Your Turn

As of this writing, this page has 594 views. I am so grateful that so many have come together to view this process. It is my hope that all who visit are inspired and comforted with what they find here. 

And I want to make a suggestion too. Comment on the posts contained on this page. It is the best way to contribute to the collective wisdom I wish to put forth for others venturing along this journey of recovery. Your gentle thoughts, actions, reminders, and requests will help construct this page. You may even shape or influence the recovery of someone not quite ready to come forward with their own story. 

This being said, I want to express respect for those who stop by to view the page anonymously. Your courage to look this way is just as inspiring to the universe as any voice or action the rest of us offer. Yours is an contribution of value as well, and I commend you. 

For those that do choose to comment on this and other posts, I offer one suggestion: Be kind to each other. Many people who venture here are bringing, not only an immense amount of courage, but wounds as well. Be gentle with one another.

If you want to offer any type of criticism, please contact me via e-mail. We can debate and consider options on what's best for the group. 

This does not mean that the page is above criticism. I truly want to work with people to build and form a space that is safe for all. And I have high hopes and great anticipation at the prospect of your loving suggestions to that end. 

I look forward to hearing from you, on and off list. 

Love and light,

M :-) 

On Being Triggered

For Laura. My Sober buddy, now since passed. Your courageous journey through recovery and cancer brought a wealth of lessons to me. God bless your presence in my life.

I had promised thirty posts in thirty days, but this was a two-day project.

Do I really have to post a trigger warning? ;-)

Since this post illustrates triggers and working through them, I feel a warning is appropriate. But I will refrain from bringing up specific instances of trauma here.

I have a really good life today. The day to day absence of trauma memories, rushing up to greet me with all the fervor of a runaway train have long since subsided. I am grateful for this. And I can only point to the footwork I've done to process, supportive friends and professionals, a loving relationship with spiritual practices, and maybe even some dumb luck or opportune circumstances.

Additionally, what was my greatest challenge, getting clean and sober, has been the biggest motivator to "get better" whatever that means.

For me, getting better means being able to maneuver in the world and relating to people, systems and situations in a kind, loving, and open way. I have garnered support across a broad spectrum of society to celebrate, grieve, express anger, feel love, and generally have and process anything that comes down the pike.

Now if I could only be that spiritual while driving in morning traffic!

And being a recovering alcoholic/addict has been advantageous to all of this. The prospect of a pending relapse has been the lamp to my feet where working on trauma has been concerned.

I remember hanging out with my dear friend, Laura at the old Sahara Club on Congress Street back in the fall of 1989. We would sit and chain smoke, while looking for wisdom from those who had been sober longer than us. Given our entry into recovery was a couple of weeks before this, pretty much everyone was sober longer than us.

After we had talked with others, we would continue to chat (almost daily) in a booth on the first floor. I was bemoaning the fact that I was so new in sobriety, yet memories of trauma were coming at me in an overwhelming pace. Laura said something to me that has remained a cornerstone in my recovery. It went something like this:

You know Mike, thank God we're alcoholics! Do you think we'd be willing to look at this stuff, if we didn't have the possibility of relapse coming at us?

I had to admit, Laura was correct. I would never look as deeply (if at all) at these trauma issues, were it not for the consequence of relapse. In fact, I still find that staying clean and sober motivates me in a way that is uniquely singular in its approach. Too many times, I've seen others who would refuse or stop looking at trauma issues who ended up in relapse. And usually the emotional damage they incurred on themselves and others before picking up a substance could be just as ugly as the actual relapse. Many, don't make it back at all.

I have since seen the wreckage of avoidance for folks that do not struggle with addictions as well. There are numerous ways that avoiding our past can create discord in our futures. From relational problems (personal, familial, and professional), to engagement in behaviors that mirror dynamics of abuse, the tragedy of turning away from our core truths can be astonishing in both scope and volume of damage.

This is not to say that I don't take a break from processing. I believe that "vacations" from the story of my adverse childhood experiences are crucial tools in breaking free from my past. I have utilized several strategies to do this. I will write a declaration of vacationing from my issues (whatever they may be), and place them in an envelope. I'll make a pact with myself to open that envelope sometime in the future, or not at all; as the case may be.

I work in an environment where I am front-line, direct care staff. Confidentiality prevents me from talking in specifics, but my job has its share of triggers. Truth be told though, any employment dynamics can be a trigger for folks with similar histories. I've been equally triggered in sales positions or working in recreation, as I have in my present professional responsibilities. The lingering PTSD from my trauma history will always be with me in some form. How it presents itself (I believe), is directly proportional to the amount of maintenance I do on a regular basis. But I find that there is no complete immunity from being triggered.

This is not to say that I am some kind of walking trip-switch. I'm no longer as easily triggered as I was when I first started to work on these issues almost thirty years ago. But I can be set off by events that are unfolding around, or directed at me.

And the time and space between episodes can appear to magnify the intensity of a given trigger. Things can "slow down" in an emotional and perceptual way that feels like I've been smacked upside the head. I've seen where things speed up to a point where I miss the trigger in the moment.

When these things occur, it's important for me to touch base with someone in reality. I'm fortunate that I my professional life encourages asking for time to process, but not every situation (personal or professional) lends itself to this practice.

I make it a point to talk with someone about the precipitating event in detail. What happened, what it felt like to be in the event, what emotions came up, how the moment mirrored my own experiences, etc, are some of the ways that I work through a given trigger. I do this with trusted friends, or professionals (or both). I will also write, pray, move, or generally do something to purge the energy of the event out of me.

One of the things I can struggle with is the feeling that the given triggering event was somehow my fault. Even if I'm merely a witness to it, or if I try to help the afflicted person in some way and fumble with my actions, a false sense of responsibility lingers. There have been instances where my well-intentioned attempts at intervention have been perceived as harmful. I try not to think too badly of myself in these instances, but I also know that the guilt associated with the outcome can crush my self-esteem.

I should add that part of the reason I'm so invested is because of my compassion and humanity. Apologies if this sounds egotistical, but developing compassion (for myself and others) has been the direct result of skills practice.
However, survivors of adverse childhood experiences can anoint themselves as a savior of someone else. There is no compassion involved in the vehement expectation that others should change to fit one's own belief systems.
Going human concern and care are fine qualities to have. The problem, for me, is that I am capable of wrapping myself up in somebody else's stuff. It can take quite an amount of work to tease all that out, and discern what belongs to me. I am learning all over again to let go of the outcome, and focus on what my part in the situation has been. Anything else, for me, is insistence, not compassion.

These situations are lessons in letting go. On occasion, my reactions have been over the top. But many times, these triggering moments have hit on a specific phase of my development from childhood that was clouded by abuse or exploitation. Some events require a minimal amount of effort/processing to work through. Others may be an ongoing exercise in utilizing the tools others in recovery have given to me, to work though the layers and layers of abuse.

