Abuse (9 page)

“I would much prefer to be sinned upon than the sinner. It is easier,
comprenez-vous?
With the clear conscience one sleeps very well. The sinner may deny it, but in his heart, he knows. He does not deserve to be happy.”

— André Chevalier

~~~

Grant Wilkinson

André gets out his notepad. It’s his visual form of showing me something he wants to communicate. On it, he draws a series of concentric circles. As a marksman, I instantly recognize a bullseye when I see one.

“Much has been achieved,
mon ami.
And so. Where shall we go from here? I have given this some thought, and I wish to show you.”

“OK.”

Using his pencil, he points to the center of the target. “You are here.”

I grin. I’m a sharp shooter and André’s using a bullseye to represent my life. There’s a kind of poetry in that. I feel an absurd sense of rightness with this perfect parallel.

“Here, I think, is the start,” he says, tapping his pencil on the bullseye. “Right now, together we explore only
your
life. How your childhood affected you, how it colored the emotions, the behavior and attitudes toward yourself and others. We focus on you and consider in what manner we can bring you back to yourself. Back to the true man you are inside—to who you were meant to be.”

I nod. “OK.”

“Once emotions, thoughts and goals have been explored and you are stable and happy, then you can go further. These other circles I use as an example, you perceive.”

He points to the second circle, the one next size up moving out from the center of the bullseye. “Your father, he created oh-so many negative effects on others. This circle may represent your brother, your sister and other family members, do you see?”

“OK.” I frown because right now I’m not sure where André is going with this.

“You, your mother and your siblings—each developed their own patterns of behavior in response to the evils in the family, the pathology. You have told me your brother, Alex takes nothing seriously. He makes jokes and is a cocaine addict. Your sister—she is an alcoholic and is selfish and bitter. You, Grant, isolate yourself from others, because you have always feared there is something very wrong with you. And your mother? She is in denial. She ignores her family, giving all of her attention and support to others, no?”

I snort. “Yeah, that about sums up the Wilkinson family.”

“All people, whatever they are doing, no matter how crazy or irrational it seems to you… it is how they
need
to act—
from their perspective
. I do not justify or rationalize an individual’s behavior—no. I simply tell you
there is always a reason
.”

I consider this for a moment, and it makes sense.

They say pedophiles were abused as children themselves; and wife beaters had a violent upbringing. My mother avoided her husband and children. Why she did is a mystery to me. She spent all of her time ‘helping others’ who were ‘less fortunate’ than we were.

Perhaps in her heart of hearts, she felt she couldn’t help
us.

Did she have any idea what was happening under her own roof? This idea haunts me. Denial is a powerful force and an effective way to protect oneself. Maybe it hurt too much to know the kind of a man she married. Maybe she decided to help others in order to assuage her guilt—or to convince herself she’s a good person.

I don’t like my mother and I’ve never fully understood why. She fed me, dressed me and made me attend to my homework. She never abused me. My mother was a cold, proud and distant woman who commanded respect—but she wasn’t into hugging or kissing her children.

It’s a painful yet, bittersweet memory when I recall that the only hugs I got as a child were from my father.

There is always a reason,
André says.

But not always a valid excuse.

Minutes have passed while I processed these thoughts. That’s OK. André never rushes me when I’m reflecting on something. If I want to speak, I do. If not, he waits until I’m no longer so absorbed.

When I finally meet his gaze, he says, “You have been thinking very hard, my friend. Can you tell me what your attention is on?”

I shrug. “My mother.”

“Oh?”

“You said everyone does things for a reason. I was trying to understand my mother. She’s in denial—I get that, but dammit—I resent all the attention she gave to everyone except us.”

“Ah,” André says. “Did you know children of incest, abused by their father, commonly feel more animosity toward their
mothers
than toward their abusers?”

“No, really?”

“It is true. There are many theories. One is it is a mother’s job to protect their child. Instinctively, children know this, so perhaps it can be considered a result of genetics. The father abuses the child, yet the child still loves the father. It is the mother they focus their hate upon.”

This makes sense to me. “I don’t like my mother,” I admit. “It’s been another source of guilt.”

André grins. “Very good!” he says cheerfully.

I have to laugh. I’m not sure if he said “Good!” because he thinks it’s good I dislike my mother, or because he’s glad I told him. Either way, it doesn’t matter, so I just smile and shake my head.

“
Mon ami,
you are in good company with these most common feelings. But logically?” He shrugs. “Your mother does not know why she abandoned her family. And if you asked her? She would be unaware of such abandonment.”

“I’ve pointed it out before,” I say. “You’re right, she can’t see it. She’s totally blind on the subject.”

“Few are aware of their irrational behaviors,” he says. “They do not know why they act in the manner they do. And you? You have only just begun to understand why you isolate yourself so fully.”

“Yes.”

“We know your brother also suffered under your father’s hands, but you never spoke to him about his, or of your own abuse.” André’s lips purse in disapproval. “The father, he prevented such natural communication, intentionally leading your family into a collusion of secrecy and denial.
Le père—
