I bet Superman is more of a '5 hour energy' type of guy

Overclocking, in information technology terms, means to run a computer component at a speed higher than the manufacturer originally intended, so that performance increases. Obviously, possible side effects are overheating, damage to components, etc.

I overclock my physical being in horrendous ways. My average for sleep is 4 hours per night, although it is not unusual to see less. I push through the sleep deprivation with will power and caffeine...a lot of caffeine. Coffee is consumed in mass quantities and, for a rapid boost, Starbucks bottled frappuccino can be downed very, very quickly to flood the brain with artificial alertness. I had to give up Monster, Red Bull, Sobe Energy, and the other energy-chemical cocktails when my wife saw them becoming a bit of a problem. (How many empty monster drink containers can be on one car floor? A lot.)

I do have a busy schedule: I work a demanding full-time job, have contractual work I do outside of the main job, and hold important roles in my church. For these items alone, I average about 13 and a half hours per week on the road getting to a from various locations. I also am a full-time graduate student. The program I'm in demands weekly class interaction, readings, and writings along with exams and a major paper per semester. In addition to all of this, I have husband duties, house duties, family duties, etc.

And I am tired.

Tired past a-frappuccino-infusion-will-save-it stage. Tired as in nodding off behind the wheel tired. Losing chunks of time tired. "Snapping to" in meetings, wondering if I was asleep or just zoned out tired. Body bloating tired.

When I'm this run down, time plays tricks on me. Days feel like an eternity and a blink of an eye all at once. Weeks peel off of the calendar with no warning. Months evaporate without a trace.

The funny thing (funny used loosely here) is that being awake, being busy, has not been satisfying. I have longings to travel more, to experience more, to laugh more, to see more, to be with friends and family more, to feel real intimacy with my wife more (which is an entire subject for another post). I'm not having fun. I'm not experiencing life. I'm not seeing the roses, much less smelling them. I feel like a hamster on a wheel. Sure, I'm doing well at work, school, and church, but I can't honestly tell you how that's happening. I know that I've been blessed to be able to cram tasks into "holes' of time in which they should not fit. The "cramming" in itself creates a sense of running away from a monster that is continually catching up. I'm trying to be invincible, bullet-proof, Superman.

And I'm intelligent enough to know that I'm none of these things. I'm terrified that it will all catch up to me. I don't know how I'm able to score well on school tasks...one day Superman will look up, realize the essay is due and it's not done yet. Church tasks are run on a wire. One day I will not have my stuff together when it counts. Work tasks pile up constantly - eventually I will be pinned under one and won't be able to get out from under it.

As far as my physical health goes, I've been warned. I went to a sleep specialist when this all started, because at the time the symptoms could pointed toward insomnia. An overnight sleep test revealed no abnormalities which led the doctor to tell me that either I a) get more sleep by going to bed earlier and staying there longer, or b) will have serious health issues and possibly die.

And yet, I push. I've been trying to figure out why - here are the best 2 theories I've come up with thus far:

1. I don't know how to take care of myself. From what I've said earlier in this post, obviously I know the steps to take care of myself (got to bed, stay there). What I don't know is how to make myself a priority and to take charge of my health. I really seem to have a lack of self worth that is clearly reflected outward by this behavior. I feel horribly guilty if I make my sleep a priority. I feel like I have to be invincible, I have to be perfect, I have to be Superman, and yet, I know in my heart I am none of those things. I feel scared if I show weaknesses in some areas (and not in others - VERY weird) and I've somehow attached being mortal when it comes to sleep as a weakness. I also feel very vulnerable if I take a stand for myself (and I'm not even up again opposition!). It's sad to realize that I don't love myself enough to make myself a priority. It's something that I'm not sure how to overcome. I have to take care of myself or I can be certain that healing won't happen or won't stick.
2. Being busy and exhausted leaves little time to feel. This is classic, according to the texts I've been reading. Obsessions, whether drugs, alcohol, work, etc., take the place of living in the pain that is reality. Running away from problems. Dissociation. I've long known that I am a dissociation king, which I needed to use to survive for a long time. What I didn't realize is how possible it is that my overexertion is an addiction, of sorts.

What I really think is that there is some combination of these two theories going on. I'm not loving myself enough to take care of myself, which creates a vulnerability to allow for the obsessive overexertion. It's a difficult place to be since, like all addictions, it's hard to see the problem when you are in the problem. I'm not sure how to fix this, but I definitely want to. I know I'll have to face both the anxiety of loving myself along with the pain of attaching to the abusive past. I've already made huge headway into feeling (with a LOT more to go), so now is the perfect time to try to love myself. Loving myself is something I need to write about...but I'll save that for another post.

