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mycolorsarefading · 5 years ago

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Why Should That Mean It’s Not Real

I never wanted to have a “story.” Autobiographies are the most self centered things a person can do, and believing the fairy-tale, feel-good mantra that we are the heroes of our own stories rings hollow and naive. I am under no false pretense that my experiences in life merit a record of any sort, and I’m ok knowing that I’m as unimportant to the story of reality as the next guy who comes along.

That being said, I’ve found some freedom by writing down the thoughts jumbled around in my head as a means to both obtain clarity and confirm to myself that this is all real. For most of my life I’ve lived with an overactive internal world that was always richer and more engaging than the outer world in which I was forced to go through the motions. My reliance on my jungle of thoughts has made it difficult to distinguish the inner and outer worlds, and has far too often left me questioning if my experiences happened at all.

To quote Dumbledore when responding to Harry’s question about the reality of his post-death experience at Kings Cross: “Of course this is all happening inside your head Harry. But why should that mean it isn’t real?” So to cement for myself that my thoughts and experiences confined to my inner world are truly real, I’m documenting the pieces of my life I’ve kept behind walls for so long.

I grew up in a perfect piece of SoCal suburbia. So perfect it became a Netflix show. My family life was a picture of stability and there was nothing inherent about life that would cause me harm. Except for me. I remember absolutely nothing of my early childhood, but I am told I was a difficult child - fussy, particular, dramatic, not enjoyable to be around, and someone who was the rain on everyone else’s parade. I was the one you didn’t want around, and the one who would cause adults to sigh. I’ve been reminded many times how mean I was to my parents, how selfish I was with everything, and how it’d be easier to call me a burden than a blessing.

Of course, that’s all what I’m told. I have nothing of my own to bank that on, and can only trust that that’s the truth. And it must be, since it manifested itself in my “social life” as a kid. In elementary school I was bullied for being weird. I was good at school and didn’t like sports; rough housing and other “boy” things didn’t come naturally to me, and therefore neither did friendships. I never had a male friend my entire childhood, and the only friend I had was a girl named Jennifer who was my neighbor and had a video game console I could play. I was alone and turned to the insane imagination I had to invent the friends I couldn’t find in my real world.

When I was 9, my parents started attending church again and for the first time I experienced religion. They found a home at the first church they went to, an evangelical semi-Baptist church of the SoCal Protestant tradition. I was forced to socialize with new people, and was excited for the chance of new friends. While I did make “friends”, the best friend moniker remained unused and I experienced the same feelings of otherness I got at school. But this time, it was coupled with teaching that you are supposed to hate who you are and there are certain ways to think/act/behave to fit in with this group.

My later elementary school years were filled with the same feelings of otherness. I wanted to fit in with the boys. I could befriend the girls a bit easier, but I wanted a guy friend. But I was a nerd who played piano and joined the mini version of a glee club, who wore sweatpants all the time because he hated his body and hated his lack of athletic skill. In fifth grade, we were forced to sign everyone’s yearbooks explaining what we would remember most about them. I put thought into what I wrote, but when I got mine back - it was just pages of “He’s smart. He gets good grades. He’s smart. He gets A’s”. That’s all I was, my ability to be good at school. I went home and started smashing my head into the walls because I read that doing that kills brain cells, and I wanted to be dumber so people would like me. I kept slamming my head into walls routinely until I realized it only would give me migraines.

I’m junior high my parents decided to homeschool me so I could learn a Christian education. My social isolation increased, but by high school I did finally make my first close guy friend. By this point though, I almost didn’t even feel like a guy. Whatever men were supposed to do, whatever counted as a “guy” thing, whatever the expectations were of manly experiences - I had no connections to any of that. I definitely didn’t feel like a woman, but I had no connection to men either. At church things were frequently gendered: women’s bible studies, men’s breakfasts, women’s retreats, men’s camping trips, etc. The male events were always full of the same stereotypical white masculine charicatures, trying to lead the younger boys in role models of maleness. I developed my social chameleon skills learning to blend in enough in these situations so I didn’t stand out and had superficial connections to these church leaders. Father/son events were always the worst because my dad knew I wasn’t interested in the activities so we never went. I let him down as a son, and as a boy.