the father,” he says. “Now, he burns in Hell.”

To my complete surprise, right out of the blue, my counselor crosses himself. He does it automatically, as some mark of respect to God, I guess.

Sometimes I forget he was raised Catholic.

Our family is Evangelical Protestant, and we attend church every Sunday. As long as I can remember our father said, “The Wilkinson’s
always
set a good example to others.”

As a child, I learned to fear God. As I got older, I realized I didn’t actually believe in him. It’s another big secret.

The Christian faith calls believers to love the sinner but hate the sin. When it comes to sin, our Church had homosexuality near the top of the list. That was part of the reason why I so feared my obsession with dicks—our church said it was a sin.

Isn’t it strange how completely your upbringing can mold you? Now, I believe my father was not only a pedophile, but he also preferred men. Was the whole church thing his way to hide what he was? Or maybe he genuinely believed going to church would absolve him from his sins.

Love the sinner; hate the sin.

I loved
and
hated the sinner. I loved
and
hated the sin.

If my father is burning in Hell, I figure he deserves it. He certainly made my life hell.

André notices when he has my attention once more, and continues, “When you are strong and stable, it would be in your best interest to expand into these areas.” His pencil taps the ring one level out from the center. “Now, you are free to talk to others of what happened. For your father, he has destroyed more than one life, yes?”

No!

The idea of discussing dad’s “games” just about makes my head implode. My breath catches as ice water suddenly runs in my veins and my heart begins to hammer. Talk to someone
—anyone
—about my shame?
No
! Not gonna happen! How could I face
that
?

André’s eyes widen as he registers the shock and dread in my expression.

I close my eyes tightly as nausea churns my stomach. I can barely live with
myself,
with what I’ve done. How could I speak to anyone else of such hideous memories? I imagine anger, rejection and revulsion on the face of others.

I can hear my mother saying to me,
“Grant, how could you? Why would you make up such appalling lies?”

A wave of darkness flows over me.

I feel as if I may pass out.

“Il est bien, mon ami,”
he says, and grabs my wrist, squeezing it
hard
before I fall into a black hole.

When I open my eyes, he lets go of me.

“Do not fear, Grant. This move should not be taken—
must
not be taken—until you are confident in yourself. Not until it is your wish,
n'est-ce pas?
Non, non
,
non!
All must be right
for you
.”

As a gesture of honesty, he puts his hand to his heart. “Never! I vow. Of a certainty, I do not force you to do something you are not ready to do.”

I lay flat on my back, trying to calm my galloping heartbeat and slow my breathing. I remember then. André knows my past and doesn’t despise me. He’s OK with it. And he understands the evils of this world. He’s heard it all before.

“Sorry,” I say, when I’ve somewhat recovered from what could only be considered a momentary rush of full-blown panic.

“There is nothing to be sorry for. It is my mistake. I did not make myself clear. This,” he points to the bullseye that represents my life, “the center signifies you. You are the most important. All begins with you. It is
you
who has had the courage to face your past.”

He taps the tip of his pencil on to the bullseye again. “You alone have chosen to seek counseling in order to confront the power of the father. If you go no further, it is enough. What you have already faced is far beyond what many with an abusive history achieve.”

Long moments pass while I stare at the nylon ceiling of our tent, regaining my self-control and processing the compliment he’s given me. When I’m more composed, I meet his dark eyes.

André holds my gaze for a long, assessing moment. Then his teeth flash white in the dim light of the small LED in our shelter as he shoots me an apologetic smile.

“It is well?” he asks.

I suck in a deep breath, roll over and prop my head on one arm. “Well enough.”

“No questions?”

I gravely shake my head.

“Nothing happens without your wish for it to happen,” he reassures me. “For now, you speak only with me.”

“Thank you.” I blow out an audible puff of air from my lips in relief.

“
Bon.
I continue with my illustration.
”
He points to the third circle as it moves out from the center. “If the center represents you, and the ring one out from the center represents your family… then this ring, the third ring represents others not in your family.”

“OK.”

“Your father, his unchecked power and influence was most wide reaching. Did you ever consider? He may have abused others—people
not
in your family.”

Fuck.

I’ve been so insulated by my own misery I never,
ever
even considered this. Could my father have interfered with other children? He had a voracious sexual appetite. If so, it would have been young boys. If I know him… he did.

The idea makes me shudder.

Now the future
really
scares me. Aside from my brother, are there others out there
like me?
Others damaged by my father? Somehow, someday, would any of
them—
just like me—decide to deal with this
shit, too? In doing so, will my family’s secrets be exposed?

Fuck.

After all these years, I’m still compelled to hide the truth. Will all of this ugliness come out? It’s all too unspeakable to imagine.

“My friend,” André interrupts my spiraling thoughts. “Do not concern yourself. These are problems for another day.”

Thankful for the reprieve, I close my thoughts on the subject. I know how to push things I can’t face away. I put them into a sealed box in my mind to deal with later—or not at all.

I’m good at that.

Too bad it doesn’t always work.

“Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary. The people we trust with that important talk can help us know we are not alone.”

― Fred Rogers