It is important to acknowledge that on most all occasions, the very person or situation that triggers me contains the necessary lessons for my next phase of personal growth and development. Spirit guides have presented themselves to me as all kinds of teachers. From what appeared to be a bad (Or continuous! lol!) choice in relationships, to what seemed to be traumatic instances I have received or been a witness to, these teaching moments have revealed valuable education for my soul.

Like the prospect of relapse, these assignments have motivated me to work even harder on issues previously invisible or avoided by me. And some of them have brought different perspectives of love and compassion to my own life, and the lives of those involved. In effect, I am both student and teacher when triggered. What an infinite number of possibilities for emotional growth!

I can hear a friend and co-worker saying the following. She utters it with love and exasperation: "Ohhhh Mike!"

I've felt this way to about folks expressing gratitude for the lessons learned via circumstance and discomfort. I can be very spiritual . . . When things are currently great in my life!

But it is also important for me to remember that these growth opportunities, teaching moments, god spots, or whatever label you put on it are brought to me for a bigger purpose. To practice love and compassion for myself and others.

I now realize after almost three decades of practice, that these moments have shaped me, challenged me, and allowed me to reassess everything in my life. They have been a series of skills practice that have developed an almost automatic response of compassion and self care; which leads to compassion and care for others.

My goal, going forward, is to embrace these moments. To lean in, and sample the goodness and joy of working through that which may appear initially difficult on the surface.

I am hopeful that sharing this goal with you will make a little more room for compassion in this world.

M :-)


Gratitude Tuesday

On my journey for healing and serenity, I have been led to search for things to be grateful for.




Insert eye roll here.

For me, gratitude felt invalidating. All I could think of was the typical parent telling their child that there were starving children elsewhere in the world who would be grateful for that casserole in front of them.

And besides, I was in terrible pain when my memories started showing up. I couldn't drink or drug them away, and they were visiting me in my semi-conscious, drug induced state. Like a lion to an antelope, my past had me in a death grip on a parched plain that nothing could abate.

So here I was, newly sober, and folks were talking about gratitude? And the people with similar histories of mine were co-signing this practice of gratitude. They insisted that making lists of what I was grateful for would pay dividends in perspective and serenity.

I always started these lists with an attitude of having to eat my vegetables. I could hear my mom, insisting that a little butter, and salt and pepper would make them wonderful.

Ain't enough butter to make this fun.

So I would start my list. Now, for a newly sober, 27 year-old, with a trauma history that was coming out of me sideways, this truly seemed impossible. Anything I would come up with to be grateful about was instantly countered with a negative thought.

I'm alive (I wish I was dead).

I'm sober (I want to get drunk).

I have cigarettes (I smoked back then, so hey! It's the little things).

I have a bed that's warm and dry

Sure enough, the attitude would start changing . . .

I woke up today, and recognized the ceiling. (I had two fears when drinking. 1. Not recognizing the ceiling when I woke up or 2. Recognizing the ceiling and wondering what stupor of a state I was in when I drove home)

I have (insert name here) who understands what it's like to be a trauma survivor.

I live in a safe, sober environment (Thank you Serenity House!)

The list would go on from there. In no time, I could fill two sides of a blank sheet of paper with things to be grateful for. Lots of little things led to one big thing, the realization that there were good things in my life. Whether it was a random kind greeting from a stranger, a nod of understanding in a group, someone expressing goodness about my efforts (however haltingly) in my recovery, or just a moment of laughter, they all added up to a collective feeling of . . . Wellness? Oh my!

I utilized this practice during some of the most dark and challenging times of my recovery. And I did it when I was feeling good, just to practice for those dark times. Gary McKenney, a former counselor at Serenity House used to remind us all the time: 

"I work my recovery on a daily basis. So when I have to, I don't have to."  

Yet more often than not, beginning a gratitude exercise felt like eating my vegetables. I would pout, refuse, get angry, and just delay the inevitable of beginning this work. I used to think badly of myself for procrastinating. But now, I realize that to make room for gratitude, I also had to get some intense feelings out of the way. It was all part of the process.

A few years back, I started a post on social media called Gratitude Tuesday. I ask folks what they're grateful for that day. Many times, folks thank me for reminding them to be grateful. What I've reflected back on occasion is that the responses remind me to work toward gratitude. There's always something to be grateful for. Even if all I have is one, small thing to hang on to, that's enough to maintain a spark of hope for my recovery.

Mmmmm! Butter.

M :-)

Prayer and Meditation: A Practice of Process

8:00am on Monday morning. My last day of a four day weekend. I return to work tomorrow.
I'm sitting in an Adirondack chair on the back deck of my husband's brother's house on Cape Cod. Birds are singing, the breeze whispers its wisdom, and tickles my bare feet. I am reading, enjoying coffee, and tuning into nature. Moments of meditation follow my morning reading. I am also dabbling in social media; a habit of mine that can suck time away with little or no warning.

After examining a passage from the latest book I'm reading, I pause to pray. I know the difficulty of some trauma survivors where a higher power is concerned. Despite years of practice, I constantly fear moving closer to god (small case god, utilized here to emphasize openness to any philosophy or deity). In the beginning of my recovery, I would pray to the collective wisdom of those who were sober in my life. When ready, I transitioned this to a visual conception of god being a cloud. I could envision the cloud enveloping me in a light but powerful mist of safety. For me, god could not have arms, legs, and any other human attributes with which to physically hurt me.

So I'm praying to this god this morning, and offering up the practice of letting go. I ask for god's presence in the person's life I am focusing some of my energy on, as a way to release myself from carrying fear and worry about their circumstances. It is an exercise freely given to me by many wonderful people over the years. That collective wisdom that I initially prayed to, opened me up to the spiritual lessons of individuals who I have been blessed to know on this journey.

I have altered and added to this practice to suit my comfort level with god , based on my relationship with my trauma history. There are times where the disconnect from god has been crucial to my survival of horrific memories. At the other extreme, there has been desperation in my need to seek comfort during suffering. In working with others, I offer compassion regardless of their closeness or distance to god. As I continue the practice of prayer and meditation, I try to give myself the same courtesy.

One of the things I've added to those prayers is that god quietly and anonymously pass on my care and concern for the person, dynamic, or situation that I need to relinquish control to. For me, this is an act of trust and faith in a higher power. It is an acknowledgment of giving over to something bigger than me that has a plan. A plan that I may not be privy to the particulars and purpose for someone or something else. The flip side of this spiritual letting go is to ask god to hold my fear, anger, etc, so I can make room for compassion in my heart for the person, dynamic, or situation that merits letting go. This act of prayer and meditation allows me to move closer to faith, and away from my ego that thinks (Knows! lol!) that it has the best instant fix for any relational problem that brings me discomfort.

As a survivor of adverse childhood experiences, the trauma events programmed into my developing psyche that anything with power over me was dangerous and harmful. To ask a newly aware trauma survivor to turn things over to god (while well meaning) is asking the person to submit to dominance all over again. And we wonder why trauma survivors react so strongly at our attempts to offer help! It's perceived as dominance! Then we write off their strong reactions as symptomatic of their diagnostics. In helping, the helper can forget about compassion and wellbeing for others.

