trust any adult males that
gave me what I lacked receiving from my Father. At ten, I was still very
open hearted, innocent, trusting and loving of anyone who demonstrated
caring towards me. I recall very vividly having this same perception of Jesus
at an early age and feeling very safe in this.
At ten my sexuality had been opened up and tampered with well before its
time. In four years I reached puberty and my sexuality was opened up again
for me to review and consider the foundation on which it was based. When
this happened, I contrasted the abuse that took place from this male teacher
against the back-drop of what the boys in the school yard thought, what
society and the media thought and what my family thought. I concluded that
my creative sexual energy was shameful and as a man had betrayed me that I
loved, thought loved me and represented Christ, how could I trust my
perception of who Christ was. He supposedly loved and protected children
as well. He didn’t protect me!
Journal. 27/9/97.
My session today helped me understand a little more about why I felt
depressed. I was so angry and sad today. The idea behind my session today
was to contact me at five years of age, show me a way to relax and centre
myself in love.
We began the session firstly by focusing on my breathing and then on
specific parts of my body. Moving from my feet to my head. After relaxing
myself we endeavoured to communicate with my higher self, my super
consciousness. I found this impossible! So we decided to support this
visualization with the assistance of animals that came into my mind’s eye. I
was asked to imagine an animal that would assist me. The animals I saw
were; a bear wolf and hawk. At first, I was constantly receiving false images
of people claiming to be my higher self and I could feel my little boy within
me becoming small and distant, to the extent where he was not contactable. I
asked the animals that were in the background could they help? The wolf
took me to the side of a hill and started to dig away at the ground next to it,
as if trying to dig a tunnel underneath or search for an opening in the ground.
I looked around and saw a bear across the creek that was nearby. He was
scratching the ground with his huge claws in anticipation that I would call on
his enormous strength. I asked the bear to come over and help clear the way.
155
He immediately ripped away at the ground that the wolf was scratching at,
creating an opening to an underground cave. The wolf ran in and I followed.
Down we went, and in an instant I found myself at the edge of an
underground creek. This flowed into a magnificent cavern that opened up
into a river.
Again my friend the wolf ran ahead through the shallow clear waters of the
creek and then headed off outside where the sun was shining brilliantly. Still
I had not found my higher self or guide. Nevertheless I found this journey
remarkable. I decided to follow the wolf and found myself outside bathing in
the brilliance of the sun. I still desired to find my higher self. My therapist
reminded me again of my animals and asked me if one of them could show
me the way. The only animal that I hadn’t called upon yet was the hawk. I
asked the bird to show me the way and the visualization changed rapidly.
All of a sudden, I saw myself as a five-year-old boy, cleaning the dirt out of
my favourite red fabric lined gumboots. I couldn’t believe it! Now this was
even more amazing. As the image became more vivid, I became very excited
at the possibility of saying hello to young John. Though young John had no
interest in talking to me and went about his business tipping his boots upside
down and enjoying the peace of not having anyone around. My counsellor
suggested that I reach out and hug him. At that, young John spoke saying
very clearly that he didn’t want to be touched or hugged. I withdrew,
respecting this and started to feel confused at the hardness that surrounded
such a young boy. I then asked what he was doing, he became slightly
anxious while telling me that he was staying out of the way of his brothers
and sisters so he wouldn’t be hurt and teased by one of them. I felt his
isolation, he was alone. I felt helpless, my counsellor asked me to ask him if
there was anything that he wanted. I did, and then he said, “Give me back
my dog!” As if I was the one that took him away. At that I started to weep
over the pain I felt at my dog ‘Hereboy’ being taken away from me. I felt his
pain and realised that Hereboy gave me the gift of allowing me to express
my love, imagination, adventure and play without being hurt or teased by
anybody. Playing with my dog was the only area in my life that my little boy
would allow his innocence, joy and creativeness to be expressed. Hereboy
loved him unconditionally, protected him, kept him safe and never ever
harmed him. I cried for the loss of my dog and then asked young John how
he felt? He levelled me with his glance and said sternly, “You should know,
you are me, what I feel you feel, you’ve just covered it over, the pain you
feel every day is my pain!”. This took my breath away. This is so
unbelievable!
156
My counsellor suggested I picture Hereboy and give him to young John.
Every time I saw Hereboy I began to cry from the pain around Hereboy not
being there forever and being taken away. My counsellor said that in this
realm John could be with Hereboy for as long as he wanted. All of a sudden
I had Hereboy as a puppy in my arms jumping around. It was wonderful. He
was licking me all over my chin, and then he saw young John and leaped out
of my arms onto the ground and started to run around him. I said to young
John he could have him as long as he liked, he was happy, though still
cautious of me. I was pleased they were back together. I told him that I felt
like it was time for me to go and could I come back and play some time? All
of a sudden I saw this marble rolling along the ground from him to me. I
knew this meant that this would be OK. I then began to think that he would
be too much to handle, time consuming, take too much responsibility and
wasn’t worth the effort. I recalled that these feelings had come up within me
before when thinking of visiting young John through visualization. I had
never expressed these thoughts out loud as I thought I could hide them from
him inside myself, by not voicing them. On this occasion I decided to voice
them and tell him how I felt. Not surprisingly, he had always known that this
was how I felt about him, and that’s why he didn’t trust me.
My counsellor suggested that I tell young John that I had some problems that
I needed to sort out. One of them being, how I always thought as a young
boy that I was too much and not worth it. I did this and also told him I was
sorry that this happened. He didn’t say anything back, as my words had little
meaning for him. Then he held out his hand for me to look at, palm facing
up. I began to weep as his hand was so beautiful, all puffy like a little boys
hand, and grubby from playing in the dirt. I looked at its absolute beauty and
said that I’d come back to play soon and in the meantime to have fun with
Hereboy. I slowly opened my eyes and my journey was complete.
My counsellor suggested to me to do the visualization of seeing and playing
with young John at home. I straightaway became emotional realising that
little John didn’t feel safe at all inside the house. It was too threatening for
him; someone might hurt him. I guess I’ll start at the beach, in the garden or
when no one is at home. That way he will feel safer. End.
Note
After the visualization I recalled as a young boy overhearing a conversation
that my Mother had with someone and her telling them that I was too much
to handle and too difficult.
157
As a young boy I would fear that someone was going to come to my house
in the night-time while asleep and take me away, because who I was, well...
was just too much. I believe, this is one of the reasons why I become
frightened sometimes at night and check on my daughter.
6.2 Why God is a Male?
At one stage in my recovery it became relevant for me to look at Christian
based religious orders. The type of personality disorder they create and
support, by teaching the belief that God is male. What are the benefits of
keeping this concept alive? Is there a pay-off for others and me in continuing
to promote this? What behaviour manifests from carrying this belief into our
families, society, and into our world? Well I certainly don’t want this book
to be a life long project, so I’ll cut it short if that’s OK with you.
Earlier on, I wrote on the belief of placing the Creator (God) outside of the
self and I now wish to expand on my experience. At a very early age I was
influenced by the suggestions from the people whom my well being was
entrusted to and the stories they passed on to me, e.g. that a loving male God
was in a place outside myself far far away, a place called heaven. These
stories are numerous and they all had the same underlying theme running
through them. That God was outside myself, loved me from a distance and
that I would only meet Him when I died. In the afterlife would be the only
time that I would receive unlimited love, nurturing, Joy..... perfection. The
only time that I would ‘Rest in Peace’.
