Detachment, Trauma, and Recovery

 I've re-started today's post three times.

Once was a typing error that made the post disappear. The other two were plain old restarts.

I guess that means I'm not quite sure where I'm at this morning. I've done some work recently that had to do with adjusting my level of detachment with people I love. Some of the folks involved, include complicated histories.

So it's been a lot to maintain, then re-enter with relational interactions to these folks. Detachment is a crucial part of my recovery skills set. But when boundaries are established that halt further contact, hurt feelings can come up for both parties.

During this level of detachment, there can be more than one narrative. The person setting limits has a story, but so do those who are affected by the boundaries.

Venturing from this level of detachment to reconnection, there is a temptation to establish the validity of one's own story. This can be a pitfall to the ultimate goal of leaning in, after seperation.

If the insistence of connection hinges on everyone holding the right position, then conflict ensues or continues.

Choosing to re-enter into contact does not require a hammering out of my story. I know what my truth is, and I have supports that validate and enrich my recovery to that end.

Insisting that the people I reconnect with believe my story is not recovery, but control.

And if the goal is maintaining contact that is healthy for me, then those boundaries and truths are to be maintained on a very personal level. Not something that I insist all should follow.

This does not mean that I do not get to tell my story; only that others are not obligated to repeat it as I see it. In fact, others may do the exact opposite. Conversely, accepting that others have differing truths, does not discount of invalidate my experience.

So in reality, the detachment shifts, instead of coming to an end.

My integrity to my story can be maintained, and I can allow for others to have their story as well.

And I need not gloat that there are mechanisms of care in place that may not have occurred without my absence.

I'm reminded of how the word, "No." gently encouraged my journey into recovery from addiction.

My last summer using drugs and alcohol, my mother called me to let me know that they were going out of town. When they'd leave, I would go to the house, and help myself to whatever I wanted. I felt entitled to it, because I was caring for my maternal grandfather.

My mother calmly explained over the phone that one of my cousins would be staying at the house, feeding the cat, and doing whatever chores were necessary.

Her voice broke, and I could hear her muffled crying as she said, "Michael . . . They'll be no need for you to stop by."

It's one of those pivotal moments that, once sober, I realized had nudged me toward recovery. I did not appreciate it at the time. In fact, I was deeply hurt. And my perception of my story was that she intended to injure me.

But looking back at her calmly stated boundary, and the boundaries of others at the time, it's easy for me to see that I was running out of options. And that the word "No." was a boundary with the intention to stop enabling my addiction.

The irony of my recent limit setting is not lost on me. And I struggled with setting similar boundaries. I wish I could have been as calm as my mother was in that moment, thirty-two years ago, but I could not.

But as surely as my mother's boundary came from love, so did mine.

M <3

Getting Messy

 Those moments.

The ones where I feel stuck.

Like this is going to last forever.

I still detest those times.

Yesterday afternoon, a boatload of feelings decided to visit me while shopping at Target (of all places). Why is it that the insoluble, grab hold of everything negative, torrent of grief and sadness will show up, unannounced, in a crowded store, on a saturday afternoon?

My life is good. No . . . It's amazing! I have waded through things (with help and love of others) that can be debilitating to the human spirit. Dynamics I have personally witnessed that led to the destruction of others like me. Histories that, in simply laying out the details, can traumatize the listener.

And yet, there are people stronger than my past, who have stood by and been my guides. People who have loved and honored me. Walked with me, given me permission to pick up and put down my stuff for whatever duration. I have received so much empathy, validation, and understanding in my journey along this path to survival and a fruit bearing life.

But when these brick walls of gut-wrenching grief tumble in, I can't see my way to any of it. All I feel is danger, and a need to have big space, even from those that would love me. My old defenses kick in, and I take on the armor of anger and resentment. My tools of recovery are replaced with weapons of spite and injury.

So yesterday, I did something courageous. I walked out of the store with my partner, got in our vehicle, and started to cry. Instead of turning up sarcasm, or targeting (pardon the pun) someone I love with criticism, I opened the tap to grief, and let it pour out.

I spoke of my plans for the immediate future. I talked about calling folks in recovery, and giving voice (again!) to the way that history can invade my psyche and feel like eminent danger.

Then we drove home. I sat in the driveway and did some talk therapy on the phone. Even in this, I stumbled and let my anger and fear of not being heard get ahead of me. But people with similar histories and recovery can be such understanding souls. I abruptly ended the call . . . And made another one. The second call involved owning how my reaction was over the top, and what to do to get grounded again.