So it's not surprising that I would defy god. And it's easy to see, from this perspective, that relating to god can be difficult for trauma survivors.

Back to this morning though: I was just beginning to express love to god to pass on to someone else when a small piece of a leaf landed on me. Instantly, I broke from my spiritual exercise to brush the leaf off me.

I had to laugh at myself! Here was a beautiful, gentle sign that love and concern was being passed on. And what do I do? I abruptly brush it aside in favor of "my" prayers. I laughed out loud at myself, and the circumstances of my reaction. How very human of me!

Which is why I practice prayer and meditation in the first place. To experience my humanity. That's not why I started actively practicing this over twenty-seven years ago. My bare beginnings were a humble and desperate attempt at survival.

It is only now that is see where that too, was an appeal to my better humanity.

Pippin and the Allure of the Whispering Ringmaster. 

Trigger Warning: Trauma History/Obsessive Sexual Behavior

Spoiler Alert! Synopsis/Interpretation of the musical Pippin

Written May 22nd, 2017. Revised June 25th, 2017 for content, clarity, and updates. 

I've had the need to write lately. A lot of writing! The catharsis of my story telling has been a way to release both singular memories and how my recovery has changed my personal, collective perspective of these terrible events. I am gaining levels of self-acceptance and love I once thought impossible.

Early on, it seemed that I was merely reacting to God knows what. I wanted to do the right thing, and had a host if instances where I did things that were true, loving, and kind.

And yet there were these callings. These urges to do dark and dangerous things when no one was around. Things that made me question my own sanity. I couldn't point to anything, except this strange voice from within that called me to behaviors that were inherently perilous, yet so exciting.

I know that I so wanted to explore public bathrooms as a child. I lingered in them whenever I had to go. And this led to the both tantalizing and horrific discovery of what wounded men are capable of when I was thirteen years old (http://swimlessons62.blogspot.com/2017/06/memories-of-junior-high-school-trigger.html)

Despite the brief, conscious terror of that incident, I returned to public restrooms again, and again; looking to somehow reconcile the terrible guilt that went along with the incredible physical sensations like nothing I had known before. As the years of participation went by and rolled into decades, I lost sight of everything except shame and titillation. This beast of sexual activity that I continued to feed became an insatiable hunger that, despite my best efforts, could not be extinguished without another turn on the merry go round.

At around nineteen years sober, I quit smoking. Like any other vice in my life, I had tried to quit numerous times, only to fall (Pfft! . . . Run! lol!) back into the behavior. Soon after, I started seeing Ralph Zeiff. A now retired therapist/psychologist who practiced in Portland. Ralph was a gentle soul that helped me in so many ways. He had a wonderful and quick mind that could not wait to jump in and tinker with my thinking.

"Let me stop you right there Michael." He would say. He saw aspects of my thinking that I couldn't, and lovingly pointed  it all out to me often. Though frustrating on many occasions, I am eternally grateful for this gentle, intelligent, and loving man.

After almost two years of trial and error (and processing with Ralph), I was able to stop cruising. If I thought quitting smoking was difficult, putting down this behavior was an astronomical struggle. I had to re-write my entire daily routine.

Over the years, I had developed a network and subculture of anonymous sex and hood ups that could satisfy any urges at almost a moment's notice. From the bare beginnings of a 13 year-old self who was exploited, I had developed a four-state, two-country network of where to have sex whenever I wanted it. Any travel beyond this area required research to ensure access to this pleasure activity. thirty-five years of anonymous behavior had created this shadow life that I now had to put down in order to achieve anything like sexual sobriety.

When I think of what I may have accomplished, had I put that time and energy into something productive . . . But I have to accept that the best I could do at that time was stay sober, and be a s true to myself as I possibly could; given the weight and suffering I was carrying. I no longer feel sorry for myself for time spent wasted or wasted time. And beyond the benefits my own recovery brings me, I have a purpose. If my story can help someone else, then there really was nothing wasted.

There is so much that I could say about those decades of sexual behavior. So much risk to my personal and professional reputation that I put on the line with each trek out into the country to a rest area, boat landing, or other "hot spots" I found online. I jeopardized my standing in the community on a regular basis. Homophobia aside, folks don't particularly want to employ people who are arrested for public indecency.

There were several close-calls and brushes with the law, and many times hiding in the woods to evade capture. There were even the occasional situation where homophobic hooligans would show up. Sometimes, I had, and sometimes I made them think twice about returning. Thankfully, violence was the exception. However, there were many a discussion with law enforcement where the officer would remind me that it was just he and I, and that police would be believed over some "faggot."

Looks like there's much more to write here. Homophobia (internal and external) does nothing to augment cruising. It is only in hindsight that I clearly see the dangers. One cannot be scared away from cruising. In fact, the rush of danger can become part and parcel of the addictive hit one gets from anonymous sex. But that is for another time.

The last time I cruised a rest area (one of many, many places that men who have sex with other men will frequent), I had a terrible experience. A man who was obviously intoxicated preformed an oral sex act on me. After the physical release, I was left with nothing but shame and regret. He was dirty and smelled of alcohol, nicotine, and body oder. I had to drive a good distance back home, and all I could think of was how much I wanted to shower. I kept moist towelettes and mouthwash in my car, but this did nothing to erase that dirty feeling.

PS: Showers, while physically cleansing, never wash off the shame. I've I've had my turn at bating in water that was too hot, and scrubbing beyond what was necessary to achieve cleanliness.

Soon after this, I had one last "hook-ip" with a friend. Though devoid of the odorous discomforts of the previous experience, all the remaining qualities left me cold. I do not blame this friend, nor do I hold any malice toward him. I was simply switching seats on the Titanic with my cruising behavior at that point. I cannot find fault with a dear friend who was willing to participate, and can say nothing of the dynamics of their behavior; only my own.

Back to re-writing my life: When I committed to this work of sexual sobriety (not sure what else to call it), I had to let folks know of my comings and goings on an almost moment to moment basis for a while. I did not want (or need) to let everyone in my life know what I was trying to achieve, so I would just call and make small talk with most folks.

The conversations went something like this:

Me: "Hi . . . Just giving you a quick call. I'm going to an event with some friends this evening. I'll check back in with you when I get home . . . Around nine o'clock? Great! Call you then."

I would do this multiple times a day. I wonder what my friends thought about it. There are some, outside my inner circle, who I have told about this and thanked. Their responses to my efforts have been loving and affirming.

Then there were the intimate or core group of folks I assembled in order to be more upfront about the prevention. These were the folks I called when i wanted to go cruising. I would discuss things with them and practice any and all skills suggested in order to pass the time and prevent acting out. My job at the time required hour and two-plus hour car drives on occasion. I would "bookend" myself by calling someone from my inner circle and commit to a time frame for the drive, and a follow-up call when I arrived. i would repeat this process on the return trip.

