Authors: Nikki Sex
“What has been done to you is one thing. Yet to really suffer, to truly be burdened with guilt and shame, such pain always begins
not with what has been done to you
—but with what
you
have done.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
My mouth is as dry the dust surrounding us. I open my water bottle and take a long drink.
“Children love games,” André says conversationally. “They live for fun. You were a child,
mon ami.
It is instinctive and natural for a child to play with other members of one’s family.”
I frown and stare at my feet.
Yeah right.
“And then, too, in your case we have the male physiology.”
I raise my head to meet his gaze at this comment. An eloquent smile curls his lips, a message I clearly “get.” Sometimes I feel as if he doesn’t need to say a word for me to understand him.
“
Oui, oui,
but of course!” André says. “A penis does not discern the difference. It does not know right and wrong, good and bad. It is an animal of mindless sensation. While some of these things your father did were perhaps unpleasant, most of these games felt good. He made you hard and brought you pleasure, no?”
My cheeks surge with heat at this, my deepest shame.
Two curious rock squirrels come closer, chasing each other around a tree. Their scolding chitters sound loud in the quiet of the desert.
I’ve watched friends die. I’ve killed people. I’ve suffered grievous physical injuries. I’ve run, I’ve hidden and fought in terror of certain and imminent death. But I swear to God—discussing my childhood secrets is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.
André’s simple question, echoes in my mind:
He made you hard and brought you pleasure, no?
After a long moment, I admit the accuracy of his statement with a curt nod.
“
Merci,”
he says, his voice measured. “Thank you for your honesty. This is a most difficult discussion,
oui, oui!
Only the most courageous face such a trial. I salute your bravery. The truth—it can be painful.” He gives a shrug of philosophical resignation. “And yet, it is still the truth,
n’est-ce-pas?
”
André’s warm praise eases something inside. He knows what I’m going through. I’d thank him, but I don’t. I’m not sure if I
can
say anything. Instead, I sigh and nod once more.
“The pedophile, such is a master of manipulation,” André says. “Those who have not experienced this do not easily understand. They think the victim should have told someone, or done something to stop it. But why would they? A child does not know better. With most pedophiles, it is not rape.
Non!
It is a
willing choice
and a
seduction
.”
A wave of shame hits me and my stomach churns. My breakfast threatens to come back up. For a moment, I close my eyes. I hold it together by gripping my knees firmly. My hands would be trembling if I didn’t.
His words,
“willing choice
and a
seduction”
repeat in my mind.
I shake my head, an unconscious physical denial, but he’s so right. No wonder I’ve been stuck right there in the past. Confused and ashamed; buried in guilt and self-loathing.
“Did you watch the movie,
Sophie’s Choice
?” André’ asks.
It takes me a moment to get my bearings. I hold on to his question like tugging on the reins of a runaway horse. Thankfully, I can stop this mad gallop into my past for now. I can take a much-needed break from the appalling mental and emotional struggle I’ve been battling.
“Sure. I saw it,” I say, while sucking in a deep, fortifying breath.
My counselor’s gone off to left field once more, but that’s OK. In fact, it’s a relief. It’s a well-earned respite for me, whenever he changes the subject.
“Bon, eh bien.”
He nods. “Upon arrival at Auschwitz, the brave and beautiful Sophie is forced to choose which one of her two children is to die in the gas chamber. The surviving child will proceed to the labor camp.”
I nod.
Sophie’s Choice
is the kind of movie where you come away feeling sad, and the memory of it—the terrible, heartbreaking dilemma—stays in your imagination for weeks.
André’s eyes flash with emotion as he lifts his hand and raises his index finger to make his point. “
Bon.
If the Nazi had simply
taken
one child—Sophie could have lived with this, yes? It would be out of her hands. She would have been given
no choice
, do you see?”
My teeth clench, but I nod my understanding. In life it can be wonderful to be absolved of all responsibility. To have all options taken away. To know for certain there’s absolutely
nothing
you can do to change your fate.
To be free of blame.
