For sure, I’m a broken man

whose soul cracked at age fifteen

 

when my core beliefs

were ransacked by a pig-priest

who decreased my faith

 

to a despicable place

of self-hate and immense rage

 

caged in self disgust

that destroys trust in figures

of authority.

 

Child sexual abuse is

heinous rebuke of a child’s

 

frail humanity.

Tina was only twelve when

her humanity

 

was shelved for Bartholomew’s

pleasure to sever soul from

 

her very young flesh.

So, to mesh two such broken

souls in tight exchange

 

can rearrange dynamics

in dramatic ways quickly.

 

The sticky, icky,

prickly part of surviving

shared trauma starts with

 

hypervigilance, unknown

defense mechanisms and

hidden, quick triggers

that once fired will alter

a gentle, calm breeze

 

into twisting grey funnels

that will not be appeased with

 

hollow platitudes

greased with kindness and strong pleas

for rational thought.

 

Such storm fronts must be fought with

raw, undeniable truth.

 

Our passion flows

like Nature’s wind grows from calm

stillness of clear skies

 

to the craziness of fierce

hurricanes and tornados.

 

Traumatized children

are forces of nature that

have been conjured up

 

by their environmental,

chaos theory specifics.*    

*  (a) sensitive dependence on initial conditions, and (b) the nature of nonlinear elements

[Shannon]

 

What are you trying

to convey to us — that you’re

shying away from

 

helping her “to stay the course”

which was your discourse-mantra

 

repeated often

to fashion a gospel for

her continued growth?

 

[Joseph Ward]

 

It is critical to see

the danger for me to be

 

tightly involved with

Tina directly in a 

day to day exchange.

 

In my counseling I worked

hard to find what lurked in the

 

deep caverns below

my safe havens, that yearned for 

their free expression.

 

I learned about my fountain

of ego states that emerge

 

and recede based on

what needs to be achieved when

the circumstances

 

dictate an irate or a 

friendly state to actuate.

 

I had three key states

that would dominate my moods:

The Old Man would stand

 

for my current self that sought

to augment my attempt to

survive my dying

control of the old trauma

I never exposed.

 

But, the Imp rose to brandish

blows verbally, viciously

 

or physically

as needed to succeed in

keeping myself safe.

 

Then there is the Hurt Child of

Fifteen who no longer screams,

 

speaks or cries or sings.

What seems to be a long trip

through frightening dreams

 

of horrifying kid scenes

took E M D R * treatments,

* Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing

once per week for three tough years,

to clear away barriers

that fused night terrors

 

to restless sleep drenched in sweat.

Threats no longer beset my

 

night’s hours of rest

because the Imp refreshed well

the Hurt Child’s lost quest.

 

My unspoken goal to roll

the dice for treatment was to,

 

figuratively

speaking, amputate the parts

of my dark psyche

 

I hate from the bashing fate

blessed by an unholy priest

 

like a gangrened limb

that seeks to infect the whole

of my injured soul.

 

But the first lesson to learn

is the realization

 

that the psyche’s not

flesh and bone that can be sown

back together or

 

measured for a paster cast

to hold fast broken spirits

 

much less toss away

a page of pureed deep trust

that crushed dependence

 

on critical support that

withstands the demands of stress.

 

Integration of

the anguish of brutish, fierce

history is the

 

only prescription for my

healing the consequence of

 

my terrorizing

traumatic encounter of

a predator-priest

 

draped in white wool’s holiness*.

At fifteen in the evening

* Beware of wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing.

scene of Sun slipping

into the grey dusk before

dark moonless Night flipped

 

the off switch to busy Day’s

ruckus display of power,

 

I cowered with grief

beneath shame and disbelief

of priests’ love for youth.

 

I struggled to live or die

by command of my own hand.

 

Weepingly I would 

creep from my desolation

by abandoning 

 

the Hurt Child curled tightly in

fetal position centered

 

in the fine grey dirt

of a vast soundless playground

and exit heavy

 

cast iron gates to take on

the Imp’s aggressive, strong state.

 

Make no mistakes, I

survived but I did not thrive.

You cannot live well

 

if your child resides in hell.