Sometimes I think, "When can I just be DONE! With all of this?" I don't want a life where I am constantly working on my past. I want to be able to enjoy my life, as it sits, today. I want to let go of all that bad stuff, and just live.

Ironically, this thinking is emblematic of my being stuck in the past. No-one truly wants to suffer. And being aware of trauma, as difficult as that is, holds the key to my release.

This messy, wonderful work, allows me to have the life I am present for today. The work makes room for me to see when I'm playing out a dynamic of needless suffering in my personal and professional life. The work encourages me to nurture, and care for myself. The work enables me to set boundaries, even in the most uncomfortable of situations. The work has infinite rewards for myself, and how I love and interact with others.

But I don't see that, when it hurts.

That's why I cannot do this work alone.

M

 

Moving Through 

Not an endorsement. Simply a book I utilized in my early recovery. 

Writing has meant so much to my recovery. I remember journaling, just before I got sober, and writing certain words in code. I used numbers for letters in conjunction with their alphabetical order.

It was still courageous of me, but I realize now that there was an effort to hide within that code. I could not say that I was a survivor of 9,14,3,5,19,20. And I had such shame about it, that I was fearful others would find out about it. As a closeted gay man, actively engaged in self-destructive substance abuse in his mid-twenties, I thought the events (what little I could remember of them) were my fault.

Today, I can say incest (9,14,3,5,19,20) out loud. My personal definition of the word transcends any of the stereotypical joking, or front loaded shame of judgment about particular family dynamics.

For me, the word no longer means the violation of the familial. Incest is the overreaching violation of someone from a position of power. It is the best word I had at the time (late 1980's) to encapsulate the meaning of what had happened to me as a very small boy.

In today's time, the identifying codes have changed. CSA (Childhood Sexual Abuse) is one of the current monikers. It is more specific in its description, and attempts to remove the judgement of the victim. This is how I see it, anyway.

As I got clean and sober, the memories and flashbacks felt unbearable. They were frequent, and positioned me in a place where it felt like the horrors of my past were actively happening.

For me, talking about my recovery from trauma is forever linked with my recovery from addiction. The two are never mutually exclusive in my story. I know that is not everyone's experience, but my sobriety hinged on ownership of trauma from my childhood.

Being sober a while, gave way to other symptomatic behaviors. There were additional arcs of engagement that had their roots in trauma. Unrequited and intense love relationships, soul-crushing emotional entanglements, sexual dysfunction (There I go, speaking in code again), incessant cruising, being a magnet for the workplace bully, food, cigarettes, caffeine, and a host of other "coping skills" were at my disposal. And at moments of my recovery, I was blissfully unaware of the how the dots connected to trauma.

A lot of the above mentioned behaviors are decades old, but there are subtle variances of the dynamics that will always require maintenance and adjustment . . . Again, I am speaking for myself.

Still, I can look back on the path of my recovery, and see that awareness has been revealed at exactly the point in time when I was ready to receive it.

Recently, I am aware of how I can bottle things up as a way to avoid confrontation. At some point, the pressure becomes too great, and the top pops off the bottle. People around me are surprised at the intensity of my reaction to a given situation that has long been intolerable for me. Yet fear of naming the situation kept me quiet, until things were more than I could bear.

This leads to hurt feelings all around.

It's true that one of the possible consequences of setting boundaries, is creating discomfort in others. But in reality, setting boundaries of for the person who sets them. So if my past history of conflict is interfering with my present ability of limit setting, then I am perpetuating self-harm.

I am recently healing from one of those scenarios.

And while I did not need (or want) to retreat into some of the immediately self-destructive behaviors of my past, I am grateful for the safety net of my recovery folks who support me.

They help me continue to unlock the coded behaviors that are emblematic of CSA, and the lingering damages those experiences have in my life.

It may sound daunting or even overwhelming to hear that the work is constant. But there are incredible benefits to continuing on this path.

The fruits of this labor are even richer, when viewed through this lens.

M

Thirty Years: One Day At A Time

October 31st, 2019

10957 days. One day at a time. 

30 years ago today, I woke up in detox at Westbrook Hospital. I was convinced that nothing would be any different this time. I had simply stopped using (and sought professional help), because the pain was too great to bear. 