Until then, I'll keep working and maybe, just maybe, try to get some rest...

Teacher, Leave Them Kids Alone

Just a quick recollection and regret that I have.

My abuse was perpetrated by a female school teacher. Probably coming from a family line full of educators, I had great respect for teachers, their authority, and their knowledge. A combination of factors led me to become the perfect target for this particular teacher's grooming, which led to abuse. Age 12-18 were chock full of this abuse and it continued much longer than that. But after high school, I did go to college. Several hundred miles away, at a prestigious school, in the discipline that my abuser taught.

By this age I was a complete train wreck of a human being, barely holding it together. Again, perhaps because of the educators in the family, I was able to push to excel in school. I was again a success on the outside and a dying child on the inside.

When I went to school, I was floundering for direction and guidance. That direction could have come from the teacher that was my mentor, who I will call "Bob" for this blog. Bob tried to help me, but I was so gun shy from any attention. I remember several times talking to Bob after a class and feeling absolute panic when he asked if I wanted to walk with him to his car to continue the discussion. This was normal, but I felt it was grooming. I remember him asking if I wanted to grab something to eat one day, that he would pick up the tab. Again...normal, right? But in my reality, his buying lunch could mean anything...

I, after reaching my senior year, crumbled for the first time (and not the last, but that's for other posts). I quit school suddenly, returning home to my parents house. I told Bob that I was taking a semester off so that I could really "get" all of the teaching from my time there. I was going to work and work and work so that I could finish my school career as a superstar. This was a lie. I really just couldn't get up from bed each day and prayed that I would have the courage to die.

The image that stings, still, came a few weeks later. Bob sent me a text to work on, that he had written. In the front he wrote, "I miss you! Love, Bob". I felt like throwing up. This was normal, right? Or was the panic that I felt right? Bob never tried anything, never wanted to. He wasn't an abuser. He did love me, we had a teacher-student relationship. He wanted to be my mentor. But my past wouldn't let me be a student. My abuser did take that away from me. To her: damn you!

I'm actually very happy with my career (not in the original discipline) now and my life (which has potential to be amazing, which is why I have to heal!). I do wish that I could call Bob and explain everything, but that wouldn't make a lick of sense to him. Not really fair to him either. So I won't and I won't live with this regret ruling my life. It's just an example of something I've uncovered. Something that abuse affected. A scar that I run my finger over, remember the past, and realize that it is, truly, the past.

To Bob: Thank you for helping me...thank you for your mentorship...thank you for your friendship. I'm sorry I couldn't play the role of student...I wanted to! But I couldn't. I hope you know, somehow, that your efforts weren't in vain, that they helped shape me and I still talk of you often. Love, Matthew.

My Life's VCR keeps blinking "12:00"

Actually, the real problem is that the "pause" button doesn't work.

As I've documented in this blog, I've (relatively) recently truly turned to face the demon that is my past and actually fight that monster. I'm finding that one very difficult part of the recovery process is that it doesn't happen in vacuum...life can't be "paused" while I heal. There is still "life" going on. There's still the everyday type of tasks: lawn needs to be mowed, dishes need to be washed, dog needs to be walked, etc. There's still "work" tasks: work projects don't wait for me to heal, deadlines still come, work politics are still alive and well, etc. There's still relationships: my wife needs and deserves her husband, my parents want a son, my friends want their friend, etc.

In short, I can't expect life to pause and wait patiently for me to heal, at which point I can press "play" and rejoin the party in my new, shiny, healed self.

So, since life can't pause, there's a strange line between self-care and selfishness.

I've recently fallen too far on the side of selfishness and I am sorry for that.

Part of the problem, too, is that my history of not ~really~ dealing with my demon led me to be a horrendously selfish person. I was acting as a victim, expecting everyone to do anything and everything for me, because I had been so hurt and damaged. "I went through Hell...it's time someone took care of me" was my unspoken charge. People in my life became sick of me...I pushed my wife, my parents, my in-laws, and my friends away by my "Pigpen-from-Peanuts"-like cloud of woe that followed me everywhere. It was easier for most to avoid me altogether than to be around me. The distance only fueled my quest for people to pay attention to me. Not pretty.

So, I'm actually fighting now, but the self-care/selfishness line is so hard to "get". I have spent several of the last days inundating my wife with talk, with very little actual results. I've been selfish. I don't want to wallow in the victim role at all, but thinking about the past, reconnecting, etc is a dangerous, slippery slope towards that pitfall. Overcorrection isn't the answer either: declaring that "this block of time isn't going to be invaded by my healing" isn't realistic. This part of my healing path feels like mud that I'm trying to run through.