André’s raises and lowers his head rapidly, making his point. “It is cruel, yes, it is horrific! Sophie’s grief—her pain, her suffering—it would have been unspeakable!
Yet she would not have felt such guilt.”
I consider this for a moment.
I understand the heavy burdens of blame, regret and guilt. It was the act of
deciding
which child would die that destroyed her. It was
her
choice, which was impossible to live with.
When I meet André’s gaze there’s a strong emotion he’s communicating through his expression. He wants me to appreciate how Sophie felt. He wants me to get the connection between our two stories.
My pulse kicks up as I begin to fully understand.
André’s aware of the exact moment I “get” it.
“
Oui, oui
,”
he says excitedly. “Your situations are not similar, and yet they are, no? It is because Sophie
was made to choose
that she felt herself to be
a part of that choice, comprenez-vous?
It becomes
her
decision. From active participation, Sophie
shared
in the act. She felt responsible—complicit in a vile crime.
Mon Dieu,
it was
the most heinous crime a mother was capable of committing.”
My jaw tightens. I’m not thinking of Sophie now. My mind and memories are all focused upon my father. It feels dishonorable to speak ill of the dead—a social
faux pas,
and inherently wrong. Bad, good or otherwise, I don’t want to speak of my father.
I don’t want to think of him at all.
André reaches over, pats my knee comfortingly and pulls away. “
Mon ami,
I will tell you something few people know. Sexual excitement and orgasm during rape, sexual assault or abuse is very common. If the victim is a man or a woman—it makes no difference. Do you know why? Biological programming! The human body and particularly the genitals react to stimulation as the
bon Dieu
has designed! This is the best-kept secret for those that have been abused. Victims feel responsible and ashamed
because their bodies responded
, do you see?”
Feeling a little queasy, I nod my head.
I
of all people understand this.
I’ve lived it.
“
Oui, oui,”
he says. “Rapists use this trick to make their victims blame themselves for their attack. And the pedophile? The pedophile assuages his or her guilt with his victims’ orgasms. For it is proof they wanted it, no?”
“Do you think my father thought that way?”
“Mais oui,
of a certainty. All sinners must continuously rationalize and justify their sins.” He gives me a quick smile. “Otherwise they would not be able to continue to keep sinning, no?”
“But what about sociopaths? They don’t feel remorse.”
He shrugs. “So research shows. Me? I do not believe it. It may be hidden, it may be buried deeply, but there is always the conscience. The immortal soul? It is aware of the difference between right and wrong.”
“Do you think my dad was a sociopath?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Am I?” I blurt out, and immediately I’m sorry I asked.
“You are not,” he says and his voice carries a quiet ring of certainty.
I nod. I couldn’t be a sociopath. They’re supposed to be free from guilt. Remorse, shame and guilt sit like three loathsome demons on my shoulders, whispering in my thoughts day and night.
“Yet, it is not what is
done to you
,” André says, “but what one
has done
that is capable of destroying one’s life. Responsibility for one’s sins, it clings like glue—such cannot be escaped.”
I’ve got nothing to say to that.
André rests his arms on his knees and bends closer, as if confiding a secret.
“Grant, shall I tell you what I fear for you? Self-condemnation for participation in such abuse, particularly with the perversity of incest—such gnaws away, on and on, bit by bit every day—breaking a person down with shame, blame and oh-so many regrets. And guilt?
Je suis désolé—
guilt, my friend…” He shakes his head sorrowfully. “Guilt destroys the soul.”
I suck in a deep breath and exhale slowly. Nothing new there. I could have told André that.
One of Sophie’s children was put to death, and it wasn’t in any conceivable way her fault. Yet life isn’t always as simple as right and wrong, or good and bad. Real or imagined, for many, it’s about what
they
feel
responsible for.
No wonder Sophie committed suicide.
“Do you understand why I spoke to you of Sophie?” he asks.
“Yes,” I murmur in a low voice.
“Grant, your abuse was not your fault.
None of this
was your fault. The father is to blame—regardless of your participation.”