After convincing myself that the creator who made me was somewhere else
other than within me and that this was something I was told I couldn’t
understand, (a bit of a cover up here I believe because the people that were
teaching me this couldn’t understand this themselves) I went into confusion.
I became desperate in my outer seeking to find who I was. Doubting my
intuition. I began to rely on the people around me that I loved to fill me in on
who I was. The more I trusted in my outer world teaching me about who I
was the more I forgot about me. I created a great need to be accepted by
those around me. So I set about building myself a new me. A new
personality based on the responses that my Mother and Father, my carers,
and my family had to my behaviour. Their treatment of me was my guide.
Since I didn’t receive their acknowledgement and acceptance for who I truly
was, I at first behaved in any way possible to gain this. I acted negatively to
gain attention. I was continuously told I was a naughty, evil and wicked boy.
158
That I had the devil in me! To survive, I had to live less of me more and
more each day and I started to believe I was no good in my heart.
Throughout my life when I have stilled my mind to reach inside, it has only
been long enough for me to catch a glimpse of my inner beauty as I would
shock myself out of this place, for fear of what I might uncover and that
what I then uncovered would overpower me and I’d not exist. Taking the me
I’d created away. If I reconstruct this sentence to...
I turn my back on my inner peace and bridle my excitement around the
possibility of fully connecting with who I am, with God. I resist having
the experience of all my needs being fulfilled, as I may not want for
anything, or anybody. Only the creator. Living my life because I choose
to from the self realised point of love.
My mind doesn’t comprehend that what it covers up is the rest
of who I am and longs to be at peace with.
Could it be that my fear of being taken away to an evil lifeless place is the
way I keep myself separate from the heaven in me, from God? From ‘resting
in peace’ on a daily basis, in each moment. I really need to loosen up! And
let me take myself away more often..... This is so exciting don’t you think?
As I commenced going to church and school, I was told that priests were
holy men who received knowledge directly from God and by following their
suggestions I would draw closer to Him. Never reaching Him of course, just
closer. This just fed and still feeds our very strong Patriarchal society. The
imbalance of power portioned to a male God that lives complete somewhere
else other than fully within all mankind, has gone on for eons. This
continues to promote a society of men and women who are in a constant
search for their absent fathers. Have all holy wars been fought over this?
Does this attribute to the anxiety I carry in response to myself now as a
father? Does this leave me feeling overwhelmed in response to my children
(my son) and why I feel I need to leave my family environment and ‘search
for something’ to become full? I believe so. Absent fathers in heaven!!
Absent from all sons and daughters. My Dad was an absent father as I’m
sure his father was before him. I do not believe it was just the industrial
revolution that this commenced from. I believe that the industrial revolution
exacerbated an already entrenched pattern.
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Being raised as a Catholic and educated to believe that God was male, and
loved me from a distance deeply confused me.
6.3 Where is my male?
I consider that for men to be at peace with who they are, they need to
acknowledge that there is a Divine presence. That this Divine presence (God
the creator of all things seen and unseen) lies within. And has the
characteristics of both male and female as they do. Definitely not in one
creation any more than another, or residing more complete at an outside
address.
All children male or female are born innocent. A boy will exercise selfbeliefs that his dad helps him foster. Gaining self worth. As he matures he
will check out the resilience of these beliefs amongst his peers and other
men, to see how they stand up under normal conditions in the big wide
world. With the acknowledgement from his father of his gifts, they will
remain shining in his back pocket to give out to the world. He will become a
young creative man! However, if he has been raised by a dad who wasn’t
around and/or spun the story that God the creator, the Father of all fathers
lives in a place outside himself, absent as well, double big problems occur.
He may become a life long ‘seeker’ of his manhood. Not ever arriving at
manhood and realising his dreams. Always being a boy. Fragmenting off his
Divine aspect and entering into the belief that this is beyond him, outside
himself. Further to this, when he is showered with love, acceptance and
acknowledgement from his own father and others, it will not fully touch his
heart and soul. He will portion it inside and out. Sitting it outside himself in
hope that one day God the father will approve of him and see his gift of love,
his reaching out, and return home. This never happens and the hope runs thin
and into rage and anger towards all fathers.
Oh how we all long for our Father’s sacred acceptance.
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If there are no men around that have truly realised they are complete unto
themselves and that our young men can draw upon for inspiration, then I
believe males will keep on killing themselves, especially teenagers, as this is
when we begin our search for the true man with the well timbered spirit. If
we are given no compass by our fathers to go by, it can sometimes be too
late for some young men, as our society is now *demonstrating.
If boys aren’t nurtured by their fathers they can grow up with the belief that;
if their mothers aren’t there they will not survive. If men find themselves in
the mid-life crisis of divorce with their partners leaving them and taking the
children with no valid reason, they may feel so abandoned and pained that
suicide becomes their only choice. If they are not allowed access to their
children at this stage, the stress of not being able to care for their children is
devastating. Make no mistake, through this stressful time both women and
men comfort and heal their ‘inner child’ by actively caring for their children.
It’s a sad thought that for some men it takes a crisis such as this to realise
their absence. And then it can be too late. Our children need us!
Our sons need us and we need our sons, lets not be confused
any longer that this isn’t a reciprocal healing process.
What is it with this religion?
There is a reason behind this religion for me. I can be controlled and directed
extremely effectively through fear and by people who I’m told are more in
the know than I. I will not extend the creators kingdom, the kingdom that
lies within with this as my belief, my god. The Catholic religion that I grew
up in did the opposite to what it said it provided, exactly the opposite! In my
family we were all so starved of our essence that if one of us tapped into
God’s creative spark for an instant, the rest of us became like a starving pack
of wolves, trying frantically to claim that it was because of one of us that
this spark manifested.
* The Australian Bureau of Statistics listed the following in their 1996 edition of ‘Leading causes of Death’.
These figures relate directly to Suicide Australia wide per. 100,000 of population;
In the 15-24 age bracket 102 males suicided to 31 females.
In the 25-44 age bracket 154 males suicided to 68 females.
In the 45-54 age bracket 343 males suicided to 214 females.
On the 15th of Jan. 1999 The Bureau released the following figures in their current 1997 edition
of ‘Leading causes of Death’.
In the 15-24 age bracket 417 males suicided to 93 females.
In the 25-44 age bracket 971 males suicided to 237 females.
In the 45-54 age bracket 294 males suicided to 96 females.
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My Mother was the best at doing this, always claiming our personal
accomplishments and telling others, in front of us, that it was because of her
we were accomplished. Sadly, I’m sure the same had happened to Mum. We
all forgot whom we were and that we were unique. God then became a
concept to bend and twist to suit the needs of the person in power.
I’d like to think that the illusion that Christian religious orders have had in
place for centuries will begin to crumble rapidly. As its theme flows
throughout our society and culture creating an imbalance not only within
males and females, but also within our environment. I want a new theme to
flow. That we recognise and affirm; each others unique beauty and potential
– that we are complete magnificent works of art formed by a loving Creator
that resides within us all – that we are one and the same through divine
order. Providence.