I had spent the previous ten days on an alcohol and cocaine binge. There were nights that I vacillated between holding a crack pipe, and my grandfather's revolver; trying to decide which one would do me in. The only thing that kept me from pulling the trigger was the thought of someone having to clean up the mess. In my head, an overdose seemed more merciful for all concerned. 

I had been here before, and held out no hope that anything would work to keep me clean and sober. But I stayed in treatment, even turned around and came back after threatening to leave. 

And for the first time, I began to talk with professionals about the monstrous voices in my being. The nightmares that gripped me, and followed me into consciousness. 

I spoke of what I learned was childhood trauma and abuse. I found out that I wasn't insane. I was in pain. I was led by gentle professional hands toward the painful path of disclosure, and the sunlight and safety of recovery. 

I made a small beginning on building community supports, and networking with other recovering alcoholics, addicts, and trauma survivors. 

They literally walked me through the process of staying clean and sober, and creating safe spaces for myself. When I say literally, I mean there was a core group of folks who went on "Power Walks" around Baxter Boulevard with me on cold fall and winter nights. They listened, made space for my pain. Cried with me. Laughed with me, or simply walked beside me. 

It's been a long, painful, but fruitful journey to this present place. All I have is today. And all the todays I've accumulated belong squarely at the feet of those who helped me with their footwork, and their stories of recovery. 

It's why I'm sharing this story with you. 

💞

Angelone's Pizza, and Jack's Lessons

Not My Photo

At age 15, I found employment. That is to say, employment found me. Some friends and I stopped at Angelone's Pizza in Westbrook on a Friday night to have what I believe were 90 cent, cheese pizzas. This was in 1977, and Angelone's was (and still is) an institution in Westbrook, Maine.

We finished our pies and started talking to the person serving us. This led to asking about possible employment. The woman behind the counter was very gracious, and handed us all applications. We filled them out, and I didn't give it much thought after that. Being 15, I was not necessarily enthusiastic about entering the work force.

The following Monday, I got a phone call from Angelone's for an interview. I put on some nice clothes and walked down to Main Street and met Julie Angelone, the manager of that store. She hired me on the spot, provided I went to City Hall and got a work permit. City Hall was just a couple of doors down from Angelone's then, so I got the worker's permit. If memory serves me correctly, this included a phone call to my parents for permission to apply for the permit. Things were different back then. I'm sure a signature landed on the form eventually.

Looking at the current (2018) Maine Child labor laws, it appears to run in conflict with what I remember about attaining a worker's permit. My research does not reveal what the standards were for fifteen year-old students seeking employment back in 1977. I do not remember my school system being involved with signing my workers permit, but today's standards require school and state involvement. Additionally, I worked more than the current three hour limit during school days. I'm thinking those worker's permits and hours limits have changed since I was a kid.  

But back to the story . . . 

I started at Angelone's soon after this interaction. My shifts were usually Fridays from 4:00-9:00, and/or Sundays from 4:00-8:00. Angelone's has always closed early for a pizza place. Of course, that wouldn't have mattered for a 15 year-old, as my hours were limited because of my status. 

My first day there. I met Mr. Angelone.

Jack Angelone had a business model that included revamping old gas stations. He figured the sites were well traveled, and worth the investment. Jack also had another aspect to his business model. Give the customer fast, friendly service, and quality pizza that will keep people coming back for more. And always, ALWAYS, pay the customer respect and gratitude for coming through the door. 

Jack had a bigger than life personality. I remember him as perpetually happy. Jack loved to sing (even if his audience did not appreciate his attempts at song), and he greeted most customers by name. I found this latter character trait amazing, as Jack had four or five stores during the 70's. I imagined him having the same routine at every store. Why would he be any different than how I saw him? 

In short, he was an absolute joy to be around! And this is saying a lot for a fifteen year-old who had a generally distrustful opinion of the majority of adults in my life. I was so into this job, that I would answer our home phone with "Angelone's Westbrook. How may I help you?" 

Jack taught me most of the business, piece by piece. However, the spice ingredients to the sauce and dough recipe were top secret! Only Mr Angelone and his kids new the particulars. I would assemble sauce, but there were cups of pre-measured spices set out for me by Jack. 

His daughter, Julie, worked the Westbrook store, and reinforced all that he gave to the business. I liked working with Julie as well. Though my immediate supervisor, she had a way of making her employees feel like co-workers. In retrospect, this was clearly the model of their family run business. 

