by Nikki Sex
I feel loved, valued, sated and well-used. Purposefully used. Grant, a man of formidable control, didn’t hold himself back. I was a channel for his aggression, arousal and need.
I comforted him with my body in a raw, physical way. How can such an animal act feel so spiritual, so profound?
In healing him, he heals me.
This wonderful man arrived home anguished and suffering, and I’ll get to the bottom of that soon. Yet, all I can think in this moment—with my one working brain cell—is I’ve never felt so complete, so happy and whole in my life.
Chapter 35.
“Some people habitually respond to a lover’s pain and confusion with an intense desire to fix something. Fix-it messages can feel like invalidation to the person who is trying to express an emotion. “Why don’t you just do this … try that … forget about it … relax!” sends the message that the person expressing the emotion has overlooked some obvious and simple solution and is an idiot for feeling bad in the first place. Such messages are disempowering and invalidating.”
― Dossie Easton
~~~
Renata Koreman
We’re sitting in the living room in front of a softly burning gas fireplace. Firelight plays over Grant’s handsome, masculine face. He sits beside me with only his unscarred features in my line of sight.
I tried holding his hand earlier, to sit closer to him, but he wasn't ready for contact. He needs time to decompress and process the stuff that's going on in his head.
His imagined sins isolate him.
Whatever happened today brought up a truck-load of shit. His self-loathing is back. It emanates from his tortured soul in a palpable force—like a razor blade cutting into flesh.
Confession can be a lonely business.
The soft, golden light is fitting for cleansing his emotionally charged soul. His strong profile is beautiful. His dark eyelashes seem exceptionally long in this light. They flicker restlessly as he blinks and talks.
Painstakingly explaining the stresses of the day, Grant focuses mostly on how he felt jealous with the discovery of two more victims of his father's abuse. He’d been shocked and horrified to find he felt betrayed and insecure because his father had ‘rival’ children with whom he’d been intimate.
He describes how he was his father's 'special' boy. It was one thing to share that 'honor' with his brother, Alex and later, Danny. It was quite another to find out he was only one of possibly many kids. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow. Add to that, his emotional response to the discovery also shamed him.
This day of discovery also stirred up other unsettling realizations. He recognized how much he used his position as his father's ‘favorite' to get his way as a child, getting better treatment than his siblings.
Hesitating over the sordid details, his voice fluctuating with each changing emotion.
I nod and make soft noises as he opens up, to let him know I sympathize and I understand. More than anything, he needs to rid himself of the toxic shit that's eating him up inside.
Throughout his long discourse, I slip into my therapist mindset, continually biting my tongue. I don’t interrupt, even though I’m dying to jump in and disagree with his brutal self-condemnation. The desire to offer suggestions and advice is in there too, but the worst ‘Vice’ is advice.
So, instead, I let him purge.
Only Grant knows the answers, even though that knowledge may be currently hidden. My job is to help him explore difficult issues and discover his own truths for himself.
While I carefully listen to his words, I also observe him. It’s so intimate to see him like this. I look at him as much as I like, while he keeps his gaze averted with shame.
Grant's come so far during the relatively short time since we met. Without prodding, he's come to me to open up. Now, he sits before me and candidly shares his dark, newfound secrets.
He's so full of angst and misery. It hurts to see him suffer. I swear I feel his pain.
I hate that he feels ashamed of the actions he took to survive his childhood. This would be difficult to watch except I know he’ll feel better afterwards. Right now, I can only listen and help him work through it.
Sometimes he sounds cynical and so much older. As a child he saw and experienced things no kid should ever be exposed to.
Other times, his despair seems like that of a child. For too many years he buried his secrets, shame and pain.
I want him to honestly view the memories that cause him to hate himself. If he sees the truth clearly and tells me about it, his burdens will ease and perhaps even vanish. This human connection of sharing and understanding is at the heart of vanquishing one’s demons.
That’s how counseling works.
I'm flooded with overwhelming feelings of love, awe and sympathy for my big-hearted, kind, grown-up hurt child. None of this was his fault.
The ‘love’ Grant received from his father was never given freely. Instead, it was doled out with treacherous, self-serving strings attached. Betrayal, uncertainty, fear, desperation… he’d walked a difficult tightrope in his youth.
I remain focused on him, despite my inner rage and thirst for vengeance toward his father. Those feelings will do no good for either of us. I must be here for him, in the moment. That's what he needs.
“I was a lousy brother to Alex and Betty Jo,” he says. “It’s so clear to me now. I was also a lousy son to my mother.”
“When you talk in huge generalities like that, you only upset yourself,” I say. “We need to get down to specifics. Remember, Alex called you the instant he was in trouble. He went straight to his big brother, and you were there for him. Without a second thought, you jumped into action immediately. You arranged everything, including getting me to look after his child. You jumped on the first plane here and came to his rescue. Look around, Grant. Here we are, it's been a while and you're still there for him, caring for his baby. Tell me again, how are you a lousy brother?”
