So ya know how sometimes I can’t think of any topics for my blog posts?

Tonight, in the five minutes it took me to throw together some supper, I thought of like, ten. All in a row. And now I have to pick.

Thanks a lot, brain!

Seeing as this is Therapy Thursday, we will start there.

Storming the Citadel

Wasn’t the greatest session today because I slept through my alarm and therefore had to get dressed and go directly to therapy with no time to fully wake up.

So I was super sleepy through the whole thing.

Still, we talked about the rape that broke my life and I told him that I thought I would have to actually remember the incident in detail in order to breach that wall of damage that keeps me from truly being alive.

And he agreed, but was worried, because recovering primary trauma is kind of a dangerous thing to do according to established, sensible psychology, and he doesn’t want me doing that when he will be going away for a month in September.

Odds are I am going to do it anyway, though. Chalk it up to my strange nature. Now that I have consciously recognized recovering that memory as the next step in my recovery, I have to do it, and it can’t wait a month.

Plus when it comes to things like this, what one might call intimate healing, I really prefer to do it all by myself, when I am all alone, with nobody else around.

Kind of like an animal dragging itself off into some remote hiding place in order to heal.

So much of my inner life is made of sad little animals.

I’ll have the apartment to myself Saturday night. Might do it then.

Then again, I might forget the whole thing until something reminds me of it years from now, and then I will be like, “Oh right,. I was going to do that thing. ”

Oh well. The wheel of fate spins onwards.

Hell, I might do it tonight, when I lay down after blogging. Ya never know.

One intriguing somatic aspect of this : as I was talking about the rape and the memories and such with my therapist, I felt this phantom pain in my anus.

Almost like something was being forced up there quite painfully. Or had been, anyhow.

Did that motherfucker fuck little four year old me up the ass?

Signs indicate yes.

It’s a wonder I could hold my poop after that. Son of a bitch.

Um,. trigger warning, anal rape of a small boy.

Here’s a nasty dark question : would I be gay if I had not been raped? Did I achieve homosexuality by having it thrust into me?

No definitive answer is possible, of course. Human development is extremelty complicated and tracing the origin of any facet of it is speculative at best.

If we take homosexuality to be entirely the product of genetic predestination, then I was basically born gay and nothing could have changed that.

But the science and statistics don’t support that theory.

If we instead consider it entirely a product of nurture – upbringing, environment, family dynamics, all that crap – then it’s entirely possible that without being violated by the cock of a stranger at the age of four, I might have turned out straight.

The science and stats don’t support that theory either.

So as usual, all we can say is it’s a complex phenomenon that is no doubt the product of many complex factors interacting on a. blah blah blah etc.

That’s scientist for “we dunno”.

I am honestly not worried about the danger involved in recovering the memories. Perhaps I should be, but I am not.

I no longer believe it is possible to ruin one’s own mind via a conscious mental act. Even if you are a wild-eyed psychonaut like me who routinely goes where others fear to tread and allows himself no excuses when it comes to the search for the truth.

Whatever happens, I can handle it. My faith in that is solid.

So it’s just a matter of very carefully moving myself into a position where I can do it. It’s a delicate and intricate operation, to be sure.

Makes me feel like I am trying to sneak up on town with an armada. At night.

But I can handle it. I am ready. Ready to plunge a dagger right into the heart of my depression and kill it at the source.

It won’t cure me in a blinding flash of white light or anything, but it will mortally wound my inner beast and after that, it’s just a matter of waiting for it to die,.

That incident is what caused me to withdraw from the world and set up walls of crystal clear ice between me and reality. All the clumsiness, isolation, and inability to connect with others I have suffered came from that withdrawal, and all the things that got compartmentalized along with the memories and traces of that horrible event.

It’s the traumatic injury that my little mind was too young to be able to handle at all, let alone heal, and so it just packed the memories away somewhere and flooded my mind with parasympathetic coldness to keep those memories hibernating.

And that’s what makes me so numb, folks. That’s what makes it so hard for me to feel the love I know is there in the world for me. That’s what alienates me from my own emotions, instincts, and desires, and strands me instead in a phony cold-circuit-only world of icy intellectualism and boy-genius naivete and gormlessness.

So intellectually smart and yet…. so emotionally undeveloped.

If i can recover those memories and break their hold on me, I stand a very good chance at true recovery and a chance to actually live my life for once.

Well, it’s time for me to lay down for a while.

I wonder what I’ll think about?

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.