Soon after stopping the anonymous behavior, I was tested for HIV. It came back negative. Eight months later, I received another negative test result. How this happened is beyond me. I know that my behavior became more and more  unsafe with the passage of time. Long ago, I had surrendered to ever finding a meaningful, monogamous relationship. I saw so many of my brethren out and about that the prospect of a singular relationship with another man seemed impossible.

Occasionally, I would stop cruising, only to become infatuated with someone who I though could be the one. However, this "one" (Happened about four of five times over my first ten-plus years of sobriety), was usually straight, had serious issues of their own, and liked the attention I lauded over them. They were also relatively new in sobriety. I was a slow learner in this department. There would be this exchange of power, then jealously, then anger, occasional threats of violence from myself, them  or the community at large, and finally, a damaging closing scene.

Many of the men I was with (or emotionally indebted with)would insist I tell no one of their behavior before engaging with me. And there were so many married men who frequented the same spots that I just assumed that no one was true to their loved one. Contempt gave way to defeat, and I began engaging in deeper, more dangerous unprotected sex. I never contracted anything while cruising or chasing hook-ups, and I don't know why that is.

I saw the arc of acquaintances over the decades that I cruised that contracted HIV\AIDS, who grew sick and died. Yet, here I am. Words fail me at the moment. And there is still an immense guilt that I feel when I think of all those that passed on from a disease that my behavior ignored, and I hid from. Hid in the very behavior that led to so many deaths.

For some reason, Sundays were particularly difficult on me when I stopped cruising. I started to allow time to be home by myself. There was a dull, emotional ache that would crescendo to almost intolerable levels. I made it a point to discuss this with my friends and therapist, and ensured that I did other activities on Sundays as well. But the ache felt weirdly familiar. Strange as it may sound, I quickly identified it as my truth coming forth to reveal itself. And I found that journaling and additional emotional work eased this declaration process.

On a couple of occasions, with support, I ventured to one of those rest areas and embarked on some serious writing. The results were amazing! I discovered layers upon layers of justification I had used to shield myself in a cocoon of denial during my obsessive pursuit of sexual encounters.

As I continued to practice skills that kept me away from anonymous sex and hook-ups, I discovered something. I liked my own company. Now, I still found myself unlovable by another human being where a relationship was concerned, but I had my own little apartment, a car, and a host of friends, none of whom were on my "radar" for a possible encounter. Now attraction and dating are normal aspects of living, but I needed this space to help figure out who I was on a deeper level.

I did try some dating. That is, I asked a person out. It was the first time I had done this in my life. He was adorable and in fantastic shape. I met him at the guy, and we talked regularly. He seemed really nice, and I decided that it would be a courageous act to offer my phone number. At the very least, I'd know the answer. I wouldn't spend my life wondering if I could have dated this person.

Except he took my number and never responded. He was kind enough and engaging when he saw me, but he never gave me an answer. I realize now that this was his answer. He had declined and moved on, but I burned with rage and guilt. All kinds of stuff came up for me, including the fear and violence I had experienced years ago when I disclosed my love and sexuality for a friend.

This poor guy was the recipient of my gruff responses and terse looks from then on out. He still tried to be polite and pleasant, but I was having none of it. This only intensified once I met my future husband. "I'm worth more than crumbs!" I would tell myself to justify my attitude toward him. I'd put on my best steely glance and look away. This person was sweet to me, and wanted to avoid an awkward "No thanks" and I took it as a dangerous slight. It's one of those amends I am willing to make, if given the opportunity. He had no responsibility in my past, and my past was my reaction to his gentle decline.

Around this time, I met someone who's behavior mirrored what I had done back in 1975 as a 13 year-old. I tried (with the help of my therapist) to help this kid as best I could, but they wanted nothing to do with talking. They've been on the fringes of my life. I wish so much I could talk with this young adult now, but I fear it will never happen. Once they were of age (and with the assistance of another professional) I made an attempt to contact them. But they refused, and I have to respect that. Oh brave, little Theo! It is my hope that the circus does not destroy you (Pippin reference). And whomever whispered in your ear that a public restroom would bring you excitement was lying to you. I can only hope that the circus brought to me was not brought upon you.

And thank you for being one of my best teachers.

So yes. I met my now husband around this time too. It seemed I that fate determined that I see my own 13 year-old self and begin to embrace little Michael before I was able to be embraced by a loving, caring, sincere man. He is also just adorable. We quickly became friends who were dating, and boyfriends too. is friends and my friends heartily approved of us being together, which was helpful, to say the least.

It seems like every day, I fall a little more in love with my Handsome Prince, as I like to call him. He was there on the beach when I swam my first Peaks to Portland Swim, and he's been there ever since. We've been through a lot together, and have supported one another through some difficult times. On July 2nd, 2016, we were married in a small ceremony at a dear friend's house. Like a lot of my life, so many people came together to make this wonderful day possible.

But I need to back up a bit. In 2012-2013, I went from swimming two miles, three times a week, to not being able to walk 50 yards without stopping to catch my breath. Furthermore, the fear of not being able to breath was creating anxiety well beyond the obvious reasons one would feel unsettled about.

Around the same time, I started to remember attending a performance of Peter and the Woolf at what was then Portland City Hall (now Merrill Auditorium). As far back as I can remember, I've had nightmares about that men's room just off the auditorium. As far back as I can remember, I've had a reoccurring dream about walking into that restroom, only to find decomposed bodies floating in large, round bathtubs. The bodies still had some life to them, and I feared they were after me. As I got older (and sober), I realized the dream was through the eyes of a small child. My point of view in the dream meant that I had to look up to see the figures in the tubs and the toilet facilities, including doors to the stalls. In my dream, I often ran into a stall and hid before waking up in a cold sweat.

Recently I realized (with the help of some school chums on social media) that we attended Peter and the Woolf when I was in 2nd grade.

Back to my breathing problems. I kept getting sick with upper respiratory infections. My PCP was throwing antibiotics at me, but I would not recover. I got tested for a host of things, including additional TB and HIV testing, but they were negative. A chest x-ray revealed that my lungs were clear, yet I couldn't seem to catch my breath.

Through some self-advocacy (and the result of an emergency room visit with heart attack symptoms), I was referred for a sleep study and a chest medicine evaluation. The diagnosis was sleep apnea and asthma.

Simultaneously, I was having this trauma response to my inability to get air. The nightmares of City Hall had returned in greater detail. I was seeing more of myself in the dream, and realized that I was the child.

Then the memory came back.

The Westbrook School System attended this showing of Peter and the Woolf. I remember being dressed up for the occasion. We lined the stairs outside City Hall before the show and went in together. We were seated and the show had started.

That's when I had to go to the bathroom.

I remember talking about this with an adult. I cannot remember if they were a teacher or a chaperone. But I do remember a very fancy hat that they wore for the occasion. But after some debate, I was allowed to go to the bathroom by myself. At least, that's how I remember it.

I went into the men's room and used a bathroom stall to pee. At seven years old, I was much too intimidated by the urinals. I was a child who enjoyed music, so I think I was whistling the theme to Peter and the Woolf. It never occurred to me to lock the door behind me.