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Chapter 7. My daughter & partner speak
What has it been like to live with me while working through my abuse? I
believe to include my family’s thoughts in writing in response to this
question, is a most important part of this story. As it is the impressions I
leave behind that make the difference to my children’s lives and the lives of
those around me. When a person is sick with something that is contagious
and are aware of their disease, I see they ultimately have two choices, to
respond (act) consciously or unconsciously to its presence in their life. They
may either; chose to withhold telling of their disease, knowing full well of
what they are passing on and the drastic effect it may have on the lives of
those around them or; they may choose to tell those around them, giving
them the conscious choice of supporting them through their healing process
or not. I do my best to choose the later. And possibly my greatest fear in
doing this, is that those around me that I love and hold dear to me, will
abandon me if I give them the choice of knowing who I truly am. With all
my dis-eases, all my warts, all my fears, all my mis-takes, all my hopes,
dreams and inner radiance. And now as I relate what I have just written back
to me, I see that I fear the abandonment of myself by me when I go through
times of truly facing who I am.
All the things I hide from others I’m actually hiding from
myself.
To continue. The following writings are my family’s response in relation to
the question at the top of this page. We hope that this will create a broader
understanding of the impact that any past unresolved abuse has on family
members, even in a context such as mine.
The italic parts of this chapter are my response at the time of reading their
writings to me.
Daughter, age thirteen
In order for me to tell you my story of how John’s sexual abuse affected my
relationship with him, I need to describe our relationship before these
moments in his life were looked upon.
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“John, come play with us!”, my brother and I called and sure enough from
around the corner galloped a big playful kid. John would always play with
us even if he were busy. I loved his playful humour; I actually think he
taught it to me. John taught me a lot of things like how to swim, how to tie
my shoelaces and how to ride a bike. The funniest thing we did was go on
adventures and explore the bush, we always had fun together.
“John, I’m going to bed”, I called from my snug room. John would come
and give me a cuddle and kiss. I would love it, not only at bedtime but all the
time, we were good friends. I was happy and felt love cuddling him. We
were beginning the path to a very long, fun, emotional and lasting
relationship.
A few years passed and one day I heard something I didn’t like. “John come
play!” My brother and I called, we waited a while and there was a pause.
“Sorry, (with a deep breath) I’m too busy”. He felt sad, he felt angry and
silently depressed. John still played with us and it was fun, except part of
him was missing, broken and incomplete. Often it would look like tears were
welling in his tired eyes and they needed to be cried. Sometimes I would
glance at him out of the corner of my eye and he would not see that I was
looking at him. At those times he looked like a little boy that had had a
heavy fall and was waiting for someone to help him up, but no one came nor
understood.
That’s exactly how I use to feel sometimes. I didn’t know you knew. I guess I
should have realised, as I knew of my Father’s pain.
It was his journey and adventure and I knew it would be a long one. I then
gradually realised that part of my big playful friend was going to be missing
for a while. Once I sat on the couch watching T.V. “Would you turn that
down!”, said John harshly. “Yeah sure”, I replied rudely and disrespectfully.
I reached for the control and responded to his request.
I’d get home from school and give Mum a kiss and hug, I’d look at John and
my body told me to hug him though in my mind I felt scared. This created a
great distance between us. I stopped giving John hugs or kisses. Actually
John and I didn’t have much physical contact at all, which was a shame
because that was something I cherished and admired about our relationship.
John was disappointed that I didn’t hug him as much any more and so was I.
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After a while I thought, “Alex, you need to understand why you’re so
uncomfortable with John.” My answer didn’t come straight away.
I became aware of John’s sexual abuse though didn’t focus consciously on it
until recently. I was distant from John because of the sexual abuse and being
perceptive I could feel John’s struggle around it as well. Although John
wanted hugs I observed that he unconsciously felt uncomfortable with them,
with his sexuality. I now know in these harsh circumstances this is what can
be expected.
I was so scared sweetheart that I would sexually abuse you. So I remained
distant. I thought there maybe something about myself I didn’t know about.
It’s been three hard years of pain and suffering for John, but John is not the
only one that has been hurt by this, his friends and family have all been
affected by his abuse. The saddest thing for me is that John’s and my path
together had been so full of fun, and was growing into a wonderfully
emotional long lasting friendship.....This got put off. This meant a lot to both
of us and nothing can make up for the amount of heartache this has put us
through.
You’re right; nothing can, though now we have every other moment from
here on in.
I am now so happy that finally John is getting through his past and I
thoroughly look forward to our future.
Partner
I am reluctant and somewhat fearful of diving into the deep caverns of what
it has been like to have an eleven-year relationship with John. He asked me
to write a piece for his book over a year ago. I’ve pondered many a word in
my mind without ever making a stroke on paper.
So here I sit on this warm windy day to write of my feelings and thoughts
around sharing eleven years with a man who was sexually interfered with as
a boy.
I recognised a deep connection with John from the first moment our eyes
danced.
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My first response was very much of being drawn to him physically and
spiritually. It wasn’t till many years later that I realised I was bonded to him
through pain.
In our beginnings we shared deep remembering of soul journeys together in
other lives. We also shared tender and passionate lovemaking. I had never
experienced union like this before and yet there was such a distance, such a
wall of pain that separated John and I. This pain felt greater than the Berlin
Wall. At least the Berlin wall could be touched and torn down brick by brick
with the support and encouragement of many others that had shared a
common experience. His journey, my journey, our journey together has been
one of dealing with each psychological brick and placing it aside or
smashing it to smithereens.
It is my shame and the shame feeding this global experience that slows the
healing process down for so many. The silence, separation and isolation
from our fellow man that shame creates, is a powerful force when
endeavouring to bring people together to heal abuse of any nature.
It’s not an easy journey peeling the onion of pain; there are so many layers
seemingly the same yet different. And with each layer there comes a new
understanding and a gentler approach to the next challenge.
We both said we would remain together as long as we had work to do, that
there was a purpose in us remaining together. As I write these words I think
to myself what hard task masters we have been. Now the ideal relationship
for me is to have a balanced integration of courageous onion peeling and
peaceful surrender into stillness. In John I saw an amazing strong man. He
had the inner strength to meet heart to heart along with a Peter Pan quality of
fun and spontaneity. There was also intensity and depth in him that felt
untouched and unexplored. At times he would keep his distance and remain
separate, never quite letting go enough to surrender into love. I loved and
adored him like I had never loved and adored anyone else. I knew he too
held this deep connection.
I felt his love for me when he spontaneously allowed his feelings to pour
out. And yet if I were to meet him with my own deep feelings for him and
return this through a loving look, ice would rise and he would disconnect
himself before I could blink.
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I was so scared that I would fully feel my love for you, for us, and then do
you harm. I was doing harm anyway! I know now what I was doing to you, I
was doing to me. Not letting you in. This is how I punished myself, how I
punished you. I really wanted to punish my Mother for not protecting me
from the abuse. Instead I placed this on you. I’m so sorry.
He would then make some humorous quip about nothing so as to distract
from the moment of intimacy. I struggled with what John called humour, as
for me, this was not humour, it was a roadblock saying, ‘don’t go any
further’. John would behave in this way to repel me from him again and
again. From this I would shut down. There seemed to be a process of asking
and reaching out with one hand and snapping back with the other. A clear
message of, ‘I’m not safe to go there’. This would trigger my own process of
abandonment and I would become so full of frustration from the non-verbal
communication I would go into a cathartic eruption. I resorted to calling this
his ‘push me pull you’. Sometimes I would let this go and other times I
would ask him to clarify what he was doing. He would then deny his action
as a diversion from intimacy and quickly turn things around to seem like it
was my entire problem. It was never our problem to work together on. Often
I would end up a blithering screaming banshee totally uncentred, unclear,
betrayed, lost and feeling a sense of madness with no light at the end of the
tunnel. We struggled with this intense stuck ness for three years. It was
always there.