I nod because I understand. André says it isn’t my fault. Why doesn’t that make me feel better? I’m numb, despondent and strangely cold, despite the heat.
Monster! Pervert!
“You have lived with this most hidden shame for far too long,
mon ami.
” André says. “And this burden was given to you by your father—a man every child is not only born to trust, but to instinctively wish to please. He twists a natural behavior. He corrupts what should be an act of pleasure and a physical expression of love.”
Defeated by the ugly facts, I sigh. “Yes.”
“As a child you are proud of his admiration and attention. You are his son—the oldest child, and he tells you that you are special, no? And so, many times
you
sought him. You made a choice. You elected to go to him, whenever you wished to play,” he says, speaking as if it’s an undeniable truth.
He’s right.
I see it in André’s face—he recognizes my dismayed expression. My body trembles, I can’t stop it now. I close my eyes, unable to meet his penetrating gaze.
“It is this that shames you,” he says softly.
Eyes shut tight; I inhale a deep breath and exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Long moments pass while I struggle to regain my composure.
Just like Sophie, I made a choice. Except, I made that choice not once, but repeatedly,
again and again, over a period of years.
I’m riddled with life-draining bullets now. I feel like shit and my head’s in a spin. André’s right, of course. It humiliates me. The fact that I was an innocent child at the time and didn’t know any better, doesn’t seem to lessen my guilt.
I had sex with my father.
I didn’t protect my brother.
I’m not gay, in fact even the idea of
seeing
a naked man makes me feel physically ill. And still I have to fight to keep my eyes off other men’s dicks because of this creepy, unwanted compulsion of mine.
Damn it to hell, I’m such a sick pervert.
Is that where this relentless plague of guilt comes from? The choices I made as a child? My fear that I’m not normal? That I’m not an ordinary human being? That maybe, in fact, I
really am
a monster?
These sordid secrets darken every part of me—mind, heart and soul.
I open my eyes and meet my counselor’s shrewd gaze. There’s a bottomless well of unexpected emotion hotly burning in his dark eyes.
Surprised, I flinch as it strikes me as obvious and as illuminating as the morning sun. This is the first time I’ve ever seen my composed and utterly controlled counselor angry. But he’s not just angry—he’s furious.
André’s looking at me… and I don’t think he likes what he sees.
“When we treat children's play as seriously as it deserves, we are helping them feel the joy that's to be found in the creative spirit. It's the things we play with and the people who help us play that make a great difference in our lives.”
― Fred Rogers
~~~
His lips are pulled down in a frown and he raises his voice to me for the very first time. “Yet it should not shame you!
Non!
” A strong volley of French flows from his mouth.
He stands up now and begins pacing. His arms gesticulate wildly, as he spews out a torrent of furious and incomprehensible French words. I do recognize
“merde,”
which means “shit,” and
“C’est vraiment des conneries!”
which means, “That’s really bullshit!” The man is clearly pissed off.
André’s angry. He’s upset. He gives way to pent up fury. In all the months I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him like this before.
I sit back in surprise, shaken out of the vile imagery of the past.
His emotions warm me. Something that’s wound into a vicious knot inside of me loosens as I watch him struggle with his passions. André’s own feelings have finally overcome him.
So. He’s not always as cool and in control as I thought.
Taking a long drink of water, André sits down beside me once more. There’s a sheen of sweat on his face, and his manner is no longer one of ‘calm counselor.’ He looks ashamed of himself after this emotional explosion.
“Grant,
pardon,”
he says, his voice low and contrite. “I find myself distressed when there is such a vast disparity of power. It is injustice that I find intolerable. If you please, forgive me.”
André’s accent has thickened, he sounds more French than ever. I spread my hands in a show of ‘whatever’ and my lips curl in genuine amusement. “You’re forgiven. It was a nice break for me to see
you
upset for a change.”
“Vraiment?”
he says, and his dark eyes glow with pleasure.
“D'accord, eh bien!
Then I am satisfied to have reacted.”
I say nothing but my smile sits easily upon my lips.