Suddenly, he was behind me and turned me around. He was on me and demanded that I preform oral sex. I had no choice in the matter, and he forced himself into me until I passed out.

I awoke on the floor of the stall. I remember how cool and moist my cheek was as I lay there. There was no one left in the bathroom. I stood up and went to the sink. I think they were those round sinks with the foot levers that you stepped on to make the water run, but I can't be sure. Some 48 years later, only patches of the most horrific details of the event have revealed themselves. I cleaned myself up, straightened out my hair and nice clothes, and returned to the play.

What strikes me now is the way it was already ingrained in me to say nothing of the event. I thought that I was in trouble! and knew I had to be quiet about it. I watched the rest of the play and never spoke of the event again. I'm sure that years of exploration, exploitation, alcoholism, addiction, and the obsessive pursuit of sex pushed this memory down so far and out of sight for me, that it would never see the light of day.

Then I got sober.
Then I found understanding folks.
Then I started remembering other adverse childhood experiences.
Then I moved into Serenity House (I stayed close to that house for the first ten years of my sobriety).
Then I went to Caron Foundation.
Then I started helping others.
Then I was a psychiatric inpatient.
Then I went on medication for depression.
Then I continued to help others.
Then I sought support from others who were hurt by the addiction of others.
Then I quit smoking.
Then I sought professional help (again!).
Then I quit having anonymous sex.
Then a couple of things that mirrored my abuse/exploitation history were presented to me.
More professional help.
Then I joined a men's group.

And now, I am seeing my personal trauma history in an entirely new light. Ralph and I walked through that memory (and others) together. One day before therapy with Ralph, I happened by City Hall and went into that bathroom off the auditorium.

I made sure no one was around, then I made a declaration. I confronted a person who I assume has long-since passed away. I told him that he did not beat me. That despite his best efforts, he could not silence me, and that I knew what transpired that terrible day belonged solely to him, and I laid the responsibility at his feet. I told him that he and his secrets would no longer dominate my life. And I insisted that I was going to enjoy the time I had left on this earth. I was going to love more, and make room for even more forgiveness and compassion for myself and others. I ended my declaration with a less than compassionate (but totally appropriate) big "FUCK YOU!" as well.

Which leads me to Pippin. Awkward transition, I know (PS: This is the spoiler alert section of the piece).

So last week, my husband and I saw Pippin at Merrill Auditorium. I had been there since my "declaration" but not in the context of what Pippin was about to reveal to me.

After the first act, we needed to pee. I had not returned to that bathroom since my important speech to myself in there. I was urinating at the urinal and could see, in my mind's eye, how large the bathroom must have appeared to my seven year old self. As a child, I did not have the benefit of an intermission crowd to shield me from harm. Back in 1969-1970, there were some lost souls in there who were (I believe) engaging in behaviors I would come to know only too well. But who among these cruisers would have spoken up during an active child rape? They surely would have risked exposure during a time when gay men could be fired with no recourse, their careers ruined at even the slightest hint of what was considered dastardly, deviant behavior.

In that moment, I realized what Pippin was about. And insatiable and very human aspect of reaching beyond any needs, and pursue wants and desires; even to the point of perversion and destruction of self and others. I also realized that the "Circus" in the play were the voices in his head.

During the rape, the Ringmaster of another whispered in my ear that this was all my fault.

No, I was alone, and a child at that. Incapable of taking care of myself in that moment. In a society that looked so harshly upon homosexuals that not one of them could speak up for me. I vaguely remember the scurrying of feet as the horrific act transpired, but no one attempted to stop the perpetrator to my knowledge. These otherwise health and beautiful men retreated at the insufferable actions of a child rapist, because they had to.

Please note that I say "otherwise healthy" not as a knock against homosexuality, but as an acknowledgment of suffering in silence because of an intolerant, vindictive, and hateful society.

And then, I felt some empathy for my abuser. I realized that he had a sickness. That no man, given the time to process, would want to place generations of suffering in motion upon a little boy. Blinded by his own sickness, he couldn't have grasped the magnitude of his actions. Surely, he would have done something different otherwise. My abuser's sexuality was irrelevant. While child sex crimes are cloaked in the guise of desire, they are truly and evil attempt to dominate in the most vile and terrible way.

"I forgive you." I whispered as I finished my pee. I walked out of the restroom, and back to my loving husband.

We watched the second act. And sure enough, the leading Player and Circus were all in Pippin's head. Not the anger of the Leading Player when Pippin begins to realize that a life chasing unwonted desire is doomed to destruction.

The final scene is the manifestation of the circus again, in the mind of young Theo.

Surely, I met one of my Lead Players in a public bathroom as a young 2nd grader. His vicious deed woven tales created a circus carnival that called to me, and I chased that show for years; decades even.

But now, watching the final scene of Pippin. I think of all the other brave little Theos of this world. Who calls to them? Who reaches past the circus narrative of their trauma to embrace them?

And why, as a society, are we so focused on punishing the perpetrator for all to see. We create a spectacle of hatred, and we forget to embrace the victims.

M

Accessing Connection: An Ongoing Process

Bridge Street, Westbrook

Trigger Warning: Discussion of trauma and bullying as they relate to behaviors.

It's noontime, and I'm sitting in the living room at my family's house in Massachusetts. It seems disconnected to refer to them as "in laws" because they feel like so much more. I love having this connection. They are my brothers, sisters, mother, and niece.

I wish I had some magic formula for connection. For the longest time, disconnection was my ever present companion. Always with me, and always reminding me that I never truly belonged anywhere.
For me, this had to do with my sexuality. As a child, I knew I was gay, even before I had a word for it. I just felt that I was inherently wrong where love, affection, childhood crushes, and desires were concerned. It seemed that the very core of my being was in conflict with all society was telling me I must become.

As I grew, and biology began to have its way with my body, and this feeling was intensified. Add to that the perils of expressing anything outside the norm of adolescence, and all the ingredients for a recipe of shame were present.

And all of this was colored and shaped in the context of trauma. The sexual abuse I had endured to that point in my young life was now influencing my decisions and actions. Actions that were leading to further exploitation of the young self that I was.

Meanwhile, I was suffering through the heteronormative indoctrination that society sets and expects from young boys. My peers were obsessed with the base-pads. Third base was considered entry into the big leagues. Truth or Dare was an almost daily activity, with anyone answering "truth" considered a chicken. Most of us were in sixth and seventh grade at this time. I feel the need to tread gently during this part of the story. But I will say that first base was kissing. Second base was copping a feel of someone's breast, and from there, I'll let you fill in the rest of the story.

The adult, enlightened me in recovery realizes that this behavior had its roots in abuse. I couldn't have been the only one who had been victimized, or we wouldn't have behaved like this. Imagine children, surrendering consent for sexual behavior to a third party. Adults have the capacity to discern these dynamics of power, control, and submission, but certainly not children ages eleven to thirteen.