When Jack (Whom I always called Mr Angelone) was in the store, I became his student. Monsieur Blanchard! Comment allez-vous? He would bellow at me in the loudest and most friendly way possible. I would usually blush and repeat that I did not speak French. This would only encourage Mr. Angelone to continue. Parlez-vous français monsieur Blanchard? he would say, as he heartily patted me on the back and said what a nice young man I was. Then he would go and run the numbers, check inventory, and generally inspect the cleanliness and overall condition of the store. I saw him do this every day that I was there. 

I would ring up a customer, and Jack would be behind the ovens rolling dough. After a customer left, Jack would call for me to come and help him. He always stressed safety, and repeated how to operate the machine in a safe manner. I'd feed the dough into the rolling machine at his instruction. He would offer praise and jokes as we worked together. 

Then Mr. Angelone would turn off the machine. He would explain what the customer meant to the business. He told me they bring in money, and that every paying customer contributed a percentage of their purchase to my paycheck. He would remind me of the importance of saying "Thank you." and using terms of respect toward the customers. Words like, "yeah" and "uh-huh" were not appropriate customer greetings. Mr. Angelone would then thank me for being one of his most reliable employees.  

I remember being impressed with not only what he was telling me, but the way he told me. He never gave me feedback at the register, or in front of a customer. On occasion, he might gently interrupt and send me off on some sort of non-customer related errand while he finished a transaction. But Mr. Angelone never dressed me down in front of a customer. And because of that, he had my undivided attention when he gave me instructions on how to treat customers when they came in the store. 

Now, I was in High School after all. And there were times that I needed to be "supervised" by both Julie and Mr. Angelone. But not once did I feel disrespected by them. You see, I now realize that they treated their work force just like their customers; as a resource. The treated me in such a way that I wanted to do well for them. They held a very high standard of customer service, and coaxed me into doing what was needed to make the business run well and attract customers. They taught me that the customer expects a clean, well-run, and friendly atmosphere. And that the customer is paying for these expectations. That's what keeps customers coming back, and ultimately, my weekly paycheck coming in. 

And they also taught me personal accountability. 

I did not work for Angelone's during my senior year of high school. I was focused on swimming, and graduation. I also was a lifeguard and swimming instructor at the Portland YMCA. Just before Christmas, I got a call from Julie Angelone. She asked me to stop by the store. Of course, I made arrangements to get there as soon as possible. 

Julie sat me down and explained to me that I had been underpaid due to an accounting error. She had the payroll books and related documents for my inspection. She showed me the total of the underpayment and presented me with a check for two-hundred, seventy-eight dollars! But before she had me sign for it. She went over the book keeping with a calculator and pencil to ensure that the business was doing right by me. 

After I had turned sixteen, I got a small raise for a job well done. But the raise was based on my student pay as a fifteen year-old as a worker's permit. I was owed an additional amount (can't remember how much it was) per hour, and Angelone's made sure I got my money . . . with interest. 

I learned a lot from that first job. I learned how important customer service was. I learned to make sure that the work space was clean and welcoming to the customers. I learned how to treat my co-workers with respect and dignity, and I also learned about personal and professional accountability. 

I wish I could say that I've always had these qualities on board in every job I've had since. But maturity has its own learning curve. There are jobs where I've modeled all that I learned at Angelone's Westbrook, and jobs that I have not done well. 

However, I know that I can trace any merit raises, positive annual reviews, and overall job performance ratings back to the roots of what I learned from Angelone's Westbrook, and all the Angelone family gave me. 

Over forty years later, Angelone's Westbrook is still one of my favorite pizza places. I go there sometimes, just to enjoy a pizza and read the news articles about Mr Angelone. And on occasion, I bore the staff with the "I used to work here." stories. But usually, I just sit and reflect on all that this little spot at 768 Maine Street in Westbrook gave to me. My hometown, and first job. 

Recovery has a way of making room for these little treasures. Someone recently told me what an outstanding job I did with something at work, and I told them about Mr. Angelone. 

Thanks Jack 

Kiss Me, I'm Irish

Irish Need Not Apply!" 

Written March 17th, 2011

My Grandfather told me these signs were common in the Portland area during his youth. I had the privilege of living with him toward the end of his life. I wish I had taken better care of him, but that's between me, him and God. I got sober and decided the best I could do for my Granddad was to go get the help I so desperately needed, which meant moving from his home.