“
Oui, oui,
I was most upset. For the counselor it is not recommended to have an emotional response such as this, you perceive. It is a failing, of course.” He throws his hands in the air. “But me? I am only human.”
I throw my head back and laugh out loud.
Human my ass.
André’s ego would make an Egyptian pyramid look small.
He smiles at me good-naturedly, not at all disturbed that I’m laughing at him. Once I wind down, he returns to the subject.
“Now
think
my friend,” he says. “What chance would a child have to counter such mastery? To fight against an adult’s pre-conceived, planned and carefully enacted purpose? You were an innocent. He intentionally trained you to behave this way. You were a child who played a game with his father. You did this to please him, even if there was discomfort at times, yes?
I wince because André isn’t stupid. He’s guessed everything. He knows the games pedophiles play.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“You did not have the ability to say no.”
“Not until I was almost twelve.”
“Just so. Yet, this was simply a game you were playing. Such is as natural as eating or breathing to a child. You sought your father for fun, for pleasure, and for adult attention and approval—nothing more. While
he
…” André’s jaw tightens. “… he committed the blackest of sins, playing a part as evil as those running Auschwitz. Your father’s actions were the greatest betrayal of all.”
A gentle, cool breeze blows against me as a long moment passes. The comforting peace and near silence is filled with only wind, soft, rustling leaves and bird sounds. What André says is oddly freeing.
As a form of exoneration, his words aren’t half-bad.
“You are a good person,” André says, with barely stifled anger as his hands curl into fists. “If you must be ashamed, find something to be
justifiably
ashamed of!” His fists slam into his thighs with brutal force.
He jumps to his feet, apparently unable to stay seated while filled with such fury. “But do not feel shame for
this
!”
His anger is so completely unexpected and out there, I laugh out loud.
After a startled moment, his whole body shakes as he laughs along with me. For me, a lifetime of pent up negative emotions suddenly turn into something ridiculous. What in the world is so damn funny? Nothing, but I find I can’t stop.
André sits back down. Together, we both hold our guts and choke with laughter until tears run down our faces. My stomach is sore but the growing tension that was in my chest no longer constricts me. It isn’t funny—but it really,
really
is. Why are we cracking up?
For a moment, I wonder if André became angry on purpose. Somehow I can’t help but imagine that he did. His fury certainly lightened the mood. Laughing together is deeply satisfying, in a strangely lighthearted and frivolous way.
A special kind of person does this job. Someone who is uniquely crazy.
That long burst of gleeful humor has done me some good. I feel much better. I needed the release.
When we both get our overpowering laughter under control, André goes right back to work. With careful prompting, he gets me to speak about my secret life with my father. Events from my past, even ones I’d intentionally forgotten, come to the surface.
I find myself telling him exact details, which he pries out of my usually guarded tongue—not with a crowbar, but with clever and calmly inquiring expertise.
When I sit silently, too embarrassed to speak, André’s soothing voice asks, “Is there something you feel I would not understand?”
If that doesn’t get me talking, he prompts me by giving me reassurances like: “This memory you struggle with, do you fear it will make me think less of you?
Je vous assure,
I hold you in the highest regard. Nothing can change my opinion.”
André’s serene yet attentive approach, combined with the way he never reacts negatively to anything I say, wears me down. While I have long periods of saying nothing and trying to avoid the truth, I find it’s easier simply to tell him what he wants to know.
I take in a deep breath and say, “Even without an ability to ejaculate, I had my first climax when I was nine years old.” I’m staggered, because telling him grim details is becoming so much easier.
The grin he beams me is wide and sincere. “
Bon,
I thank you for telling me.
Comme c’est merveilleux
—this is wonderful! You are doing so very well, my friend.”
My lips tug up slightly. My smile feels worn, tired and very faint, but it’s there.
“I have counseled many who, as boys and girls as young as five, also were taught to climax,” he tells me. “Carnal knowledge is not meant for those so young and yet, once ‘Pandora’s Box’ of sexual awareness is open, a child cannot unlearn what they know.”
I feel like a dishrag, damp and sweaty from heat, emotion and excruciating effort. Every sexual secret I’m aware of has been wrung out of me. I find myself physically and mentally beat by the end of our discussion.
