TO THOSE WHO THINK SURVIVORS ARE DRAMA QUEENS

Has the #Me Too movement gotten to the backlash stage yet?  It will, in part because people are so incredibly nauseated by  even thinking about sexual abuse, and most especially incest.

I just came across  a chapter which escaped the garbage several years ago, by Philip Ney and Anna Peters, who treat inest surivors. The article, Despair: Saying Good-bye to What Might Have Been or Could Be, deals with “The discrepancy between what they are and what they could have been produces an enormous incipient rage.”

“…They cannot recapture their childhood. Their needs will never be met. ..They can never become what they were designed to become…”

No one  can re-create that loveless childhood because each building block is age and stage specific.  A small example:  I’m a survivor of my father’s incestuous behavior.  I persevered  into becoming a survivor through excellent psychotherapy and escape into academia, but at the gut level I am always tense, if not afraid, of men.  And that’s half the human race!

Don’t get me wrong–I’m relatively content, even happy at times, but I know I’m not whole.

Photo courtesy of  Faisal Jawaid  info@www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://gdj.gdj.netdna-cdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/kits-photography-3.jpg&imgrefurl=http://graphicdesignjunction.com/2013/07/kids-photography/&h=750&w=500&tbnid=0sYvrGsLE8-ErM&tbnh=275&tbnw=183&usg=__TxaMRYu_LpNDk4KTslifxXTYJlA=&docid=YFx0JFHX82-3wM

 

SEE ALSO PAGE ON INCEST

 

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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