When I still lived there, however, I would share breakfast and the newspaper with him. There were some specific events that happened during my five years at his home. A viable Woman candidate appeared on the Vice-Presidential ticket. The Space Shuttle, Challenger exploded on its way in to orbit. Jesse Jackson made an improbable run at the Dems nomination and delivered his historic "Keep Hope Alive" speech at the Democratic National Convention.

One of the things I was absolutely sure of was that old people had wisdom. Richard Pryor told me so. On one of his stand up routines on HBO, he mentioned that we should listen to old people. They were smart. That's how they got old. I knew I wasn't very smart (but thought I knew everything), so I listened when Grampy discussed the historical context of the news.

On the Challenger, he spoke of the risks taken previously and lives lost in the space program. About Geraldine Ferraro, he noted that in less than a century, Women had moved from not having the right to vote to "making the ticket" in a Presidential election. Grampy believed that it was a question of when, not if a Woman would some day be elected President of the United States. 

My Grandfather was a Deputy SheriffSherriff, and a boxing trainer. He didn't care what color you were. "Long as you could hit." he told me. That meant he trained what were referred to then as Negro fighters. Grampy didn't like the word and used the term black; at least as far back as I can remember.

It seemed that whenever I brought Grampy anywhere, we would run into someone who knew him from the fight game. There were the usual grins, insults and other assorted greetings between him and whomever we met. If the unsuspecting person hadn't seen my Grandfather in a while, there was always the eventual look of sadness on their face as they realized my Grandfather's  mind was betraying him. His long term memory was flawless, but he couldn't remember anything from a few minutes ago.

"How long?" one of the greeters would pull me aside and say.

We're not really sure was part of my usual response. My Grandmother hid a lot of info from us. We didn't figure it out until after she passed. Then I would hear how she was a saint, and that my Grandfather had a wild side and liked his whiskey (Wondered where I got that). But I would also hear that he was the best corner man (Boxing term for manager) in the state, on the East coast and even the country. The story had other aspects too.

On more than one occasion, I heard from the men (Black and White) about how my Grandfather brought Black fighters into the game despite warnings to the contrary. The story goes that "They" told Grampy that he wouldn't go anywhere if he kept bringing up Black fighters, but he kept doing it. I never figured out who "They" were. I know that Eddie Griffin was really good to my Grandfather and helped him no matter who Grampy was training. "They" had to be someone else. Not Eddy.

He was "One hell of a Man." they would tell me; like he was already gone. Sadly, they were right. He was retreating a little every day. Despite my Grandfather's strength of long term memory, he never spoke of being cheated or singled out by the system that kept him down for doing the right thing. He never uttered a bitter word about the experience, but he could tell me volumes about the likes of Smitty Hicks.

Jesse Jackson gave his Keep Hope Alive speech at the 1988 Democratic National Convention. As we followed  the news in the paper (Yeah. We did that back then), my Grandfather would comment on how far the Black Man had come since slavery and the struggle for Civil Rights less than twenty years before.

During discourse on social issues, my Grandfather  would draw parallels between now and the struggle for immigrants during his youth. There were also religious taboos. Grampy recounted that he was surprised when his Mother mentioned that a friend of his was "awfully nice for a Catholic boy."  My Grandfather chose to go to Portland High School. His Class picture looks like the melting pot that Portland was at the time. However, there were many things being said about the Irish, French and Italian populations of this city. Systemic discrimination ran rampant, and my Grandfather was bewildered by it all. At least as he remembered back and saw the current struggles and social issues, he voiced the common threads, and his displeasure at them both. He always insisted it would get better though. As it had.

Even what little press was being given to Gay Rights did not escape him. He would tell me about a gay friend and how kind the person was and how they were no different. In retrospect, he told me that story a lot. He repeated many of his stories, but this one seemed out of context and was only brought up when we were alone. Maybe he already knew something I was much too ashamed to admit to myself most of that time.

Which brings me to St. Patrick's Day. We've come a long way from "Irish Need Not Apply!" I have a dear friend who finds the whole spectacle offensive. This person feels as if the history of the struggle is given over for this homogenization of a holiday that leads to revisionist history. I respect that position. Forgive me if I do not do justice to it during this writing.

Then it occurred to me today that this could happen for my community, but in all that is good about this day. Imagine having Harvey Milk Day for a moment. Imagine everyone parading around wearing pink with buttons that say: "Kiss Me I'm Queer!" It could be a day where everybody was a little bit Queer.

It could happen. My Grampy said so.