Worn-out, bone tired but somehow lighter.
Relieved. Unburdened.
Freed.
With the flourish of a magician, he shakes out a tablecloth and pulls out three courses of delicious French cuisine from his Dr. Who ‘Tardis’ backpack. He places every dish with creative care. For André, artistry and eating go together.
My lips curve up in a tired smirk and I shake my head.
French people.
I suspect the ingestion of food is actually a sacred religious practice for the French. Cooking is an art form and dining is an experience and a ceremony that takes time and single-minded focus. For the French, every meal’s a special occasion that should never,
ever,
be rushed.
André cocks an eyebrow and his eyes meet mine. “Something amuses you,
mon ami?”
I gesture toward the beautifully presented meal laid out before us. “I’m just appreciating this whole culinary setup you’ve got going on here.”
“
Très bon! Mon Dieu
, you have worked very hard this morning. Now you are hungry, no?” he says, while removing the cork from some no doubt costly red wine.
“I sure am. Thank you, André.”
“You are most welcome.
Bon appétit!”
he says with a happy, boyish grin.
My mouth waters as I dish out Niçoise Salad with grilled tuna & potatoes.
Even though I ate a big breakfast, I find I’m utterly starving and move on to a second helping of food. Why is this? It’s as if my sordid secrets carried actual physical weight. With the skeletons gone, body and mind, I feel hollow and strangely empty inside.
My gaze slides to André. I watch as he sits comfortably sipping wine and savoring his beautifully presented meal. Every ounce of his being is absorbed in the sight, smell and taste of gourmet enjoyment. I just shake my head.
If you visit Paris and see people eating as they walk, you can bet every penny you have that they’re tourists. No respectable Frenchman or woman would be caught dead engaging in such damning epicurean sacrilege.
My unconventional counselor is overjoyed to see me eating and drinking with gusto. He assures me I’ll feel much better after I do.
He’s right.
What a whack job. Sometimes I wonder if André’s unexpected and offbeat behavior is a French thing. The guy’s a crack up. He’s jumping out of his skin he’s so pleased. André’s like an over-exuberant puppy with a box of new toys and a room full of kids to play with.
The man’s utterly delighted with me.
Right this minute I feel as if I’ve earned an entire book of gold stars.
“Come," he says cheerfully, after we eat and tuck everything away. He slips his arms into his much lighter backpack, shrugging it on. “Have you ever heard it said, that the most effective way to overcome temptation is to yield to it?” he asks me as he starts walking.
To my surprise, he takes a left turn, moving off the trail.
My lips draw down into a frown of concentration. “No.”
“It is true.”
“OK.”
We’ve covered a lot of mental and emotional miles—this has been a very big day. I’m exhausted and I feel as if I’m totally brain dead. Unable to hold a single conscious thought, I obediently follow him.
“This persistent compulsion you have in wanting to, yet not wanting to look at penises,” he says while making towards a small group of trees. “Now that we have the basis for the problem—a pattern set when you were a child—such will resolve. There is more to discuss,
oui, oui,
much more, but we have made a most auspicious start,” he says.
André’s back to talking in calm, professional counselor mode.
“Toward this purpose, you must once more choose,” he adds. “Life is all about choices,
n'est-ce pas?
The difficulty comes from shame, guilt and indecision. But of course, this is all connected with the confusions in your childhood. For now, let there be no remorse. Let all be blameless curiosity.”
Huh?
I’ve been staring at the ground, watching where I place my feet as I walk, but some tendril of awareness pushes through my weary mental fog.
I raise my gaze to see André’s broad shoulders. He’s stopped just in front of me. His head turns towards me and our eyes meet.
“A penis is only a penis,” he says. “It is a normal part of the human male body—no more, no less. It simply
is.
There need be no shame, no guilt. You must
decide to look—
this time of your own free will.”
I notice he’s standing in front of a tree. He unzips his jeans. “I must urinate,
mon ami,
so if you please, feel free to look at mine!”