So I pretended. And through all of it, was raised in what I’m now comfortable calling cult-like situations. It was not a cult, but the thought processes, mantras, group think, emotional abuse, and gaslighting that occurred have enough of the same ingredients. I grew up without any sense of self esteem, worth, or confidence - because I was taught those are all explicitly evil. Self esteem was ridiculed, and any challenges I faced in life were my personal fault. Every time I’d reach out to an adult in my life about lack of friends, I was told “never expect people to just be your friend - you have to be a friend to them first. If you have no friends, you’re not doing enough on your end to make people want to be your friend”. When it came to dating, it was worse. Dating was evil and Satan’s way to lead people astray into sex. Biblical courtship was the proper means to a relationship, and you had to fix all your own problems before beginning that process or you’d lead your future spouse into your darkness.

I was told my spiritual gift was service. And I was happy about that - it felt good being needed. I poured myself into being useful, thinking that finally if I did enough things for people they’d see that I’m worth having around and things would be better. At church functions, my family and I would attend but not to enjoy the event. We would be there early setting up, in the background managing practical items (like finding extra chairs), and staying late to clean up. I was permanently helping, and any time I would question why I had to have others’ backs but nobody ever had mine - I was told that I should never expect people to be there for me, and that wasn’t the point of service. The point of service was to always be there for others regardless if you didn’t like it, felt it was unfair, or simply wanted a break. You are a servant, so others come first. You are never an “other” though, and how dare you expect someone to put you first - you aren’t worth that.

In high school I found a folder on my mom’s computer with her weekly prayers saved in separate documents for her prayer meetings. I opened them, and it was all full of similar requests and concerns. My dad’s job was difficult and she wanted him to have help and be safe. My sister was growing in her faith, and my mom wanted to be thankful for that. And me - I was struggling with my faith, I was the one she believed was not saved and was still doomed, I was the one who had issues to fix, and she was actively praying that I would never find a spouse until I came to Jesus and repented. I was her problem child; not only was it my fault I didn’t have friends, I had people pleading to God I wouldn’t find happiness until I fixed my problems. Whatever cards were there were stacked against me by the people closest to me.

The entirety of my existence in this part of my life was made worse by one thing that has been the genesis of most subsequent issues. I had already built walls and developed alternate personalities to fit the circumstances I needed to survive through - but my isolation and my walls were completed when I was 13. I discovered porn via the internet and discovered what masturbation was. As any preteen going through puberty this was par for the course. My issues started when I realized I was physically attracted to the men in porn. My whole life my crushes had always been on women. I pictured a life married to a ride-or-die kind of girl and the early phases of puberty did invoke a physical attraction to the female. But what terrified me the most took over and I couldn’t deny my attraction to men. I was scared because I knew being gay was evil. I was scared because I had nobody to talk to. I was scared because I had no romantic desires to men, and still had romantic desires for women. I was confused, alone, and trapped.

I went to a Christian college where these repressed gay desires kept festering. I had no outlet to try to figure out if my desires were real or just imagined. To avoid the issue I just never dated. That was easy to justify given my upbringing despite the intense pressure of the college to get married by the time you graduated. I did have one female friend I was incredibly close to, that we agreed during a relationship autopsy that we had in fact dated during college. There had never been any physical component to our relationship and I graduated college a confused virgin.

I moved to a major metropolis after college, far enough from home. While this move made me grow up and find my own voice away from the cult-like bubble of my upbringing, it ushered into my life the darkness that broke my brain and maybe my soul.