Add to this the almost forced institution of junior high dances, the fledgling dating scene, and teacher chaperones, this little gay boy felt totally defeated. I now had disparaging words (uttered by both teachers and children alike) that pigeonholed my sexuality. I had heard these words and phrases from kids before. But now, teachers were saying them. I will not take space to hurl those horrible slangs at the reader for this post.

As an adult, I know that a lot of those male teachers who thrived on homophobic rhetoric to keep us in line, were the very people I heard stories about. "Straight" homophobes who victimized Junior High and High School aged boys. And the school system I grew up in during the 70's protected these men.

There was a Junior High teacher who impregnated a student and secured consent from the parents to marry them. Remember what I said about giving consent to a third party? A child cannot do that, but two well meaning adults adhered to the wishes of a perpetrator.

I'm so grateful that I dodged the direct abuse many of my peers (how many bullies?) may have suffered at the hands of these men who preyed on young boys. And I grieve deeply the loss they carry because of it. I too know that place, and I embrace you.

As a child in junior high, there was a gay teacher that I hated. I hated him because all the kids made fun of him. I hated him because he was "obviously gay" whatever that means.

But most of all, I made sure to hate him even more than my peers. I wanted everyone to know I had no tolerance for that lifestyle.

Years later, as a sober man, I went back to visit that man and make amends. We talked about a host of homophobic dynamics of the time, and the now well known narratives of teachers who were protected by the administration . . . For the good of the community, of course (sarcasm font unavailable).

The now retired teacher told me he was well aware of many of the dynamics, and tried to report them.

And do you know what the response was?

"You're lucky to have a job here faggot! Don't you ever, ever! Bring this up again."

I remember the gym teachers watching us through the office window and laughing as some of us were mercilessly teased. Gym was my least favorite class, except when we went swimming. But swimming was not exactly celebrated by Mr. Libby and Mr. Foley.

I would walk to the locker room for phys-ed and remind myself how "straight" I was. I would tell myself this over and over while walking down the ramp from whatever class I was having before gym. I was terrified that what I had heard about gay people would happen to me in the locker room. That suddenly, and without warning, I would be aroused in front of my peers. That would be the end of it. I would have to go home and kill myself.

To this day, I remember who taunted me during gym. The fear and anxiety is with me as I type this piece. My hands tremble at the powerlessness I felt over my situation. Though it has been years, it is the first thing I think of  on the rare occasions when I see any of these now grown men. I am terrified, and feel an extreme and uncanny need to defend myself.

I can still see Mr Foley and Mr Libby, laughing as our underwear got taken, or our shoulders were punched, or our belongings were scattered all over the locker room. Nothing was done, because the folks that were abusing us were some of the star athletes of that group.

Thankfully for me, competitive swimming and band came into my life. I started to know some older high school guys and hung out with other folks that swam or played music. A broken arm the summer of 1975 delayed my progress, but I joined the junior high team my 8th grade year. I very soon broke the school record in the 50yd backstroke, and like magic, the bullying seemed to stop.

I know today that those boys moved onto other powerless boys. Sadly, I know this because I was one of those bullies from time to time in high school. It was the same reason that I didn't want that gay teacher anywhere near me. And I had a road map of homophobia laid out for me by the very people charged with looking after me as an adolescent.

I'll outline in another post my journey into exploitation and cruising. Read more here, but be gentle with yourself.

I think about that child now. My thirteen year-old self, and the decisions that were made with a mind and soul clouded with the horrors of other people's actions. I'm working to embrace him all over again. And forgiving that dear, sweet child for his perceived transgressions.

I've done John Bradshaw type, inner-child work on other trauma from when I was younger, and I feel like today's nurturing and summoning of a god that loves me is making room to love and embrace that 13-year old boy named Michael.

This pursuit of loving this child is evident in my everyday recovery work, my willingness to help others with similar stories, my leaning to trust my men's group with some recent risks I've taken to try and help others, by sharing my life path today.

It has taken a long time to feel connected to myself and others. The work I've done was initially about surviving another day. Doing the work was about releasing the unbearable pain; many times, without even knowing the source of its torture.

While people promised a better life awaited, I could barely hear their tidings. I was in too much pain to even dare considering the prospect of something like the quiet, wonderful, full, exciting, loving, connected life I have today.

Slowly though, things began to fall together. Sometimes it was a simple moment of peace, devoid of craving. Other moments were emblematic with the reassurance that I was gaining perspective as I offered help to others. And collectively, through the years, there has been some semblance of consistency with my life, love and overall safety.

There are still struggles, but solutions abound where there were none before.

These writings are a tribute to all of those that helped me along the way. Those who walked with me, grieved with me, came in my life and left at exactly the right time. Spiritual guides with lessons to offer.

Most of all, this blog is a gift to that 13 year old (and others like him) who didn't have a voice.

Letting Go

Circumstance is a funny thing. Elizabeth Lesser's book, "Broken Open" came into my life via a recommendation from my therapist. Never did I expect to find a road map to compassion, love, and loss on some of the most topical issues I'm working on.

In my younger life, I would hide from loss. I was fearful that feelings about whatever may be leaving my life would only deepen the sadness that was constantly with me anyway. The dull ache that was always with me would begin to pulsate when something ended. In retrospect, I now realize that the dull ache had to do with that core abandonment I was left with as the result of adverse childhood experiences.
This is not to say that I couldn't experience loss. I was pretty good at being an example of how to deal with feelings, where others were concerned. I could feel the comfort in stepping up in a difficult situation for the sake of someone's benefit during trying times. My employment history has always been in service to others. From making pizzas, to lifeguarding, working with youth at risk, and later, mental health and substance abuse work. I found comfort in being of service to others. It fulfills a need, and I don't quibble about wanting to help others from a professional standpoint.
But make the pain or loss singular to me, and there is a whole different ballgame that happens. I have been known to become needy on steroids.
Before I got sober, fighting the process of letting go entailed ingesting massive amounts of drugs and alcohol, passive-aggressive statements (Thank GOD that social media was not around back then!) to friends and friends of friends, cruising, fighting, throwing myself into work, sabotaging other areas of my life to distract myself. Add on infinitude. 

Even after I got sober, there were several episodes of loss or change that I would try my best to prevent through one more attempt at contact. One more letter, one more share in a public setting. One more . . . Something! Oh, and passive aggressive statements to friends of friends of friends, fighting, throwing myself into work, sabotaging other areas of my life to distract myself. Add on infinitude.
One hopes that the reader sees the pattern of behavior transcends addiction to substances.