I unfortunately don't have a clever VCR analogy to tidy this up. No "replace the remote batteries and away we go" type of line. Rather, I hate that I've been selfish and I am fighting to remain in self-care without hurting those around me with my ignorance of them. To my amazing wife: I'm so sorry that I've been so selfish...I will do better. To all of my brothers in pain out there, I'm betting that you find "life" overwhelming when you attempt to heal. I don't think there's a silver bullet answer, but my gut tells me to keep fighting. That's all there really is. I pray for strength to keep fighting for me, and for you.

Look Alice, a rabbit hole!

I begin today's entry with a candidate for "anti-climactic, anti-prophetic phrase of the year":

"Life is hard"

As I said...a winning statement.

This isn't a post pointed at the hardships I endure because of my past as an abuse victim; rather, I find myself amazed and, at times, overwhelmed at the variables that swirl around the healing process. One example: in order to heal, I have to come to a place of forgiveness and understanding regarding my parents' inability to protect me from my childhood abuse. This has proven to be difficult. (Apparently, I'm full of "understatement of the year" entries today).

At first glance, the issue was simple. Parents have one job and one job only, to protect their children, no matter what. Mom and Dad, you failed at your job. You failed miserably. On a scale of 1-10, 10 being excellence, you didn't even register. You reeked at your job. Seriously.

When I look at the situation in retrospect, I can see that there were signs of my abuse that probably should have been picked up on. I was gone from the house, at age 12,13, etc, for hours at a time, with no explanation (or incredibly weak explanations). I lied to them, but I was a teenager...teenagers don't lie well (especially when the lies are layered and there are a lot of interconnecting lies...I was smart, but not that smart). A simple raid of my room would have turned up evidence, I'm sure. Tracing phone calls, following me...I'm certain that I would have been found out.

There is also evidence that they basically knew what was going on. My dad stopped me on my way out of the house once and asked if I was going to my abuser's house. When I answered, "no", he said, "you need to know there are some things I can't protect you from". (insert sound of jaw-dropping here) Whaaat?

So, thinking on this level, there is anger....no, ~rage~. I was 12! See above mention of your one job and your absolute failure to perform that job.



But is that all there is?

Probably not. Looking deeper reveals a tangled mess of variables that may or may not be relevant:

My mom was a daddy's girl and her father died when she was a young teenager. She was left with cold, emotionless mother and no other support. Time to grow up.

My dad was told at age 12 that, "it's probably time for you to get a job". So he did and has worked ever since. Time to grow up.

My abuse start? Age 12. Time to grow up?

If a child is depressed or anxious today, there is help. Mental health is a known, public issue.
Therapy does not have a stigma attached to it. Medications, when necessary, are out there.
When I was anxious and depressed, it was "just going through a phase". This seems ludicrous now, but looking at the past through the lens of today is inaccurate, at best.

My dad was a workaholic who bottled up his emotions. I remember him either being at work (5am - 6pm) or working on the house. Gathering around the ol' kitchen table to talk about our days was not on the schedule

My mom was dealing with her life. 2 kids, housework, working full-time, a distant husband, perhaps?

Both parents have anxiety and depression, admitted in brief glimpses that I've pulled out of them.

My brother, dealing with many of the same issues I did, turned to drugs about the same time I was going through my abuse.

I was succeeding at school and extra-curricular activities, so I'm sure my parents thought that the absence of a complete meltdown meant everything was at least "OK".

And what if they did really "get it" and want to help? Was dad afraid of the effect on his job? Would they have to move? Did they have the money to do that? What about the social network they had built? Would they need a lawyer? How could they prove anything? Would they lose the son that appeared to hate them? What about the stigma? Where do you go for help?

The variables, the confusion, and the time collide to create a reality that is overwhelming. A reality that they were in and they had to choose how to navigate. Do I think that they should have protected me, no matter what? Yes. Can I look at the reality of that time and at least see that, yes, life was hard for them too? Yes.

I've just spent a few hundred words on the confusion surrounding the part of my abusive past that deals with my parents. That's only one tiny part of the whole. Healing and trying to sort through all of this can be hellish, confusing, disorienting, saddening, enlightening, and highlights one obvious truth:

Life is hard.

