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.