With the birth of our child and John’s realisation of his abuse, we
recommitted ourselves to the healing of our wounds and the expression of
truth to each other no matter what the feelings. I could feel John’s feelings
acutely, even though he would deny them. Any calm verbal attempt to
rationalise and understand his shut downs would be met with denial by him.
One day we were driving home along a quiet country road. We’d just
crossed a little bridge and the car was struggling to gain power up a hill. We
came to a standstill and I could not bear to be in the car with him any longer,
so I jumped out of the car screaming, “I can’t go on with this madness”. I
must say that at all times John remained calm, collected and in complete
control of his emotions.
I did not get back into the car till he took responsibility for his unsaid,
unexplored and denied feelings around love, sex and intimacy. John would
allow himself to only feel fear and sadness. Rage and anger were off limits
and these were definitely emotions that he would not belittle himself to
explore. Consequently, I was the one that flew into fits of rage and anger.
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I was frightened the denial of my own physical expression of caring towards
you and others (that had now turned into anger and rage towards myself)
would turn into a physically violent expression towards you, the same way
my abusers had done with me. I felt if I expressed my anger and rage I
would become violent just like them. I was not going to do that. Even if I had
to go into shutting down.
During those three years I was in my own process that was parallel to
John’s. It is only now from a distance, I can see my intention to heal
developed my ‘observer role’. My objectivity.
John and I enjoyed a torrid stint of lovemaking when we first met. I was
hungry for him and he represented life to me. He was gorgeous, young,
alive, virile and playful. We seemed to be matched and when my children
went to their father I would spend time with him. This period lasted until we
moved into a house together which he was very reluctant to do, some part of
him must have known that this would set off a process. This was where the
“push me, pull you” first developed. This was also where patterns within our
sexual relationship commenced. There would be six week cycles, we’d make
love once and then John would have no interest, he’d turn off and make out
that he was too busy. After six weeks he’d begin to be physically
affectionate again and sexually warm, we’d make love then another six
weeks would go by. Call me slow, but it took about a year before I decided
this didn’t work for me. John wouldn’t even allow me to touch him when
watching TV or when at the movies. It seemed that when he had his focus
directly on something that he was deeply involved with and concentrating
on, his response to any physical touch would be one of shock and extreme
agitation. John would tell me that this was due to him wanting to stay
immersed in what he was doing. In retrospect, I greatly attribute this
response to his sexual abuse. I believe that when John was a young boy
sitting on his teacher’s knee, happy and safe with having his work checked,
something happened. Part of him would be jolted away from his moment of
peace by someone he loved.
The overwhelming impact of the sexual touch at such a young age. The
absolute feeling of betrayal that unconsciously formed in his lifetime,
created an extreme restlessness and agitation in him. Especially with touch
he wasn’t expecting.
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The love and connection John and I shared was great and a year later we
conceived our gorgeous child. Inside me, (the one John projected his Mother
onto), grew a seed planted by him. A child whose gift would be so great that
it would guide him back to himself. He initially felt so overwhelmed by the
pregnancy that he put himself on the other side of Australia.
He fought overwhelming feelings of entrapment, with nowhere
to go and no one on his side. No matter which way he turned he
felt himself dying inside.
It’s only in recent times that John has been able to take responsibility for his
leaving and admit to himself this is what he felt at the time. He was so
ashamed of feeling this way. Knowing this now, he runs to support the
expansion into his essence and find once again his resting place. It’s as if he
runs to capture it and break away from his feelings of entrapment.
The overwhelm would come up over the simplest of things. “I feel trapped!”
This was John’s response when he was overwhelmed with feelings. Over
time, I recognised that this was his process and was able to stay objective. I
would reassure myself he did not feel trapped because of me. From this clear
space, I would then supportively and warmly ask, “What do you need to do
to get free?”
This helped me seek choices and give me hope.
John’s overwhelm would put in an appearance on a daily basis. He would
become obsessive with cutting lawns, cleaning bathrooms and kitchens.
Every house wife’s dream, every partner’s nightmare. When this process
began he would withdraw every part of him and no-one would be able to
reach him. He would be curt and if I spoke to him his answers would cut like
a knife. This was amazingly painful. I would immediately feel that there was
something wrong with me, that I wasn’t good enough or deserving enough
for a gentle look, let alone love. This was the ‘push me pull you’ again. The
‘no win’ situation.
So I learned to become abusive and lash out at him to pull him back to
relating to me. An abusive pattern. Gradually, I learnt to notice the part I
played in this and became conscious of our moment of separation. I’d then
step back and take a breath.
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Refreshed and centred I’d come back and we would define who had the
problem, what the problem was and what the person wanted (needed) that
had the problem. Simple stuff. Certainly in this process at times there was
blaming. So it was important for me to remain neutral. If I couldn’t find
neutral then I’d step back for longer.
For years when John had a problem, it was so easy for me to be triggered
into feeling I wasn’t good enough. Subsequently, for a long time not a lot
changed. We would chase our tails and I would spiral downward into my
own private hell of self-abuse. Then, one day I found out that hell was not a
bottomless pit of pain. On this day, I surrendered control and admitted that
“I” could not fix, correct or make better. I reached out and asked for help. As
I lay flat and naked on the rocky ground beneath me, imploringly, I yelled to
the black velvet sky, “Dear God I cannot do this, help me!” The response
was stillness. Then the sky began to move and twist and I felt I had become
covered in a blanket of stars. I had reached total emptiness and had no will
of my own to rise up from the ground. My body felt heavy, thick, without
definition, the ground seemed to swallow me up. “Show me you’re there,
help me. I will not get up alone.” Have you ever had the experience of your
fingers feeling like clumps of wood with your hands and arms being one
with the trunk of your body? Your whole body merging with the ground?
Well I did and my breath became my only definable connection with me.
Then it happened, a whirring windy noise began in my ears, I felt a vibration
rising up from the ground and flowing down from the sky into me. The
vibration physically shook my body. My heart felt like it was being split
open. Then as fast as this sensation begun, it ceased and the night became
perfectly still once again. Love is the only way I can describe how I felt on
that night. My whole body felt ecstatic, joyful, unencumbered love. I laid
there bathing and breathing in these sensations. I knew my life would never
be the same. That at my centre there was a me that was in you, your Mother,
my son, my daughters, my dog and even in the lettuce I grew in my garden.
Gently I rose up from lying on the ground and as I did, I felt the warm touch
of the earth reach out, solid beneath my feet. I walked mindfully back home.
Home, where for the first time I had no grief or judgment about my
behavioural outburst.
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Normally, an outburst would send me into a week or two of self-hate and
guilt. Not this time! I was now at peace and I knew that there was a way
through this labyrinth. What I had experienced everyone was capable of. I
would no longer try to make things better for John. As this would be denying
John of his experience of discovering what was at the bottom of his pit of
pain if I did. My relationship with John as tumultuous as it was, supported
me to find my deeper strengths and tender innocent love for myself. I don’t
believe that any one person in a relationship/partnership has all the
problems. I believe we come into partnership not by accident and it is now
my intention for John and I to heal little bits of ourselves each day and
expand the celebration of our greater selves by acknowledging the beauty of
the mystery within.
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Chapter 8. Finding my resting place
Today I waited outside a Sydney courthouse in readiness to recall in front of
a jury my sexual abuse that took place at ten. My partner and brother’s wife,
Clair waited with me. There is nothing quite like the feeling of an imminent
cross examination, knowing full well that the legal representative for the
other sides intention is not to uncover the truth but explain it away. In the
morning before court I was introduced to the *Crown, so I could familiarize
myself with how the Crown wished to present the case before it went to trial.