M<3

PS: I will fore-go the pink beer though. ;-)

Feeling Dirty, And The Recovery It Can Bring

Not My Image

Trigger Warning: Discussion of trauma as it relates to stimuli and a child's place in the world. Working through dysfunctional sexual development. 

One of the reasons I started this blog was the realization that there were other men and boys out there who were like me. The fabric of sexual trauma can weave itself around and through our basic interactions, and our most intimate physical, emotional, and spiritual beliefs and behaviors too.

It has taken decades to see sunlight in the way that I experience it today. My soul kept tugging at me that making this space may help other men and boys who have been violated with and damaged by the exploitative behavior of others. I was hesitant to tell my story with such detail.


It is my belief that men and boys younger than myself could possibly catch a glimpse of the signposts in my experience and seek help. Additionally, I was hopeful that men and boys would see the goodness in their own lives, via positive experiences that I have been blessed with along the way. Maybe they too could discover and reclaim similar moments of sustenance in their lives as well.

Sexual trauma has a way of blocking out anything positive, safe, and nurturing that was happening in our lives. The moments of abuse (constant in my young world) created a cloud of memories filled with doubt, fear, and shame. There have been times when recalling the instances of trauma and exploitation blocked out any hint of the love and kindness that I received as a child.

It is important to note that there was a good chunk of my lifetime where I was oblivious to the memory of being sexually abused. What happened at four, five, and six years old was a myth. A foggy recollection of a scary experience with water, being in kindergarten, having my tonsils out in first grade, and not much else.

In my early twenties, I started to have brief, but frightening visions of abuse from my childhood. These visions usually visited me in my dreams, but would occasionally appear while conscious. Being an active alcoholic and drug addict, I would seek out my next fix as quickly as possible. I would grab hold of any substance or behavior that would obliterate even the slightest insights into my past trauma history.

While desperately trying to remain unaware of my truth, I realize now that my behaviors, mind-sets, and outlook on life were emblematic of an untreated survivor of childhood sexual abuse. To survive, avoidance was key.

Furthermore, the ordeals suffered had the potential to make any moments of normal spiritual, emotional, and physical sustenance, feel sexualized, and therefore, dirty.

Children are meant to be nurtured by design. Holding, snuggling, sitting on laps, being cuddled to sleep. These are the moments that make for healthy, productive, childhood development. This type of emotional sustenance via physical contact is lost on survivors of childhood sexual abuse. At least, that was the case for me. Every physical contact, platonic or otherwise, was left with lingering questions of motive and feelings of shame.

As a child, I gravitated to sexual contact. While some experimentation is an appropriate portion of childhood development, I was drawn to intense sexual situations with both peers who were sexually active, and eventually, adults who were willing to exploit my deficient skills sets as a result of sexual trauma. Thirteen year old boys do not wander into situations where they are exposing themselves to adult males without being led (consciously or otherwise) by adult, predatory forces illuminating the way (See: http://swimlessons62.blogspot.com/2017/06/memories-of-junior-high-school-trigger.html).

As a result, I was distrustful of physical touch, and constantly questioned my motives for even incidental contact with another person. Any ability to be nurtured via physical contact was ripped away from me. Instead, I developed this warped sense that any lingering touch, any lasting stare, meant that a possible sexual connection awaited me. I knew only excitement and shame when any physical contact was made.

This is not to say that I wasn't an affectionate child. I hugged and kissed family members in accordance with customary greetings and such. In some cases, I was able to separate these instances from the random (and sometimes, frightful) prospect of contact due to unplanned or spontaneous circumstances.

Riding in a carload of people, for example, terrified me for years. Especially in situations where crowded occupants would need to sit side by side. I was in constant fear that our necessary contact meant that the person next to me was picking up signals that I was "available." Even if I wanted nothing to do with them. Being a closeted, gay youth made these feelings even worse. Tortured by the natural biology of my desires, I would expend incredible mental energy to avoid any and all feelings, should I have the misfortune of being attracted to the person sitting next to me. In my young mind, it was all bad. And oh so wrong!

The other side of this coin was the never-exhausting hope that some perfect storm of random contact would lead to an encounter with a peer. Though this never happened to me (I should say, was never successfully implemented . . . The lone exception being when I was out cruising), I had the road-map of my continued cruising behavior to fall back on as a guide for these situations. I would sneak my hand ever so gently over, waiting for the person to respond in kind, and expecting a connection.