The one more attempt at contact strategy, of course, would lead to cementing closed the door of what may have only been a temporary boundary. After years of practicing recovery, I've found that maintaining the practice of letting go creates the best outcomes in even the most uncomfortable of situations.
My skills sets developed with the help and wisdom of friends include long walks (alone, or with a friend), swimming, exercising, making room/space for grief, writing, prayer and meditation, support groups, hobbies, literature, and expression of feelings; which never seems to happen on the time table I prepare them for. Darned feelings! I have so wished that I could schedule feelings like one places appointments in a day planner. "Sadness? 9:30-10:15 on Monday morning? Hmmm. Let me see . . . Sure! I'll pencil you in."
I still, occasionally, wander back into thinking, justification, and "bright ideas" of how to orchestrate some sort of contact that will appear random and innocent enough, while being fraught with some sort of specific plan. These are few and far between, and are usually met with emotional hangovers that discourage future attempts at such "spontaneous" contact.
However, Maine is one big small town, and I've found myself also denying things that are good and enjoyable for fear of bumping into someone. I need not deny my life's aspirations and enjoyments just because someone else may not want contact with me. There is a balance between being a victim who must isolate, and being omnipresent in the hopes of getting a rush of satisfaction (or dread) from maintaining contact.
So these past few months, I have returned to Elizabeth Lesser's book, "Broken Open" to look for guidance on letting go. The final section of the book deals with dying. Not necessarily the dying of the body, thought that is a part of the lessons contained within. But the dying portion of change that all of us experience in our daily lives. At least that what I come away with when I read her book. Lesser talks openly about experiencing the sadness and pain of change, as a way to release and be free of the burdens of pain associated with loss.
This is not the first time or person I have heard from that processing through pain is a means to healing from it. One recovery phrase that is a favorite of mine is, "The only way out, is through."
So as I embark upon my day today, I will look for the opportunities to let go. It may be as simple as letting go of location as my Husband and I travel to Cape Cod to visit with family, and my adorable niece. Few things make room in my heart like her smile, and her little shy, shoulder shrug when she sees us. I will read to her when she hands me a book, and accept toys, and eat plastic vegetables she prepares for me out of her little shopping cart.

But I will also connect with people who, like me, are in recovery from addiction. I will connect to their wisdom and experience. Invariably, someone will give voice to whatever it is that I need to hear for that day.

I will also find time to work out or swim while down there. There is a local pool that I can access for a day pass.

And I will make room to open my heart to whatever sadness, grief or loss comes my way.

Now, where's my day planner?

M ❤😊

Down To Business/Up For Self-Care?

As this blog develops, I hope to have some interactions with folks who read and contribute to what's here.


That being said, I'm going to use this entry to illustrate some skills I've utilized for self-care and nurturing the broken soul that began to unfold, after I got sober.


At around two years sober, I began having horrific nightmares. These dreams mirrored abuse (much of which was yet unrecovered in my consciousness), that seemed to "come with me" when I woke up. I would awake with the sights, sounds and smells of the dream in my room. I began needing a nightlight. 29 years old, and I needed a friggin' night light!


Fortunately for me, I was a live-in building manager for a group home at the time. There were eight residents in various stages of recovery from mental illness. My job was to be a presence in the house during off-office hours. I carried a pager, so I was available, and had Wednesday nights off. My instructions from the organization I worked for was to live my recovery life. Go to meetings, model my actions on how to do this recover thing for the residents. Little did I know that I would have eight of the best teachers on how to practice recovery.


Many times, I would wake up from one of those dreams and step outside my room for a smoke (you could smoke in group homes 25 years ago, but that's another story). Invariably, there would be a resident who would be up who would want to talk. They may not have been in a situation that merited and emergency knock on my door, but they relished the opportunity of connection.


I would end up supporting others. This is not the end-all, get-all for wellness, but a little service to others can (for me) always help me step out of my own pain.


I came to mental health from the field of recreation, and I ran the house with the skills I had used successfully from my time working with youth. I decorated the bulletin board with low and no-cost activities around town. The home was conveniently located close to Congress Street, the downtown section of Portland. So finding things to do on a weekly basis was easy.


By accident, I discovered that the basement in this building had what seemed to be an endless supply of art materials. There were paints, paper in all types and sizes, markers, small figurines, glue, wood pieces, etc. And I started using some time during the week to "make stuff" with the residents.


My first inclination is to always say, "I suck at art." But I will work with materials to create something, because I know the payoff is a chance to express, emotionally, something that words can't touch. And I learned this while being the building manager for this house. More on that in a moment.


Back to the nightmares: On occasion, I would wake up with paralyzing fear. My bed covers would be kicked off, and I was afraid to move. I had a small 3/4 bathroom connected to my room and would leave the light on, so I could see at night. But this was often not enough to soothe my night terrors.


One morning, after a particularly difficult night, I went to the basement and grabbed some sheets of paper from a large roll, scissors, some paint and brushes, and retreated to my room. The office was open, so I knew I would have some time to myself.


I wrote, then painted on the sheets of paper. Something like, "Mikey, You're safe!" and some accompanying nurturing signs. I cut them out in the shapes of clouds . . . Big clouds. They were about four feet long by two feet wide. The size of the lettering matched the expanse of the clouds. I taped them to my ceiling, so I would see them when coming out of a dream/night terror.
And they helped tremendously!
I did some version of this over the next few years wherever I lived. As time went by, I started to attach the here and now aspects of this form of artwork to other iconic items from my life. It might be something as simple as a stuffed animal, a blanket, or a specific pillow case; something to convert the reality of the unconscious into the present.
This is one of many, many skills I developed based on just doing whatever was in front of me to stay clean and sober, one day at a time. There are so much more of these I intend to share here, over time.
But for now, I'd love to hear about your skills sets that helped keep you safe as your past came up and nudged you.
M <3

But There Are Good Times Too

One of the many gifts of facing my trauma history has been the emergence of great and wonderful memories from childhood. It is my belief that what may appear to be the simple or mundane for most adults who do not have our histories, are the precious and the vital to those of us who survived adverse childhood experiences.

As I begrudgingly, began this journey (and the journey, for me, was crucial to my getting clean and sober from drugs and alcohol), I discovered some horrific things about the very people entrusted to look after me. The chief motivator of doing trauma work was the fear of being thirsty again. And for me, to drink again, was to die.

There were other rewards I would discover later on during my journey. And I still find pieces of my soul will align in ways that I could not possibly have imagined when I first began turning my face toward the awful history that was my childhood.

You see. I had been pretty successful in blocking it all out. When I came into detox at Westbrook Hospital in October of 1989, I could only remember my life as it related to competitive swimming, some bullying I suffered in elementary school, that awful incident in Deering Oaks at age thirteen, and not much else. I was none too keen on looking any further, yet here were professionals and recovering people telling me that the pathway to freedom was the truth. My truth, it seemed, had rule over me.

But something else happened as well. I started to remember good things. Mostly swimming things at first. Aquatics had always been good to me. And I find that my life has always had the constant of returning to the water. Coaching, teaching, lifegarding, and all things swimming have soothed my soul and provided comfort for me.

My first exposure to swimming was at the Westbrook outdoor pool; affectionately known as "The Tank." I was six years old during my first summer lessons there. The year was 1968, and my two instructors were Mr. Jordan and Mr. Harriman.

These two men were more than swimming instructors to me. They represented adult, male safety in my life. I spent many summers in their lesson programs. And as I got older, a bunch of neighborhood kids would walk to the pool for open swim from 1:00-4:00pm.

But these men! These awesome, wonderful men! They could swim like nobody's business. I used to linger after lessons to watch them swim. I'd stand outside the fence just to catch a glimpse of their freestyle, with the perfect rotary breathing.