After introducing himself, without hesitation he asked me whether I wanted
this man to go to jail? I said to him that I didn’t see the relevance of the
question. He said to me again. Did I want this seventy-eight year old man to
go to jail, as it would seem that his abuse of me was an aberration that
occurred in his life twenty-seven years ago and that he had now reestablished himself in his life and no longer participated in this sort of
behaviour? At this point I began to wonder what this person’s agenda was,
as it seemed incongruent to my own. While he asked me this question I
recalled that another person was a victim of this mans ‘aberrations’ in more
recent years and had endeavoured to bring him up on similar charges. I
didn’t mention to the Crown that I knew of this. He then asked me if by
some slim chance would I accept his admittance to two counts of sexual
abuse, rather than the whole lot? At this point the accused was not even
admitting he knew who I was! With hesitation I said yes. It was mentioned
to me that cases such as these were traumatic for everyone concerned and
that the general feeling was to get them out of the way as soon as possible
and if they could be settled out of the courtroom even better, hence the out
of court negotiations. I felt myself turning into a sheep! I felt like vomiting.
In the afternoon I mentioned to my solicitor the more recent abuse claim
against my perpetrator that I knew of. He said that he was aware of this
claim as well, however couldn’t remark on whether the Crown knew.
I waited for three hours and in the afternoon I was called back to the
courthouse to prepare to testify. As I sat there with my partner and Claire,
my solicitor came over. I asked her whether my perpetrator would be here
today? He said yes and that if I wanted to see him to look back over my
shoulder. I turned and from around the corner came the man that molested
me when I was ten. I saw his familiar face and my heart filled with
excitement just like it did as a boy of ten.
* This is the person that presents my case to the court.
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I wanted so much to rush over and meet him. My heart leapt as I recognised
this man. I even had to stop myself acting impulsively and going over to
meet him. I looked at my partner and she saw how excited I was, then she
watched as I dropped into absolute confusion as the pain of the reality of
what he did to me at ten hit me.
The betrayal of my trust. I wanted to go over to him and ask him why he
betrayed me as a boy of ten? Why? If he would just say sorry and ask me to
forgive him I know that my wound would heal. At least that is what my little
boy thought. I stood there thinking these thoughts and realised that this could
not be. My overwhelming feelings began to strangle me and my rage burnt
through from the back of my eyes. I dropped my head and walked away as
fast as I could in hope of finding a corridor were no-one was. I wanted to
scream out as I now felt the full impact of his betrayal.
Every breath in seemed to suffocate the pain I desperately needed to breathe
out. With no corridor in sight I slumped down around a corner and held
myself up by leaning on a wall. I wanted to vomit. I heard my name being
called, so I took slow deep breaths and walked over to the others doing my
best to compose myself. The Crown and solicitor told me that the perpetrator
might admit to two counts of sexual abuse on me and two upon the other
class member (this was the other case paralleling mine at the time and
almost identical). The Crown became annoyed as he told me that the other
class member was not willing to settle with just two counts, that he wanted
the whole truth to come out. I felt incredibly supported by this other
classmate, even though he was somewhere else sitting by a phone. I said to
the Crown that I wanted to support the other man and since it seemed that
the matter wouldn’t be resolved this afternoon I would rethink my position.
This didn’t go down so well and I was quoted, ‘A bird in the hand is worth
two in the bush’. At that, the Crown left and my solicitor said to give him a
call in a week with my decision, I thanked him and said goodbye. I felt I
could rest a little now because I knew I hadn’t made this up... Cont. on p.176
Sometimes my mind really wanted it all to be a lie.
That night I was absolutely exhausted! And the next day I just wanted it all
to end, as I was petrified at the possibility of having to go to court. All I
needed to do for this to be over was accept the offer. Make one simple phone
call and settle for less than the whole truth. The other choice was to not
accept the offer and go to court.
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However, this would then annul any disclosures of truth made previously by
the perpetrator. The perpetrator would go to court innocent until proven
guilty. The whole abuse having to be proven in court with lengthy crossexamination. Can you imagine how tempting it was at the time to make the
phone call?
Journal.
Today I discovered there was an emotional response that I missed giving
expression to that originated from me going to court. ‘A blind spot’. Shit I
hate the blind spots! In the last two weeks I’ve been feeling caged in again
and that this relationship that I am in is not what I want. I’m so fed up with
these feelings; I’m so fed up with blaming my relationship. My partner has
told me that she again is finding my closed down attitude towards her
unbearable and that if something doesn’t move soon around our sexuality
and intimacy we’re going to seriously change our living arrangements (as in
separate). My response to her around this issue was that I’d been too busy
(excuse). I actually believed that this was the reason why I had not been
intimate (blind spot). She is fed up to the eyeballs with this excuse. Sure,
things get done when I’m busy, but why are we together if we are not
enjoying being intimate with each other? Isn’t that why we got together in
the first place? Come on John!
Every time my partner has come to kiss me in the last three weeks I have
been repulsed by it, I have really struggled with her wanting to kiss me. I
just haven’t wanted to be touched, especially on the mouth. My partner
respects this and I know how much her holding back hurts her and goes
against who she is. She keeps her distance in anticipation that things will
change and that a little bit of grace will fall on us again, on me, so she can
share another intimate moment with the partner that she has always loved so
completely and fully. She lives in the hope that one day the love will be
returned through me more fully.
I went for my run last night and after my run I sat in the sauna and realised
that my partner has been the only woman that I have ever known that has
loved me consistently, stood by me and when with me has been fully
committed to us! Completely brave hearted. As I realized this, I had a vague
memory of being the same way at one point in my life, of being brave
hearted.
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I quietly asked my inner self to help me experience this again. I asked love
to pass over me with this gift.
I want to experience being brave hearted again
After returning home from my run I lay on our bed and as I did my partner
lent across to kiss me, no matter how much I tried to stop myself, I felt
myself pull back. She said to me gently that she wanted to make love to me
and whether it was all right to kiss me? I wanted so much for it to be all
right, for it to be simple and as I was thinking of my response we both
noticed I had placed my hand across my mouth. I felt speechless, small,
stupid and weak. She looked at me understandingly and said, “I guess not!”.
I could cope with her touching my body; I just didn’t want to be kissed.
Then the answer came. My perpetrator would kiss me on my lips and tell me
how gorgeous I was as he was betraying me. I had not wanted to be kissed
on my lips or told I was lovable since seeing the perpetrator outside the
court. I began to feel weak and self-conscious because this part of me had
risen up again when I thought I had it under control. We sat there and held
each other, knowing that more of the truth had come out. End.
Journal.
I had a counselling session with a friend of mine today and it couldn’t have
come at a better time. After seeing my teacher three weeks ago in court my
reactions to those around me showed me I was out of touch with my true
feelings, closed and stuck! As I sat in the session with Steve and slung him
my curved balls (stories), he interrupted me and asked me how I went with
my court case in Sydney. I skimmed over how I saw my perpetrator. He sat
upright in his chair! “John, I want you to tell me about that.” I mentioned to
him how I wanted to run over and meet him and then remembered how he
had betrayed me. I began to feel troubled while I told Steve this and so he
asked me why? I sat there dropped my head and sobbed. I saw for the first
time how untrusting of love I had become. I sobbed, as I understood where
my past three weeks of confusion had come from. I was acting, as I would
have at ten if I had just found out that this adult that I loved and trusted
betrayed my innocence. I was in shock, in shame and grieving for my lost
innocence! I was such a trusting child at ten with such a brave heart. Then
this man came along whom I grew to innocently love and trust. I trusted him
to nurture and care for my young innocent heart.