I finally had freedom of choice and could finally try to figure out my sexuality. I didn’t have a smartphone and dating apps were still fairly new, but there were enough websites around where I could take a chance at meeting a guy to explore with. Guys my age were not interested in me. I am fat, on the down low, and physically repulsive. For about a year I kept chatting, browsing personals, and figuring things out from the safety of a computer screen. After about a year, I chatted with an older man who wanted to meet and I felt brave enough to try. I got to his place and I had no idea what to do. He met me at the door and was obviously older than he said, and had to have been around 70. I was 22. And on that day, I had my first ever sexual experience with a creepy man 50 years my senior. It was mostly just kissing - but my first kiss was with this old man, as a naive kid trying to understand who he was. I don’t have a cute first kiss story.

Somehow that experience emboldened me though and I kept trying for more. My training kicked in and I just kept trying to find guys who wanted me who I could be of use to, never something that would be a mutually helpful connection. I followed darker and darker paths that led me into danger I can only now recognize in hindsight. When I was 24, I met a man online whose name I don’t recall. He was watching a movie and wanted a friend to cuddle and watch with him. It sounded fun and tame so I went. I hadn’t done anything more than kiss with a guy and wasn’t interested in that yet, so a movie night sounded fun. I show up, and the movies on and we start hanging out. He starts caressing me in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable but before I could say anything he was already shoving me down towards his crotch for oral. He’s taller and stronger than me so I don’t resist and I’m scared. He keeps my head in his hands as he forces me to give him oral, before tossing me aside and getting a condom. I’m slightly in shock and can’t comprehend what he’s doing until I can feel it behind me. I ask if what I’m feeling is his dick, just in enough time for him to say yes and shove hard. The next thing I remember I’m standing in his bathroom looking in the mirror, pale white and trying to check myself for blood. I’m in shock and leave his apartment pretending everything is fine. I don’t even know how I got home that night. I walked most of the 4-5 miles home but I know I got on a bus at some point. It took me hours, because I remember throwing up multiple times on the way and getting home as the sun rose. All I remember is the splitting headache, the vomiting, and the constant physical shaking all over my whole body. I did nothing and told no one, and responded nicely to his message the next morning saying I had a good time. That was the first time I was raped.

I kept trying to meet guys thinking I could get a better experience than that. I wasn’t even sure if I was physically enjoying it, and I did discover some physical issues that prevent a good sex life regardless of who I was trying to hook up with. I met another guy I connected with well and we hung out a few times platonically. I felt like I had maybe a new friend, and we were having some fun in the bedroom too on occasion. A few years into knowing him I was hanging out at his apartment one day when he started to get aggressive with me to indicate he was frisky. I was in no mood to do the deed but he continued to insist against my stated wishes to not. And no matter how many times I said wait or hold on - he continued. Until I blacked out. It took years, but I recognize now that this was the second time I had been raped but by someone I considered a friend.

I had years around this time when my continued pushes to explore trying to convince myself whether I was gay or not took me down paths I had to lie to a lot of people about to protect myself. I had health scares I couldn’t confide in anyone about, unless I divulged my secret. So I didn’t, and went at it completely alone. The darkness I encountered will stay with me to the grave, and the consequences were the depression I fell into and the continued fucking up of my head. Eventually enough was enough and I wanted to try a normal relationship to see if I could muster romantic feelings for men. I met a guy on a site I went crazy for. We went on dates, laughed a lot, and I thought I maybe put the worst behind me and turned over a new leaf. One day I had been hanging out with him and we went to his place to take a nap. We woke up later than we wanted to and he told me he had a hookup coming over he forgot about. He and I weren’t exclusive and I wasn’t bothered but I started to head out anyway. He asked me if I wanted to stay and join the two of them; I liked him so I said sure. In the triangle I found myself in shortly, he became rough. His aggression started getting unchecked and he forced himself onto me when I didn’t want him to and my panic set in. I said no, over and over again rapidly. He kept going and my nightmare relapsed. It took the third guy hitting him on the arm to tell him to stop to finally make it stop. He said sorry and I left to use the bathroom but pretended again that all was fine. And for a third time, I had been raped.

