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.