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I began to trust that what I was experiencing with him was love... He
betrayed that. He betrayed my brave heart. He used my love against me.
While I sat there with Steve I went into confusion as I considered maybe
what I thought was love was not love at all, that I couldn’t trust love, as I no
doubt decided on at ten. I sat there feeling/thinking how much I wanted to
ask my perpetrator whether he really loved me or did he set the whole thing
up from the beginning, premeditating it all so he could sexually abuse me? I
felt the little boy inside of me not wanting to know the answer to this, as that
would destroy all possibility that he truly cared for him (me) at all. The
worst part about this mess is it affects those I care for around me greatly.
They feel inadequate when I close down to myself, because when I do I
close down to them as well. At the courthouse, I relived (flashed back) a
major moment in my life where I decided I was not lovable, not worthwhile
and not loving enough.
Each day I wanted to show God how much I loved him.
I know and you did! Just because your teacher’s intention was impure,
doesn’t mean yours was. In fact young John, yours was really pure and
innocent.
I can see now why I acutely closed down further to my partner in the last
few weeks. At ten, I was getting close to letting go and trusting in the loving
me that I gave, as at ten I was being acknowledged for this. After seeing the
perpetrator this memory was reignited and I pulled back and cut off from my
partner, thinking that she, that love, was going to take something away from
me that I was not aware of nor willing to give. To think, I was betrayed by a
kiss. As I right this I feel an awesome weight lift from me and fall to its
rightful place in my puzzle. I feel positive momentum, I feel light. I will
remember...
My love is innocent and I will love fully again.
True love does not give to take.
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Note
The best step forward I can take when I’m; over working or closed down,
unsociable, depressed, anxious, edgy, pissed off at everyone and everything,
grumpy, stressed, in constant need of sex, drugs or not being able to sleep
(just to name a few!) is to talk to my counsellor or therapist as soon as
possible and tell those that I care for that I’m one or all of the above and on
my way to finding out why. This humble approach is very powerful healing
stuff and supports them greatly! I do my best to treat my mind
(mental/emotional wellbeing) like I treat my neck when it’s ‘out’ (my
professional term), I book in pretty much the next day for an adjustment by a
professional to get it right. Who doesn’t get grumpy when you can’t turn
your head? And of course, one tends not to be able to see everything around
them as well. Funny that. Another example. As men, when we have
problems with our ‘backup brain’ (the one between our legs) we get it
checked out real quick, right! Well, sometimes the one between our
shoulders can do with the same consideration as well. A brain check every
twelve months is a great idea. If those around you are peaceful and your life
is creative and abundant, that’s a good indication your main brain is doing
fine and your presence will be a refreshing change for whichever therapist
you choose to visit. End.
Dream
I’m standing outside on the lawn at the back of our house and I turn to my partner and
say. “Hey! I can do it now, watch me I can fly!” “I’ve worked out where I keep the
beliefs in my mind that are Mums, you know, the ones that stop me from being able to
fly. The beliefs that she placed upon me as a child.” I start to rise up about 1 metre off the
ground, then all of a sudden I fall back down again as I start to think; ‘this is not possible,
no-one else is capable of doing this’. Then I think to myself. Hang on! Hang on! Where is
that belief!? I find it again and shout it out loud. “This is not possible, no-one else is
capable of doing this!” Then I call out to my partner. “I got it! I got it! That’s the one!
That’s Mums!” And then I start to rise.
What a neat little dream.
Finding my resting place continues…
My solicitor phoned. He was excited to tell me that the accused had said that
he would admit to two counts of abuse from the other man’s claim and that
two counts of my claim would be attached to that, though he would not be
admitting to it. He thought I would be happy with that!? He was very happy.
Note my sarcasm as you read this.
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Make your own decision around my perception of the motive behind this
phone call. Through my eyes, he wanted to steer me in the direction of not
going to court. I felt like I was haggling at a garage sale! Well, he didn’t get
what he ‘possibly wanted’ (I have to be careful here, I could get taken to
court).
Four months later I was sitting outside the courtroom again. I’d already been
to court to give evidence on two other occasions and I was hoping that this
was going to be the very last time. I was so frightened. Here I was a victim
of someone else’s actions upon me when I was ten years old and I was so
frightened I thought I was going to pee my pants. Once again I sat outside
the courtroom waiting to be called in or told a jury will be selected and we
will proceed with a trial.
This time my brother was with me, my counsellor and two policemen that
where investigating the case. We sat there and talked about the criminal
justice system. The main point talked about being how the system seemed to
protect the criminals. The two policemen were infuriated and frustrated with
the system. They just shrugged their shoulders. I then turned to the
counsellor and asked him in his opinion how many men who where victims
of sexual abuse at an early age in Catholic schools where coming forward
like myself. He estimated that there were two maybe three a month that
where coming through this court alone and that only ten percent of them
went to trial. There we were, five men trying to make sense of this ‘system’.
The moment was uncomfortable for us all. And we all knew that at any
moment I could be called in to be cross examined and made out to be
incompetent and that what happened was just a figment of my imagination
placed in my mind by an over zealous therapist. Stupid of me to think that
the system was about telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the
truth, so help me God. Here we have the use of God once again in a very odd
context.
There I was with four other men that where accomplished in the professional
fields they had chosen and there I was with no profession, out of work, out
of faith and not really functioning that well in the ‘real world’. Then it struck
me. They all knew what had happened to me. I excused myself and went for
a walk. I felt so much shame, I could never be one with them, not now, not
ever! I thought of all the times I had placed myself in this position through
the shame of not being smart enough to protect myself from the abuse. I
started to isolate myself more and more.
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Then my intuition kicked in and said, “Tell them, tell them what you feel”. I
went back to the four men and stepped into the conversation once again and
spoke. “I need to say something to you all and I’m not going to find any
words that will make it easier for me so I’m just going to come out with it.”
(They looked at me with deep concern, sincerity and regard.) “What is it
John, tell us.” “I want you all to know that I’m feeling a great deal of fear
and shame from being here with you all and with that aside, I want to thank
you for being here and supporting me. My shame has had time to built up
over along period. I’ve always thought I was stupid and would never be as
smart as the next guy because I didn’t see the abuse.” They where all
touched, my brother’s face portrayed a look of helplessness. I had not seen
him this way before. Then one of them spoke. “John, remember you were
ten years old at the time, not an adult yet. This man betrayed you; he took
full advantage of your innocence. It could have happened to anyone of us,
anyone of us!” They looked at each other and nodded, then looked back at
me. They where moved. And I had lifted myself out of my isolation once
again with the help of others. All it took was to speak with my mind what
was in my heart. A short time later the court session was closed for the day.
It was suggested I go home and rest.
Back the following morning I waited outside the courtroom. Not knowing if
I would be called forward to give evidence was getting to me. There was
light at the end of the tunnel though. The difference between this court day
and others was that today the judge would decide whether the evidence
presented was substantial enough to select a jury and proceed with a trial.
This was the most frightening task that I had set myself in my entire life!