~~~

Grant Wilkinson

At the end of our wonderful trip, two helicopters wait on the banks of the Colorado River to give us a ride. On the way home, we’re all treated to an aerial tour of the Grand Canyon.

When we land, Gustave is there to pick us up in a limo. The privacy screen is up, so I guess André and I are going to talk. The thought of a counseling session usually makes me uneasy. But I’ve had a fun adventure. I’m on such a high, I feel as if I can talk about anything.

“Grant,” André says. “I noticed while we were away, you did not spend time near the women. You avoided them.”

I shrug. “Women make me nervous.”

“Oh?”

“Absolutely.”

“You do not have experience with them?”

“No, André, I don’t.”

The emotional high I’m on, takes a drastic dip. OK. Maybe I
can’t
talk about anything. I suck in a deep breath, preparing myself for the worst. When André asks about ‘experience,’ he’s not talking about hanging out with the opposite sex. He’s asking me about my sex life.

After all this time, I’ve learned not to screw around with André. It’s a hell of a lot faster and a lot less painful simply to answer any question he asks me. I clench my jaw. This is a tough subject, but I have to face it. Hopefully, he won’t probe too far—but I figure that’s just wishful thinking.

Feeling somewhat as if I’m jumping off a cliff, I man up and tell him the truth. “I’ve never been in a relationship with a woman, André. Never. I’ve only gotten to second base.”

André’s brows knit. “Second base,” he says. “The stroking of the breasts?”

“Yes. I have my fantasies; I just don’t act on them. Somehow, when I think of going further with a woman, I remember what I did with my father and freak out. I just can’t go ahead with it—not with a normal, respectable sort of woman who deserves better.”

André says nothing for a few long moments. I wish I knew what he was thinking. Will he let this line of questioning alone?

“Yet, you are not a virgin?”

Shit.

“No.” I shake my head.

Fucking André. He sees too much. The man knows everything. Like an armored tank, he easily punches through any barrier, stripping away pretense and zeroing in on the one thing I’m desperate to avoid.

I’d had my fingers crossed, but right from the start of this conversation, I knew exactly where this unpleasant little chat was going.

My throat constricts and I clear it.

Up until now I’ve gone through life with self-loathing, feeling guilty and perverse. André makes me talk about everything, damn him. Revealing my shame and being embarrassed around him is something I should be getting used to by now.

But I’m not used to it.

Confessing the truth about my father was bad enough. I take in one more deep breath, and tell him yet another hateful and humiliating secret I’ve
never
told anyone.