Pinocchio, a real boy

In my recent attempts to face the demon that is the childhood sexual abuse that happened to me, I've discovered that the brain has some funny ways of dealing with things. When I was in the abuse, I was in the situation itself, but also dissociating to deal with it all. I have full belief that, in order to survive, my brain "checked out" just to stay as sane as possible. This dissociation created a safety insulation between my soul and the reality of the abuse. On a psychological level, it is amazing that this will happen. It's not unlike swelling after twisting an ankle where the body rushes fluid to insulate around the injury and protect the joint from further damage. In a sense, my psyche has been swollen for years.

Many years later, I thought that I was facing things. I would acknowledge to myself that, yes, I had been abused. I truly believed that this simple act of labeling would be the courageous act that sparked a flurry of healing. In fact, there was still insulation that I was unable or unwilling to strip away. I was on one side and I saw the past abuse almost like a movie. There was a character that looked like young me, sounded like young me, etc, but I didn't really "attach" to the character. It made it easier to make the acknowledgement, like I was seeing a news story about a car crash. It looks horrible, I'm sure there is sadness and pain involved, but, hey, "Wheel of Fortune" is 5 and I won't remember a thing about the news story then. I certainly won't carry the pain with me. (Note: I hope to talk more about the "blacked out" parts of the "movie" at some point, where I have massive dissociation still lingering). So I acknowledged, maybe even hurt a little, but the demon was still fully entangled in my soul.

So now I'm turning toward the demon, ready for a fight. I've been talking about the abuse with my wife and in therapy, in full detail. And I've been attaching...really being there again. The reality is a crisp picture where I actually feel the touches, the pain, the mental agony, the confusion. I can smell things that were in that house, I can feel things like I was there. The insulation is gone. The movie isn't a movie, but a first person, three dimensional reality. When I talk about certain events, other things are starting to come back to me. I remember complicated details that I never thought were there. It is, at times, exhausting and overwhelming. It is a scary, sad process that is only cathartic after the fact, but hellish while going through it.

I'm also finding that the uninsulated memories are there when I'm not actively talking about them - when I'm driving, or watching TV, or cooking - they aren't in a separate box anymore. It feels like the past and the present are merging, which I think is the goal and ultimately will be a good thing. It's the goal of healing, of overcoming, that keeps me trying to do this merge, because sometime being "a real boy" is a truly difficult thing.

The Who and the What

The "Who"
Welcome to the first post on this blog. A little about me: My name is Matthew, I am 35 years old, married to an amazing woman, a Christian who actively seeks God, a worker in the Information Technology field, a part-time musician, a son, and a brother. The most pertinent fact for this blog is that I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse perpetrated by a female school teacher. For over 20 years, I have lived as a victim and have watched that perspective destroy much of my life. I have lived in constant turmoil, pain, anxiety, frustration, guilt, depression, sadness, hopelessness, chaos, and fear. My abuse started when I was 12, consumed my teenage years, and then ate away at my 20's when I stayed in a twisted, horrible, codependent relationship with my abuser. Essentially, I was a hurt 12-year-old for 20 years.

The What
And now there is this blog. As my inner twistings of my abusive past (and my unwillingness, or inability to deal with it) has led me almost destroy my life again, I've turned to face the demon. To do so, I have engaged my amazing wife in open (albeit ugly, detail-wise) dialog, started counseling with a qualified therapist, and have begun a reading every book about childhood sexual abuse (especially related to boys/men) that I can find. It is often suggested (in the books, by therapist, by wife) that my thoughts and feelings need to be journaled, tracked, and recorded. The first reason for this blog is just for that: so that I can journal my thoughts and feelings and see what's going on in the landmine field of a head I have. Why a blog, you may ask? Because in my quest for information, I have found a lonely wasteland with no information. To become a true survivor, one can no longer feel isolated and alone, but I did. I didn't see anyone talking about male sexual abuse, there were no support groups near me...and it was terrifying to go through this process without the empathy and understanding that can only come from other survivors. This blog is out there for anyone who needs it, so that a victim can see that there's at least 1 other person on this planet that honestly "gets it" and supporters of victims can see another survivor's writings and may find something that helps them. My abuse cannot be without a purpose.

One important note: I hope to start a dialog with people viewing this blog and encourage you to contact me. I would love to hear from you. HOWEVER, if you are a survivor and you need help, especially if you are contemplating suicide, PLEASE GET PROFESSIONAL HELP IMMEDIATELY. I am not a therapist and have no psychology credentials, but people are available to help you. I will be glad to talk with anyone about the fear of getting help, but it's really just important that you do get that help. Let this blog and my journaling let you know - you are not alone...and take that and become a victor, just as I am trying to do.

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