As I waited outside the Court, it was being deliberated as to whether my
memory of an incident that had occurred some twenty years ago could be
used as evidence in a court of law. The big question was; could my memory
be regarded as accurate enough to give a jury the responsibility to form an
opinion on? As it wasn’t an incident that I thought of for many years, could
the memory of this be coloured and distorted from the lapse of time? In front
of me sat the man* that abused me and now the Judge was going to read out
his decision as to whether he would let the case go to trial.
* Four to five men came forward to give evidence on this man’s abuse, only two of these
statements where used in court as evidence. This man was let off with a one thousand
dollar good behaviour bond for a one-year period. The Catholic Education Office asked
me to sign a document stating that I would not disclose the name of the perpetrator.
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As I write this I contemplate how many other men he betrayed and wonder
how their lives have been affected? The Judge decided that as there was no
way of proving that my memory was accurate or inaccurate and regardless
of what he believed, our judicial system was not geared to judge a case such
as this. He looked burdened and dissatisfied. Finally the scene was over, it
was all over. Deep inside me I knew that I had proven something to myself,
that I was moving towards something of great value, I left the courtroom for
the last time and all I wanted was to be alone.
Within minutes I was in an empty restroom. It was blissfully quiet, no
people, no words, just me standing in front of a mirror. I had just splashed
water on my face when the most remarkable thing happened. I raised my
head to look in the mirror and my eyes caught my attention. For the first
time in twenty-eight years I could see and feel ‘me’ at ten years of age!
Tears of joy streamed down my innocent face, I was touched deeply. A
loving ‘thank you’ resounded in my whole being. I reached up and held my
cheek, the cheek of a ten-year-old boy. Another loving ‘thank you’ burnt
through from the back of my mind and into my eyes. I somehow knew that
all the peace I was experiencing was an ‘affirmation’. I had finally reached
inside myself deep enough and found the isolated soul of my ten-year-old
boy, and now he was with me again.
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8.1 Going Home
After my final day in court I considered that I had completed what I had set
out to do to gain the information necessary to place in my book. To move on
from this experience. However, inside of me there grows an urge to go back
to the place where I was born. This had been present in me since I started
going through my earlier memories of school and home life. I had not been
back to this town since I had left at nine years of age. Every time that I
thought of taking the trip back I felt scared that I would just be abusing
myself. Dredging up old memories that I had not yet uncovered that could
remain packed away. Well, after the court case this urge came up even
stronger. So much so that I decided to go. Feel my fear and do it anyway.
Something was pulling me and I wanted to find out what it was and put it to
rest. I packed my bag and left, deciding to stop over at my brother’s place
for one night. The next morning I woke up and my left arm had frozen! I
could not move it! I couldn’t put my shirt on nor change the gears of my car.
What was happening to me? Now I’m a healthy man and know my body
reasonably well. Was there a part of me that didn’t want to go that I was not
considering? My brother suggested that I stay a few more nights and see if
my arm would heal. Well, I wasn’t going anywhere. Hell, I couldn’t even
scratch my butt!
That night my arm had cramped up even more severely and was painful to
the point that I couldn’t sleep. I decided to meditate instead and ask my arm
why it was so cramped and painful. A small voice inside of me said, “I don’t
want to go home. I’m scared”. I asked, “What are you scared of?” “I will not
be looked after, I’ll be alone again.” I reassured young John that I was with
him this time and that I knew how to keep him safe, that he was in me now
and that I would care for him and not allow any thing to happen that would
cause him harm. I sent him love and told him that those times where gone. I
closed my eyes and went off to sleep. The next day I woke up and my arm
was in the same condition as the night before. I kept on affirming that young
John would be kept safe and that I would protect him from harm. By midday
the pain in my arm had almost vanished. It was time to travel the last leg of
my journey. Another ten hours by car. I headed off the next morning.
As I drove down the highway I started to think about what would await me?
What would I see, feel and think. I had not been to this place for thirty years.
I thought, ‘This is going to be a waist of time and money’.
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What the fuck was driving me to take such a trip? I had all the information
for the manuscript. It was all there! I thought about my arm and why young
John was scared. Did he know something I didn’t know, hadn’t felt? In the
past three years fear has been the signal that there was a piece of me to
reclaim. A piece of me that was existing back in the past that I needed to see
and recapture. A gift.
Before I drove into my hometown I imagined I had a protective cloak on and
my pet dog Hereboy beside me. I passed the grocery store that I use to run to
in the afternoons to by coke and fanta. I then remembered getting three
lollies for a cent. This was where that clay puddle was, the one just outside
the front entrance to the shop. When the puddle would dry up, impressions
of kids’ feet and their bike tracks would be etched into the red clay. Wow! I
use to live just around the corner from here! Then I saw my old house, the
house that I lived in from six to nine years of age. I parked right out the
front. Whoever lived there now had kept the outside pretty much the same.
As I looked at the house I felt like I was living a few moments behind
myself. Like my mind, my thoughts needed to catch up with the current
moment. I felt like I was one of those satellite telecasts where the image
arrives ahead of the voice track. At least I wasn’t feeling like a foreign
movie that had been dubbed. Well, not as yet! I took a few deep breaths and
reminded young John that I was here. I saw this image of him standing close
to my side, just under my wing. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and as
good a time as any to knock on the front door. I opened up the front gate and
saw on each side of me the buffalo grass that my Dad had meticulously
cared for thirty years ago. I could smell it. I remember how it made me itch.
I still loved playing on it though! I looked around and breathed in the beauty
of the house standing in front of me. While I’m typing this I’m breathing in
my own beauty and courage for taking this journey.
I could almost see the memories lining up before me to experience. I was
ready for this! I knocked on the front door but there was no answer. Then
suddenly from around the corner came the caretaker. After a short
introduction he suggested that I look around. I walked down the side path
where Hereboy and I used to play and passed the garage where my Father
did up his Austin Sheerline (the space ship). These paths seemed smaller
than they were when I was a child! Come to think of it, I believe I could
have jumped off the roof onto the grass with some divine guidance from
Buffalo Bill. Wow! That’s a long jump! Thank God for fathers, brothers and
dogs! Even my Dad’s aviary was still there.
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Around every corner I could see Dad’s handiwork. Why did I come here?
Was this it? Was this what I came back for? A peacefulness was building in
me as young John could see that things had changed. His memories weren’t
as scary as he had thought. More of him could come out now, the war was
over. There was something though in the back of my mind that was not
complete. Something was telling me that this was not finished. I began to
think about the other house that I lived in till I was six. I said my goodbyes
to the caretaker and said goodbye to the house. I had my mobile so I phoned
up my brother and asked him whether he remembered how to get to the
other house? He told me that it was just around the corner so I drove as I
spoke to him. What was I doing? I was searching for answers to questions
that I didn’t know. I walked up to their front door of the house with my
mobile phone switched on. My brother could hear my crazy request take
place between me and the person that answered the front door. “Good
afternoon”, I said, “I lived in your house thirty years ago. I’m here for two
days and I’m wondering if in that time you would mind me looking around
your house or at least the gardens?” The lady at the front door looked me up
and down and then said, “You will have to follow me in the kitchen I’m
cooking dinner. What’s your name?” I told her my name and she told me her
name was Sarah. I said goodbye to my brother and followed Sarah down the
corridor I use to play in when I was three years old. How wonderful and
trusting it was to be welcomed back into the house that I lived in by a
woman who didn’t know me. She trusted that what I was saying was the
truth. I felt I was being healed of the fear that I had around my own Mother
and my mistrust of her. I was experiencing something new and unique in a
place where a part of me had experienced something quite the opposite. I
was feeling free and respected. Sarah became interested in why I had
travelled so far to come back to the place where I was born. I mentioned to
Sarah that I was writing a manuscript about my life and wanted to see if any
memories could be built upon. She paused from cooking in the kitchen and
looked at me. She told me that as a young girl she would play with my oldest
sister and remembered my family. She continued on with her cooking and
suggested I take a walk through the house and if there where any questions
that I had she would do her best to help me place the picture together. I had
been in the house for twenty minutes. I was where I needed to be more than
ever. As I walked around Sarah told me of her family’s history and how they
had lived there for eighteen years. She said that for the first few years of
living in the house there was a thick heaviness in some of the rooms and
would I tell her more about my writings.