“I’ve only ever had sex that I’ve paid for,” I admit in a low, harsh voice,

“Ah,” he says, as the light of understanding comes into his eyes.

I’ve just told him I’ve only had sex with prostitutes. Worriedly, I meet his gaze, searching for condemnation, repugnance, disgust or some other kind of judgment.

The sound of the limo speeding down the highway is a soft, soothing background noise to my anxiety and this uncomfortable conversation.

He smiles at me and I see only acceptance and comprehension in his eyes.

I know why I pay for sex. Andre knows, as well. After all this time he '
gets
' the reasoning behind my actions.

I’m dirty. Disgusting. Tainted.

I used to feel as if I had a brand, burned into my flesh for everyone to see. Now that half of my face is scarred, it’s even more obvious. I
am
branded. I bear a mark that scares people off. With the darkness within me, it’s better that way.

Monster! Pervert!

André’s words come back into my mind:
All people, whatever they are doing, no matter how crazy or irrational it seems… it is how they need to act—from their perspective.

Yes.

I’m sick. I’m contaminated by filth and this is how I handle it. In my heart, I know I’m not worthy. I don’t deserve the love of a good woman. I don’t deserve to be happy.

André’s lips press into a thin straight line. For a moment, I’m not sure if he’s angry or maybe he’s just thinking. Then his mouth curves up into a large, very satisfied smile.

I wait in trepidation, knowing whatever’s on his mind—it has to do with me.

“
Mon ami,”
he says, and his dark eyes shine with enthusiasm. “This is most auspicious.
Oui, oui,
most auspicious. I have exactly the perfect woman for you.”

“No,” I snap back at him vehemently and my mind is made up. “Absolutely not. I’ll only have sex with someone I pay for. I don’t want anything else. I’ve lived without it this long. I can continue just as I am. It’s better this way.”

André looks at me with unblinking eyes. Polite and mildly interested, he’s back into counselor mode.

Damn him to Hell.

“I’m serious, André. Don’t screw with this. I mean it, no matchmaking. I can’t relate to normal women. I don’t even want to try.”

“Oh?”

Such an innocent sound of encouragement. He’s prompting me to continue speaking—I know his methods. I cross my arms, sit back against the car seat and close my mouth so hard, I swear I can hear my teeth grind.

A number of minutes pass. We’re no longer driving down a long, straight highway. We’re back in the outskirts of Las Vegas and Gustave has to stop at lights, yield to other cars and turn corners.

The silence lengthens.

I watch out the window as the world goes by. I’m mulishly pleased with myself because I firmly refuse to budge on this one.

“All must be exactly as you wish,
mon ami,”
he says. “You are a strong person. With all of my knowledge and experience, using all of my strength, I could never successfully fight against your indomitable will—even if I wanted to—which I do not.”

“Good.” I inhale loudly, unaware I’ve been breathing shallowly, almost holding my breath.

“Grant,” he says. “There is a professional woman who assists me. She is a sexual surrogate and receives payment for her therapeutic services. I believe she can help you.”

“Oh.”

My stubborn anger disappears.

Not matchmaking after all. A sexual surrogate. This is an entirely new idea.

He nods. “Her name is Renata. Of a certainty, we are of the same mind, she and I. Renata has worked with many of my clients. I assure you, the games you played with your father as a child will not shock her,” he adds conversationally.

I flinch. He mentions my abuse and lifelong shame so casually. To André, it simply is—or was—whatever. It happened and it’s in the past.

I wish I could be so nonchalant.

“Will you tell her about… my history?”

“No. I will only tell her that when you were a child, you were sexually abused by a man—no specifics. This is all I need inform her, unless you do not wish even this?”

I shrug. “It’s OK.”

If this woman already does this kind of thing, I don’t mind her knowing.

“Speaking exact details is for
you
to do. Telling another of your abuse will empower you. You were made
not
to tell anyone of your childhood. Each time you deny his command for silence and declare the truth, it is a triumph over your father. And it will become easier with each person you tell.”

Shit. He wants me to confide in her, too?

No doubt, he’s right, but I say nothing.

I imagine a safe, comforting woman—perhaps in her late forties or fifties. Someone with a degree in psychology and a lifetime of experience with people who are wounded, damaged or broken.

A kind, older woman who would be used to dealing with people like me.