I prowled around this conference before when activity was really low and it was small. I wish my story was short. It's not quite as horrid, I guess, as some of yours, but I'll let you be the judge. Yesterday, my wife was listening to a talk given by a woman leader in our church about sexual abuse (it was on audio cassette). She was molested by a boarder at her house when she was 10, and she is still fighting the scars. She decided after listening to much of it that I too, had been a victim of abuse, albeit not sexual. I had a hard time accepting it, since it is much more subtle. I was emotionally, verbally, and physically abused by my parents. The physical stuff was oh so minor, really, but I never forgot the tongue lashings I always seemed to get. Julie thinks, though, that my folks taught me to fight because when I wasn't physically fighting with my folks, I was fighting with my sisters. Yep, one sister and I went from bosom buddies to siblings that literaly drew blood sometimes. My folks usually spanked when I was little, but the bigger I got, the more physical the fights grew until I got too big. I frankly forgive my father because he decided to give up his anger and submit to his more typical peacemaker and negiotating nature. He scared me when I was little, though. When I was big enough, he punched me when we got really mad and started pushing each other. He tried military discipline for a while even though he'd never served, and then he realized it didn't work. I was afraid to talk to him about anything for the longest time. So I went to my mother. She was much worse. She had a rebuke like a firebrand. Dad has said he married her because she spoke her mind, and he got it in spades. Anyway, I was confused. The natural affection that a mom and her kid seem to naturally have melted in my mind. My mother is a creature bound by honor, protocol, and perfectionism. I think I learned those traits from her, except I refuse to observe protocol for the sake of it alone. I remember her criticizing me when I was learning to ride a bike-- she made me get off and watch her while she demonstrated how to ride it properly. She was a strict teacher in the code of chivalry. She branded it so hard into me that I would rather a woman beat me before I hit her (but I have lifted a fist a time or two). She would chastise my bad habits by saying, "No lady is ever going to want a man who acts like that." Hmm, I fart, burp, and shit my pants with Julie around, and she'll sometimes laugh. She's a tomboy and doesn't mind as long as I am generally couth. I've been in counseling for over 14 years, and received psychiatric treatment for over 6 years. I am diagnosed with rapid-cycling manic-depression. Treatment boggled my mother. Actually, it was a long time coming. I went to a psychologist after moving to a new house in 5th grade. I was the butt of all the jokes of the kids. Visits became long term when I contemplated throwing myself in the irrigation ditch. I struggled with suicidal tendencies for years. Once, Mother decided I was telling the shrink what he wanted to hear and that I'd better start telling him the truth. Nevertheless, I saw counselor after counselor. I wasn't diagnosed with bipolar until I was 18. By then I'd taken just about every test they could give. They'd also given me a huge laundry list of perceived disorders. Proper treatment took even longer. My mother was in heavy denial for a long time. Because rapid- cycle bipolar sufferers don't experience normal moods much, she had some preconceived notions of how I thought. She thought it was my fault when I couldn't concentrate, or blamed me for my lack of control. After a while, she claimed she didn't know me any more since my demeanor was so different. I assured her that it was always how I'd been inside. Medications were scary, though. Some of them weren't right for me and really screwed me up. My first psychiatrist retired and my second started radically changing some of the meds. It was usually for the better, but when I was making a transition to Depakote, I hit an abysmal depression and I started swallowing the little medicine cabinet I'd acquired with my first doc. I figured that if I couldn't get out of the depression, I'd be manic beyond belief. So I OD'd and started sweating profusely and shaking. I went to the hospital for 3 days and stayed in a mental health facility for a week. I was 22, I think. I was a social outcast for a long time, and dating was hell. It seemed that a significant portion of the women I seriously dated were victims of rape, and not many were surviving well. I got too close in one relationship I was in, and I got burnt. I got kicked out of the first college I'd been in, and I shrunk into obscurity for a while. I got hit by my first crossfire-- I was accused by her roommate of committing rape. I began to think I had, until a survivor assured me I had not. I also started dealing with my sexuality when I was about 18-- that's when most things come to a head, right? (The first year of college sucked.) I was so afraid to say anything-- most people of my faith are somewhat hostile to g/l/b people, and my dad and his mother used to have such disparaging discussions about the gay relatives on his side of the family. Neither of them understood when I told them, and when I first went to a psychiatrist, my case counselor tried to convince me I was *NOT* bi. Coming out was really rough-- I decided to destroy myself from within for about five years, until I went public these past few months. Even that has had some repercussions-- my bishop called me in yesterday and warned me about being loud and proud. It's a tightrope-- I sincerely believe in my faith, but the people of it just don't seem to understand. But that's not unusual, since I've learned that teachers can't talk about their sexuality-- I'm in the education field. Strangely enough, I don't think others understand, either. Those who empathize with my sexuality constantly criticize me for my faith since it does not include my sexuality..at this time. It is a strange paradox that gives me grief from both sides. Because I couldn't deal well with dating, sexual identity, and had a poor sex education, I took up a pornography habit and read sex manuals when I wasn't looking at flesh. Actually, I ogled people in magazines for a long time-- catalogs and Mom's _Good Housekeeping_ and such. But now I was consciously aware I was looking at both men and women with relatively equal arousal. I sneaked around when I was a minor, smuggled it into my bedroom when I was of age, and it's still a problem. That drew probably the biggest indignation from my parents. Still, I never really got much of any sex ed. The most I ever got was a clawed hand in my crotch from my mother-- she said I was thinking too much with my genitals. I think they learned later that my mental illness was fueling my hormones like an inferno. *sigh* Seriously, they do say that about bipolar patients. I've had a terrible body image. My weight has fluctuated wildly because of Ritalin, eating to cure depression, and a time in the secondary grades when I exercised more and more. My grandfather has manipulated both my mother and I by promising us to give us things we wanted if we would lose huge amounts of weight, usually unrealistic. She had to lose a lot of weight before she could get contacts, and at 48, she obsesses over weight even though she is very thin. She believes it is just a matter of eating less. Her parents say it is exercise (actually, they are right by most studies). When her dad decided to manipulate me, he said I could have $1000 towards my education if I would go down to 215. I'm about 300 now, and most people say I'd be emaciated if I was that thin. It was some years ago, but it was still about a 40 lb. weight loss challenge at the time. My mother and her parents constantly hound me about my weight, citing heart problems on both sides of my family history. Grandma and Grandpa didn't stop there. They promised to replace my aging car if I graduated from university quickly. I decided to follow my dreams and upgraded my music minor to a comprehensive major. I'll wait. I never had a problem with alcohol until two weeks ago. This month, I was determined to get drunk on the weekends. So I did, taking my wife and our..um..friend with benefits along. The second time, I got pretty plastered and started doing some weird shit like playing in the sprinklers, laughing my head off, then suddenly threatening to jump into a very, very deep canal that had flooded right up to the shoreline. My wife almost lost it, she was so frightened. I've also had a problem with anger management. I was taken to court on Assault 4 charges-- I grabbed the guy by his jacket. I'll spare you the details. I was fortunate to get probation with dismissal in 12 months upon successful completion. Just now I am connecting all the ugly pieces together. Sorry this was so long-- I felt I had to explain. I needed to write it down to somebody who could understand.
- Backtalk version 1.3.30 - Copyright 1996-2006, Jan Wolter and Steve Weiss