And the directions for this mindset? It came from my continued exploration of cruising spots in and around the greater Portland area. Despite my feelings of shame from my first experience at age thirteen, I continued to seek out adult males for experimentation. I was drawn to these spots via graffiti in public restrooms, and continued networking with the men I had encounters with.

I need to add here that this was not emblematic of the gay community. Rather, it was a small faction of men that attached themselves to the ugly underbelly of cruising spots (Two adults who cruise for anonymous sex is no different than rolling through the Old Port for heterosexuals). In the 70's it was still common to be fired and held up to public ridicule for being gay.

Perpetrators banked on this forced anonymity by cruising these same spots to search for young, vulnerable boys like myself. Who among the closeted adults present would report the behavior? The consequences for the reporter were socially fatal! There was the occasional adult gay man that would pick me up and attempt to talk to me, but I wanted nothing to do with facing my truth. I only wanted physical titillation, and had nothing on board emotionally to face who I really was. I was a perfect mark for someone looking to steal my dignity.

Back to the men who would engage. They would circle around in their vehicles and tap their brake lights. Most of my cruising was done under the cover of darkness. These men would drive by, and I could walk to a spot where they could park. Once stopped, a typical adult man would invite me into their car to talk. We would sit and chat for a while. Then came the silence.

We would take turns extending our hands. It was a dance that both occupants appeared well versed in. I would let my hand drift to the left, and the driver would let their hand drift to the right. After what seemed like forever, our hands would touch. This seemed to be the official signal that we could engage physically, and the "fun" would ensue.

What I realize as an adult in recovery is that these men were looking for the child to make the first move. It was a weak-assed justification that I must have wanted to engage, so they were only following through on my desires. They felt as if they were able to have sex, since that's what I was there for. I was a freshman and sophomore in high school at the time, and most of these men were in their thirties and forties.

I must admit that I carried aspects of this behavior for a very long time. The last time I cruised was in April of 2010, and there were a whole host of customs and "signals" I learned over time that led to engagement. As trauma survivors, we peel away what we can as best as we can, over time. 

But back to being a high school student, I had only my interactions with adult men who were preying upon me. I didn't even know I was the prey. I thought I was the one taking advantage of them. And my experience with touch was trounced upon and emotionally damaged years before I ever ventured into Portland for the first time at thirteen.

The irony here is that there were two adult, gay men in my scholastic life. Both of them later became confidants and friends I could rely on for support. Yet as an adolescent, I vehemently attacked both of them verbally. I had to make amends to these men after I got sober. They both said basically the same thing. They knew I was gay, but the world was different, so they couldn't reach out to help me or offer support.

After I got sober, I played out this dynamic of vulnerability and pursuit by falling for younger men who were newly sober. I fell in love with their potential, and their seemingly unaffected nature. Almost the first decade of my sobriety involved intrigue of some type to this end. Most of it played out in my own mind, but there were moments where my associations became intense.

I found myself in the mire of unrequited love on more than one occasion; cursing myself for being involved in this dynamic . . . Again! These situations always ended badly, with the individual in question returning to drinking and making disparaging remarks about my behavior with them. Alcohol and innuendo, in combination with my dysfunctional contributions, made for some mishaps that left both sides terribly unhappy. Even though others would relapse, I became thirsty and isolated. It was only the willingness to work with my support system, despite the shame, that kept me sober through it all.

And all of it was based on that perceived perfect random contact that somehow went wrong. A back rub that I suddenly decided was a bad idea, or the offer to work out with someone one on one. Offering to assist with a beard or goatee trim. Behavior that had to remain covert, with the hopes that all would be revealed.

Reading these last few paragraphs, it's easy to see how the emotional entanglements were skewed by the abuse I suffered. I had come out as gay soon after getting sober. And I began disclosing my sexual abuse and working on the horrors of that truth without picking up a drink or a drug. But I struggled mightily with the emotional aspects of being a trauma survivor. The damage permeated my dysfunctional attempts at intimate relationships, and cruising was an ever-present option and opportunity to pile on more shame.

Spiritually speaking, it's hard to get close to god when I'm doing things to myself that bring me great shame. I indulged in wounded relationships with friend and stranger alike. It seemed like a vicious circle of entanglement with someone who couldn't be there for me, to constant anonymous sex, to periods of reflection and abstinence, only to start the entire cycle all over again.

Eventually, I let go of entanglements and tried my hand at dating. But dates that originate in cruising circles (including the new to me, online hookup apps) held no substance for me. Emotionally speaking, it was like switching seats on the Titanic. So I gave up on that too.