Throughout all of this, I worked a job with insane demands at times of the year that would cause me to sleep in the office at times, to have daily panic attacks, and to get ill from stress and anxiety. I was physically weak from stress, completely alone in my experiences outside of work, and in and out of deep depression for years. There was always a voice in my head telling me to kill myself, and at its worst I couldn’t shut it up I screamed. I would take vacation for a week to lay in bed and do nothing. I was suicidal but never attempted anything, so I felt like a failure at being suicidal. I couldn’t even try to kill myself properly. And the voices in my head from my childhood kept telling me it was my fault. I was evil for struggling with attraction to men, it was my fault for having no friends or community because I wasn’t fixing myself, I deserved to be dead for what I’d gone through, and it wouldn’t matter anyway because I had no worth (only use). Combined with an extreme hatred of self and body image issues, I’ve ended up with my share of mental illnesses. My brain is broken and my soul may be gone.

In addition to all of that, I’ve been through enough other trauma than I’d cared to. I’ve driven off a cliff due to black ice and developed a paralyzing fear of snow and mountains. Half my family is dead or in jail for a laundry list of crimes. I’ve seen a guy get mutilated and killed by a train he was shoved in front of. And so forth.

My job and my work is the only thing in my life in which I have confidence and a sense of safety. Like my fifth grade yearbook, I know that I am smart and capable and if there’s one thing I can protect about my life it’s that. I do however hold myself back there as well. I’m overworked and as a result I’ve had my pay curtailed for administrative check boxes not being completed timely. So despite fighting to be good at my job to protect my own sanity, I’m losing money over it. And one of my employees recently drunkenly yelled at me in front of a large portion of the office that I’m a terrible role model, a bad leader, and that nobody should ever want to be like me. My deepest insecurities about myself have just had salt rubbed in their wounds, publicly. The last bastion of my mental health is failing and it’s hard to not feel like it’s entirely my fault.

The icing on the cake is the most recent revelation I’ve had the horror of unraveling. I had a dream recently, that consisted of many things. I was in my therapists office, and I could see her notes. She was calling me an “it” in them. A female friend of hers came in and laughed in my face about needing therapy. And then the worst part. The room transformed and I was on a bed still talking to my therapist. It was grungy and two men entered from a side door. One of them I knew, dressed normally. The other looked like the human personification of a pig and was perverted and demented. The pervert came to the bed and sat down behind me. As I continued talking to my therapist he lifted my shirt and started rubbing my low back. I woke up screaming and sweating as he began to molest me.

The first man from the dream I knew. And I remembered everything. He was in college when I was 13, and I met him through church. He wanted to play video games and my parents met me hang at the place he was housesitting. I remember everything about that house. Every detail, every color, the layout - everything. Except the bedroom. Whatever my brain was trying to protect me from was in that bedroom. And with a lot of work to break down those walls and unlock whatever repressed memory is hiding away....I think I understand that I may have been molested as a kid. I don’t know for certain, and I don’t think I’ll ever truly know. But I think on that day, he took me into that room to show me his dick and possibly do other things. I’m going to continue to try to remember.

So I’m 30 years old. Raised in a semi-cult like religion. Maybe gay, maybe not. I’ve been raped 3 times. I’m almost always depressed and suicidal, and I have both PTSD and CPTSD. I work to the point of physical exhaustion and illness and I’m alone. Who I am is starting to hurt my performance at work and erode the only part of myself I don’t hate. While this is a glimpse behind most of my walls, there are walls that will never come down because if they do I will die. I know that happiness and relationships are not part of my reality anymore, and I’m working on my goal of contentment and acceptance.

This is my story. It’s all in my head.

....But it’s real.

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