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I felt a familiar uneasiness sweep over me as more often than not stories of
childhood abuse are uncomforting for most people. As I told Sarah what the
book was about she placed her cooking aside and became fully interested in
what I was saying.
We decided to walk outside, as there was a cool evening breeze. Sarah
commenced telling me that a few years after they moved in she decided to
invite a spiritual healer and clairvoyant into the house to shift the heaviness
that was in some of the rooms as this was the only approach that she had not
tried. Then Sarah told me the following. The clairvoyant while walking
through one of the rooms received images of a woman feeling extreme
hopelessness and that this woman at times was suicidal. She mentioned the
room in the house where these feelings where intuited. This was the area that
not ten minutes ago I walked through and paused to question my memory as
it passed me by. I told Sarah of the time I hid in the walk-in wardrobe in this
room and watched on as my hysterical Mother sat on the bed with her wrists
cut and wrapped in calico. Sarah and I looked at each other in amazement,
smiled gently and nodded our heads. She said that her friend also picked up
a great sadness in a child and sickness as this child struggled with being in
this family and that at the time of this sickness the Mother was greatly
concerned for the child’s life. I asked her what room that was intuited in?
This room was my bedroom. This was where my Mother prayed over me, as
my fever was not breaking. Sarah asked me if anyone in my family was
sexually abused by our Father? I mentioned that I’d been told in the last four
years that some members of my family had. She told me that in the room
where the stars where painted on the ceiling the clairvoyant saw a young
teenage girl being molested.
The scattered pieces of my puzzle that I began to look at when I was thirtythree, well, they weren’t a scattered puzzle anymore. Sarah wondered
whether I knew how much courage it took for me to be standing where I was
in this experience? At the time I didn’t give her question too much thought.
She said that I might want to go for a wander around the house to collect my
thoughts. This was a good idea, so I checked out how young John was going.
I did and he was amazingly strong. He and I had prepared ourselves for this
day for many years.
I continued my walk around the house and a magnificent sunset was on its
way. I found a patch of lawn that I use to play on as a boy and I slowly stood
still. I was catching up with myself.
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Standing still on the spot where I once played, I imagined young John
underneath my cloak with Hereboy at his side. I took a breath in and caught
myself having a big sigh. I then looked down to my side and straight into the
eyes of the most courageous young boy I knew (I can see his face now as I
am writing this). Then young John gave me the most moving thought. He
told me it was time to take off my cloak and spread my wings, that I didn’t
need to hide my wings any more and that it was not him that needed the
cloak for protection all these years. That it was me and now it was time to let
my light shine.
I don’t think I could have stood in Sarah’s house any sooner than that day. I
shared dinner with her family and was invited to stay a few days. I was
deeply touched by her trust in me and her hospitality. Every piece of
information was so easy to gather in. I felt touched by providence. It was a
bit of a challenge to stay the night I must say! But as the morning sun shone
across the river not so far away I got a knock on my door. It was Sarah’s
husband inviting me to go for a paddle in his kayak. He was a guy of few
words that didn’t know too much about why I was there, other than I was
writing a book about my life and historical buildings in the area. I don’t
really think he wanted to know too much more than that and that was fine by
me. As a man his daily ritual was to rise before dawn and greet the day on
the river as the sun touched him with all its warmth and command. As I see
it, this is how he acknowledged God every day. And this is what he wanted
to share with me before I left. His ritual. We are good we men.
Two hours later I’d said my goodbyes to Sarah and her family and decided
to visit the school that I use to go to. As I walked its grounds and entered
into the classroom I was in when I was four, it felt thick with the secrets held
in its walls. It was then that I discovered something about me. I realised I
didn’t let them keep my secret. I was complete here. I was done. I jumped in
my car and as I headed out of town I felt like I was journeying home as a
man.
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Hot points
* At one point during the court procedures I went for a walk in the park. I
caught myself trying to convince myself that my experience was a lie, that I
had fabricated all of it. I began to reconsider my position, as the anxiety I
experienced a short time ago in the courthouse was so intense, that I was
almost willing to sell my soul to get out of it. Yes, even if it meant lying to
myself. It reminded me of having a toothache and needing to go to the
dentist, though convincing myself I really didn’t have to go, even though I
could see a great big whopping hole in my tooth! This lead me to consider
that remembering and forgetting are both based on a motivating factor and
the amazing ability of the mind to forget (block off a memory).
* As men, when we have problems with our ‘backup brain’ (the one between
our legs) we get it checked out real quick, right! Well, sometimes the one
between our shoulders can do with the same consideration as well. A brain
checks every couple of years is a great idea. If those around you are peaceful
and your life is creative and abundant, that’s a good indication your main
brain is doing fine and your presence will be a refreshing change for
whichever therapist you choose to visit. Just like a check-up at the dentist!
* Remember, listening to your body is a great healing tool. There is an inner
voice that can speak for every part. (A baby that has just sprained its ankle
will not be able to tell a parent in words what’s happened, but its knee
knows and still communicates to the mind its discomfort.) Just focus your
attention on the part of your body that is diseased and listen inwardly for an
answer.
Author’s final note
I really wanted to end this book on the positive note of everything is over.
I’m healed!!! Well unfortunately this is not a fairy tale and even though it
would be a great selling point, it’s not the truth at present. I wanted to end
this by writing that now my heart remains open at all times to my partner
and my children. I can’t write this either. We decided after twelve years that
it was time to let go. What a precious relationship. I don’t think I would have
survived without such a gift. I wanted to write that I no longer doubt who I
am in the world and the worth of what I have to give. Well, this doesn’t
quite fit as yet either, though it is changing. There is however one thing I
found that is above all things for me...
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There is always the truth to uncover and fall back on.
If I had only learnt this one thing that would have been enough... I learnt
more ....
It hurts far less to look upon the truth of who I am while
holding someone else’s hand, or standing alongside another
who has raised their eyes to look upon the same as well.
After all, then I’m not alone. Healing most definitely has taken place for me
since choosing this journey and if you haven’t picked up on all the slices of
healing that have raised themselves to be read by you, then I wish to point
out to you a more precious one for me, as this road has been worthwhile.
This has been a time of great self-discovery and I have placed myself on this
journey to re-establish and remember who I am spiritually, through no-one
else’s means other than my own. And the only place that I’m going to search
now is within, and the people that will help me will be ones I can trust to
give me the tools to do so.
The religion that I was raised in and its teachers informed me not to still
myself and go within, as I would only find evil there. They were misguided,
as I was by them. Now I know the only hope I have of finding me, of finding
peace, is to go within and express outwardly what I find. As this is the me
that I love. This is my greatest challenge as...
Each time I choose to look within, I prove to myself my worth.
It is this action that acknowledges me as a creator and the gift
in this is I catch a glimpse of God. It’s so simple.
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