Despite an enormous amount of emotional work, at seventeen years sober, I was still that wounded, little boy, who had pedaled his bicycle into Deering Oaks Park, in an attempt to escape the overwhelming darkness of his adolescent world.

Something had to give.

And it did. I lost a job. That is, I was "not recommended for further employment." I had once again become the magnet for the workplace bully and retaliated, after holding it all in, I very publicly blew up. It led to a series of messy scenes, and I had to go. 

I ended up with a group of people who truly understood what I was going through. I had associated with them for a few months prior, but had nothing but contempt for them. While we're on that subject . . . Why is it that trauma survivors push away people who are emotionally safe while embracing folks with our level of illness and affliction? More on that later in this piece.

So these folks helped me see that I had been negatively affected by the alcoholism and trauma in the lives of those around me. They further offered support as I began a spiritual path of recovery that involved reassessing my belief systems and the apparent "hard-wired" thinking that went along with the alcoholism and abuse that had encompassed my younger self. They detailed how I became someone who wanted to fix others in order for me to be OK, and how that strategy backfired time and time again.

I bemoaned that it took me 17 years of sobriety to get to this place. One of the folks put their hand up like a stop sign.

Your sobriety needed to be that strong for you to walk through these doors. It's not a deficit. It's a gift from your higher power, so you'll be safe here. 

Christ!

I mean, that's some deep stuff right there.

And over the next ten years, I quit smoking. Didn't show up at this place to do that, but it happened. Then I gave up cruising. Didn't show up at this place to do that, but it happened.

And I found something like real intimacy. I'm married to a most wonderful man. He is my handsome prince, and my one and only. More than that, I am a member of his family. Something that truly amazes me. It never occurred to me that love would extend beyond my significant other, to those that love him as well. I didn't know, what I didn't know.

I've also found a couple of dynamite professionals along the way. Good thing too, because I've needed them both over the course of the last nine years. I returned to counseling after quitting smoking. I had to. As the smoke literally cleared from my lungs and my life, I began to see myself differently. And I saw how nicotine played an important role in my cruising activities. What an efficient signaling system a lighter and a cigarette could be in dark places. When the smokes were gone, the dynamics of the behavior were revealed. Substance abusers are thick-headed like that.

Long after the cruising had ended for me, I also discovered a younger version of myself. I tried to help as best as I could. I involved that first therapist, and considered reporting options. But I decided that just being there on the fringes may be enough to offer an alternative to all that I went through. Some days, that's enough. Others . . . I feel like I could have done more. I tried to reach out with the assistance of the professional I see now, but was politely shut off.

This person did exactly as I would have done. Yet I was surprised and hurt by their reaction.

For some reason, this rebuff brought up those old feelings of being dirty. I did a ton of writing and sharing in a closed men's group before taking the risk of reaching out. I wanted to make sure I was doing right by this person. Times had changed, and I did not want the remaining vestiges of my own internalized homophobia to prevent me from being available. I wasn't sure what the response would be, but I wasn't expecting the terse, "I'm all set. Thank you!" reply that I got.

It is a different time for them, just as the 70's were a different time for me.

So I felt dirty. I felt all that old stuff that my younger self felt when I was a child. That at my very core, I am a faulted human being who is damaged beyond repair. I felt this, and I cried. And I've grieved over the summer, and I cried again recently.

Intellectually, I know I'm grieving that part of myself that pedaled into Portland as a teenager, and into the jaws of behaviors I would spend decades stripping away. I know that I have been able to embrace that pudgy little boy who became an exceptional athlete and somehow, survived the insurmountable amount of damage hidden within my soul.

I know that my recovery is an ongoing process, regardless of the outcome of my relations with others. That there are people in my life today whom I deeply appreciate, who I once shunned for fear of them seeing the skewed and dirty version of what I once thought to be my truth.

And I know that today, I can feel dirty and be OK. In fact, feeling the unclean remnants of trauma are symbolic of the spiritual growth that allows me to process without the overwhelming need to check out, or otherwise, hurt myself.

Feeling dirty does not represent brokenness or signal the need to be fixed. Feeling dirty is a sign from my higher power of my true connection to both myself, and my truth.

It is a spiritual experience to feel dirty . . . To feel shame. It means I am in the healing place. No longer burdened (or protected) with the self-destructive behaviors of the past.

I can heal.

M