“I was the chosen one,” he says, his features grim. “The whole family knew it. I accepted it because it was the way it was, at least that’s what I told myself. But the truth is, I enjoyed being my dad’s favorite. Being ‘special’ for me was utterly self-serving. I stole from them! I took my siblings' share of my father's attention, praise and whatever the hell else passed as love and affection. I wasn't entitled to it all, yet I knowingly took it.”
I disagree, of course, but I keep my face expressionless, my voice even. “OK.”
He glowers with anger. “Being the favorite is a position of power. I manipulated situations to get my way. I got out of trouble. Alex and Betty Jo often took the blame for things I did.”
“I get it,” I say with a nod. “Yet, you were a child, with very little power. Don’t forget what you’ve realized previously. HE was a master manipulator. You could never have what your father didn’t intend to give you in the first place. He used favoritism to serve his perverse desires. You were his pawn. A strong and cunning grownup, your father purposely made you feel guilty and ashamed. He used those emotions against you."
The room is silent for a few heartbeats. “Yes, he manipulated me, but he also taught me how to manipulate them.”
Ah. I begin to see where this damning guilt, this perceived sin of his is coming from.
I take a deep breath and switch gears. "I understand what you’re saying, but Alex doesn’t seem to resent you. I haven't seen any evidence of that. From the outside looking in, I view the situation quite differently. Have you ever considered maybe Alex was glad not to be the favorite? Being the sole focus of your father must have been a daunting place to be. Don’t beat yourself up when you could be sorely misguided. You’ve never talked to them about any of this—have you? Don’t you think it’s time to discuss your father with your family?”
He blows out a long breath of air. “I know, I know, I have to do that soon.”
“What about Betty Jo? How were you a bad brother to her?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he a
sks. “She wanted to be our father's favorite.”
“You were a child when you were introduced to this situation,” I say, forcing my voice to remain calm and even. “Despite what you believe and no matter how favored you were—nobody can control anyone else's choices. Your parents were adults who made their own decisions as to how to treat and raise their kids. If you need to assign blame, do it properly, based on the facts. The dysfunctional family dynamics you grew up with were not your fault.”
Grant stares at me for a moment, his eyes questioning. “You’re really good at this, you know. Are all sexual surrogates this wise?”
I laugh. “Are you trying to change the subject?”
“No. I just think the way you’re able to see through bullshit to the most relevant point is amazing.”
My face heats with pleasure, it’s always nice to receive a compliment. More than that, helping people is my own particular brand of crazy. I can’t stand seeing someone suffer—I have to help them. Yet, the fact I’m helping the man I love so much, satisfies me in a way I could never explain.
I clear my throat, chasing away the powerful emotions that fill me. “I’m taking a psychology course, but it’s not that,” I begin hoarsely. “I was a real mess. Living with André, having him train me into mindfulness, and listening to him point out truths I’d already told him, put me in the right direction. André was an excellent mentor who taught me how to pass on what I discovered about myself. If I’m good at this, it’s because he helped me through my own crap. Everything I know I learned from him.”
“That makes sense,” he says.
After a few quiet moments, I ask him, “Why do you think you were a bad son to your mother?”
“That’s also obvious,” he says. “I took her husband away from her. It was as though I was my father’s mistress, living in my mother’s house, only I was also her son.”
I tilt my head. “Again, you were a child. Your father was an adult. He was in control. He chose to put his wife and children in that situation. You were a victim in this every bit as much as anyone else in your family—in fact, even more so."
Grant’s averts his gaze while he thinks this over. The idea he had it worse off than the others is clearly a new concept to him.
“It’s an interesting thought,” he finally says.
“Yes,” I agree. "For you to consider yourself your father's mistress is a very adult way to look at it. Is that how you saw the situation as a child?”
He frowns and reflects on my question with a faraway look in his eyes. “No,” he finally says, as he shakes his head. “All I remember is wanting to please my father. I realize now I had the ingrained fear of him from when I was very young, but I was also afraid of his moods. He used a lot of emotional blackmail to get his way. At times, he made me feel sorry for him. I felt bad if he was unhappy.”
I nod. “I'm not surprised. You'd been taught at a very young age to be hyper-vigilant and hyper-aware of his wants and needs. You were trained to cater to him before anyone else. Any emotion or impulse he saw in you would be added to his arsenal of tools to manipulate you more skillfully. He used anything and everything including your fears, your sympathy and your desire to please him. Guilt and shame were also powerful weapons. Threats of exposure or even threats of suicide or self-harm work too. He manipulated you to love him and to feel sorry for him.”
Grant’s features become stern and unforgiving. The sudden flare of naked abhorrence in his eyes shocks me. I force myself not to recoil from this blast of raw rage.
“I hate him,” he says succinctly, meeting my eyes for an instant before averting his gaze again.
“Me too,” I solemnly and sincerely agree.
The silence lengthens. “You know, sometimes people who've suffered childhood abuse get their past and their present confused,” I observe. “For example, this extreme jealousy you unearthed today. Consider how discovering others who were 'special' to your father would feel through the eyes of yourself as a child. I'd think that those feelings would be quite different than how you perceive this situation as an adult.”