Something happens during swim lessons that may be unique to the sport. Instructors not only organize classes and teach skills sets, they bring kids through fear. It's scary to put your face in the water for the first time. Then it's scary to jump into deep water, or off the diving board, or swim the width of the deepest part of the pool. Mr Harriman and Mr Jordan were with me every step of the way.

During my first deep-end test, I had to dog paddle across the width of the deep end. I got just past the first diving board when I started to panic. Mr Harriman reached in and plucked me out of the water with one hand, and set me on the deck. I thought he was the strongest man in the world!

More importantly, he gave me another chance. He told me I could swim the width, or he wouldn't have brought me down to the deep end. I swam the whole way, and was so pleased with myself. Later that summer, I was jumping off the low board and swimming to the side with the utmost confidence . . . "Cannonball!"

Like my trauma history, this memory came to me in bits and pieces as I processed other difficulties from my past. I quickly found it therapeutic to write about these positive memories, or recount them with friends that were helping me along with my more difficult memories. I think that talking about the good times paid equal dividends to my recovery, as processing the ever-crucial aspects of my history as well.

I will make space for processing and healing on this blog for as many people as possible. What I hope for the comment section of this piece is that people will post positive memories and influences from their childhood.

The floor is yours.

All my best,

M <3

Memories of Junior High School

 

Not My Photo

Trigger Warning: Trauma, Sexual Abuse/Exploitation

I wrote this back in late January. The story is a culmination of years of work

on my personal recovery. I share it now, in the hopes that its content is helpful

to others. God bless all of us who have survived such madness.

Today, I walked through my old Junior High school. The building has been updated to a multi-purpose recreation center, but the memories remain.

I was twelve years-old when our student body moved from the old building on Main Street, to the palace which was our new Junior High school.

The facility had new furniture, new everything! Best of all, it had an indoor pool. In the spring, I joined the recreational swim team. A broken arm that summer would cut short my participation in the program.

There were other activities I began to experiment with during that spring and summer.

In May of 1975, I journeyed into Portland. I heard rumors about Deering Oaks, and had been the recipient of jokes in relation to those stories. The bullying I endured at Canal School had faded somewhat, but there were still some very angry boys, larger than I who would threaten and intimidate myself and other smaller boys.

Their rhetoric was rife with homophobia, and they seemed to intrinsically know that being homosexual was the worst thing someone could possibly be. At least, I was convinced so.

Looking back at how my classmates were front-loaded with such a disparaging narrative of homosexual behavior in Portland was emblematic of the homophobic environment I was raised in.

Tough place to be a gay kid, for sure.

But there I was, barely thirteen, and riding my bike down Brighton Avenue to check out “The Oaks” in all it’s mystery and splendor. Later in life, I would realize that other instances of sexual trauma influenced my drive to go there.

There were public bathrooms in the park then. I locked up my five-speed bike and headed inside. This was years before the internet, and there were mini-novels of hook-up information scrawled on the bathroom walls. There were viewing holes between each stall, and a couple of grown men appeared more than eager to expose themselves to the excited and frightened child that I was.

One man in particular took a special interest in me. He handed me a note wrapped around a pencil. The note offered activities that promised incredible physical pleasure. Initially, I refused, but he persisted. He promised fun and good feelings if I agreed, and coerced me to go with him.

I should add that this man was in his 40’s.

I went with him, and he took me down to the old Casco Bay Lines. He directed me to a private bathroom, and then followed me in moments later.

He preformed a sex act on me, but I got scared and left. He followed me out and offered me a ride back to the park.

Being unfamiliar with where I was, I agreed, and he gave me a ride. He offered future interactions. Said he knew of other boys my age and wanted to take pictures of me with these boys. He promised more fun (fun . . . yeah), and left me his phone number.

Then he did something else. He handed me twenty dollars.

In my young and vulnerable mind, I knew that meant I was a prostitute.

I threw his number away on the way home. Tears streamed down my face as I pedaled back into Westbrook. I was now a manifestation of everything anyone had ever made fun of me about. There was no going back.

This man found a vulnerable and curious, gay child, and left them exploited and victimized. I now had a secret I knew I must never tell. This man promised mutual pleasure, but stole from me. As surely as anyone has ever committed a crime, this man violated me. I was far too young to be a willing participant in his abuse of me in my childhood.

Regardless of this man's orientation, he was a predator. My childlike experimentation resulted in a theft of my sexuality. It would take years of suffering through alcoholism and addiction, and a trek into recovery to reclaim it.

A few weeks later, I fell out of a tree I was climbing with some friends. It wasn't a great height, but it was enough to cause a broken bone in my left arm. No more competitive swimming that summer.

Soon after breaking my arm, I tried marijuana for the first of what would be many times. "Partying" became a huge part of my young life.

In the fall of 1975, I began my 8th grade year. The Boston Red Sox would lose to the Cincinnati Reds in game 7 of the World Series. I was a weekly alcohol and drug user by this time.

The following spring, I joined the Junior High swim team. I set a school record in the 50 yard backstroke, and swam well that season. I met some good kids and started swimming for the Westbrook Blue Fins that spring and summer.

But trauma and shame had a hold on me. And the addiction to alcohol and drugs that ran in my family began to take hold in a way that would lead to a fifteen years struggle to get and stay clean and sober.

Thank God for swimming! Swimming was the one thing that tempered my substance misuse and abuse. There were brief periods of sobriety, but always followed by a bender. Only we called it partying.

As a young adult, the benders became more frequent, and goals . . . more fleeting.

Yet swimming set the standard for an ideal to be achieved. Before I graduated, I was a Maine High School state champion and Westbrook High school record holder for the 100 yard backstroke. Swimming offered me a safe alternative to my potentially destructive lifestyle.

And years later, when I finally asked for help with my addiction to drugs and alcohol, it was my falling short as a lifeguard, swim instructor and coach that created a place of willingness for me to get and stay sober. There were struggles, but there was also support form the aquatic community.

In some cases, it was the kids I used to coach who offered the most support. When they found out I had gotten sober and was living at Serenity House, a local High School team invited me to states to watch them swim and be with them.

It meant the world to me to know that kids I had coached when they were ten, eleven and twelve years old, wanted to help me dust myself off from the rigors of active addiction.

About 18 months ago, I had business in Deering Oaks. I attended a rally to bring awareness to the heroin epidemic both locally and nationally. After the crowd cleared, I went to the spot where those bathrooms used to be.

I wanted to visit my 13 year-old self that had made that fateful journey into Portland some forty years ago.

"I forgive you." I said. "You had no idea what you were signing up for that day. It wasn't your fault Michael."

I reflected on all of this as I wandered the halls of my old school today. I gave that 13 year-old a tour of what he had been through and how his life had worked out.

I have friends, support, faith in a power greater than myself that keeps me clean and sober, the love and respect of family and community, and a loving husband truer than anything I have ever known.

 

And I felt truly blessed to have survived.

M