Grant turns toward me, curiosity etched in his features. “Are you saying that it was actually from the eyes of myself from when I was a child that I felt jealous?”
I stare at him. “You tell me. Are you, as an adult, jealous?”
“Hell no,” he says, his eyes glowering. “As the person I am now I have far too much anger toward my father. If my father wasn’t dead, I'd want to kill him. I don't know if I could stop myself with the rage that’s burning inside of me right now.”
I grin and clap my hands. “Excellent!”
Chapter 36.
“Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.”
— Buddha
~~~
Renata Koreman
Grant gives me a half smile. “It doesn’t bother you that I’m enraged?”
“There’s nothing wrong with anger,” I say. “André would tell you the passion of rage is magnifique! He’d say it’s a wonderful emotion everyone should experience. The only thing wrong with any emotion is getting stuck in one of them. When a person is unable to change—you know—constantly angry or constantly sad. Holding on to anger will make anyone sick.”
“I’m not always angry,” he murmurs with a teasing lilt.
I playfully raise my eyebrows, recalling the fun we have together in bed… or, most recently, on the kitchen table. “So I’ve noticed.”
His lips curve up in a smile. “That’s true, but what about the idea of marrying a patricidal maniac? I just told you I want to kill my father.”
“Your father's already dead,” I say, pointing out the obvious. “As attractive as the idea is, you can’t kill him again. I’ve actually considered you and I should sneak into the graveyard sometime late at night and shit on his grave.”
“What?” He immediately cracks up, choking with laughter at this outrageous idea.
“No, really,” I exclaim. “Not only would it be fun, but I honestly think it would be excellent therapy! The guy is dead, so you don’t have a chance to talk to him, or to tell him what an asshole he was. But at least you could leave him an appropriate gift by shitting on his grave.”
Every time I say, ‘shit on his grave’ Grant loses it. A good ten minutes goes by, while he intermittently laughs, chuckles and snickers, from time to time murmuring, ‘shit on his grave’ in a low voice.
It’s pretty funny.
I am so going to arrange to do that with him some night, when there’s a nice, full moon. We’ll giggle like errant schoolkids the whole time, I just know it.
When he finally settles down, I say, “I think the anger you have toward your father is healthy and appropriate. I'm actually thrilled. Maybe now you’ll stop blaming yourself and shouldering all of that guilt and shame for someone else's bad choices and behavior. You were a child—your father was an adult. He was the monster who hurt you and your entire family. It was NOT you."
Nodding once more, he remains silent. I can almost hear him thinking. I wait for him to speak.
Experts claim victims of abuse need to forgive their abusers so they can rise above it and truly heal. However, I think anger toward one’s abuser has a place, particularly when initially facing the past. Rage can fester and impede personal growth, but it’s worlds healthier than hating and blaming yourself. Depression and guilt drain energy and life. At least anger can be empowering and energizing.
He sighs. “It’s difficult to forgive myself.”
“I completely understand. You’ve taken as much responsibility as you can, but honestly, you did nothing wrong! You were a kid! There’s nothing to forgive!”
He shrugs.
I tone myself down. Deep inside, adults who were the victim of child abuse always blame themselves. It really is ridiculous.
I take a deep breath. "Forgiveness of self and the abuser is supposed to factor in there,
according to the professionals. I’ve come to terms with what I did, but that’s it. I haven’t gotten to that point in the healing process and I may never get there. I don't know. Since I haven't forgiven my own father, I can’t advise you on that.”
Our eyes lock, his gleam. “I want to kill your father as well.”
“Charmer,” I say with a snicker. “You know how to win a woman’s heart. Yeah, I’d like to kill him too—take a number. Anyway, he’s too hard to get at because he’s in jail. Yet, again…” I smirk, “Wanting to kill him falls under the category of appropriate feelings for the given circumstances.”
Grant throws his head back once again as he bursts out in a huge belly laugh. “I don’t know if we’re helping each other, or simply in agreement with each other's similar irrationalities.”
“Hey, as long as we’re happy,” I reply cheerily as we both continue to chuckle. I’m glad he’s beginning to loosen up on this subject.
It’s good to see him smiling and pulling himself out of his funk.
I gesture, palms up. “Every time we run into one of these emotional challenges it’s another opportunity. It's a chance to look at ourselves in a different way, to sort stuff out and to grow. I have you to talk to, and you have me. André was smart to put us together.”
His brows furrow. “He put us together… intentionally?"
I nod. “André told me, and I quote, ‘I have chosen to place two damaged people together in the hope that they may heal each other.’”
“Huh.”
“He’s so clever.”
Grant snorts. “Don’t tell him that. His ego's too big already. He won't be able to fit through a door soon.”
I giggle. “It’s part of his charm. By the way, André wouldn’t flinch from your confession.” I go straight into my 'André impersonation' mode, imitating his French accent, “He’d probably say, Jealous of the others? Mais oui, but of course! You are only human, no?”
Our laughter is loud and wholehearted. The mood has lightened. Grant told me his terrible realizations and the world didn’t end. I didn't stop loving him, nor did I leave him. He survived and will even be better for it, in the end.