My friends:

I write this to you, because it would see that my life has been poisoned by the hands of one who has dedicated her life to evil. She is not evil, but her heart is dark like the black sand beaches of Hawaii. She is bent on my ruin, and yet, she is unaware of her malignancy; she is the embodiment of raining acid.

In recent years, my heart has grown bitter, deflated, and disheartened. I am in disbelief. Could it be? Is it true that some live, nay, that some thrive in this life only if others are suffering? Yes, it is true. It happens all the time. The more important question is: what do I do with this? How do I find peace, (and better yet), forgiveness and surrender in the midst of her focused depravity? I am at a loss. For words. For acceptance. Every turn I make, there she is, seething with plots of greed harvested within her soul.

I wish I could turn aside all that is her and all that is hers, but alas, I am more imprisoned than I can currently let on. What must I do?

When I wake there resides her presence in my thoughts; when I dream, (oh what dreams!), I am only temporarily comforted by the calamities that beset her path -- the ones that free me from her grips. But the 90 minutes of reprieve only last 90 minutes, and when I wake, my life is still here.

This morning my soul cried out, and my comfort was only found in my surrender. Perhaps this is it: abjure my delusive ideas of control; it is a desert mirage. Be the best when others are attacking you with their worst.

I am the sum of my actions and thoughts, and that's all that I have.

I am attaching a song with this blog, because this artist, Tania Alexandra, is not only a dear friend and soul, but this song has spoken to me time after time.


http://taniaalexandra.bandcamp.com/track/little-have-not

Get His Graphic Novel and Get Him To Your School

Hey, my friends, listen up. This is really important. My friend, John Morello (www.iamdirt.com), has this amazing graphic novel called 'DIRT'. It is based off of his one man show after the same name. If you haven't seen his show, get him to your school or organization. He is brilliant, and if you know my standards, then you will know that I would never throw that word around lightly.

In any case, he is self-promoting his first book, via the graphic novel. He is doing it through Kickstarter. Here's his link: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/dirt/dirt-the-graphic-novel-vol1-tornado-water-by-john.

The way the program works is like this: John needs to raise $30,000 in 30 days. You pledge a comfortable amount, and you will only be charged this amount, if John reaches his goal. This is day number 22. I know that I am late to place this on the blog, but he is in the final stretch, and he needs your help. Every little bit will help, so please, help out.

If you are a school, John has special packages for you as well. So, let's all get to it!

Thank you!

Mykee 
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/dirt/dirt-the-graphic-novel-vol1-tornado-water-by-john

Robert Kincaid
(for Francesca)

I will never be afraid to love her,
to see her for who she is:
a gypsy, the tarot card reader,
who interprets the laughter behind my smile.

And it is to this Spring breeze, where I have
found Winter’s ice melting, useful water
for the growth of roses that have fed off of
carcasses in those frozen months.

Where shall I go so as not to be alone with loneliness?
Or not to be so blindly slain onto piercing rocks,
because of distracting sirens? I seek to be near
her who has proven to be the music that hums

when all else is silent. Yes, you, soul of my soul,
creature of winged growth, flap now, dear heart,
rise to meet me, for we are of other plains, and not even
ashes can keep us buried.

Michael S. Fowlin
4/10/2011

How my life grows

this is the story of how my life goes
of a rage as old as freshly fallen snow
the twists and turns pinched on a peculiar road
where i’ve tried to live as if i were really bold

we’ve got sadness and laughter and the jesus craze
long nights of drinking scotch with the wild wild days
i want to tell you all but i’m much too afraid
so hey

i was the boy who often felt alone
i prayed: dear god don’t leave me on my own
my feet are sinking and i’m standing on a tombstone
will i ever really feel much at home

i got three kids and two of them i really didn’t want
but now that they’re here i accept them like my thoughts
i’m standing still even though my urge is to walk
so hey

why is depression laced within my miles
some days i forget how i used to smile
like jumping on my bike when i was a child
i can remember laughing for such a long while

i was riding and screaming and giggling too
the sunrise and the sunset left me all brand new
so if i make it through this life i’ll owe it all to you
so hey

have you seen how an oyster makes a pearl
it spits its pain into a brand new world
i tell this truth to you and every boy and girl
now it’s my turn for my mind to be unfurled

i got miles and miles to climb and fall before i sleep
so tired of chasing rain in these oceans deep
so hear me now: our lives will never be cheap
and yes

this is the story of how my life grows

msf
6/1/11-2/9/12

It’s the People that You Meet
volume 1

I’m at a rest stop in Massachusetts, grabbing some food. There is a man sitting next to me. He looks like he’s seen his share of rough days. I just eat, minding my own business. I’m certainly not going to stare at this guy. And then, out of nowhere, he starts a conversation with me.

I can’t recall his name, so I’ll call him Bill. He drives an 18 wheeler for a living. He tells me all about how it works. The hours. The miles. The lack of sleep. The sleep-deprived hallucinations. The roads. The independent loneliness. He tells me all. He then starts to tell me about his family. They live in Texas, and he gets to see his wife and children every few months. He recognizes the difficulty of being a dad and husband when you are never around. 

He has many children. I forget the exact number. His children are from two marriages. He admits that his first marriage was a disaster. He was abusive to both his wife and children. His older children hate him, and he doesn’t blame them.

I find myself wanting to hear more stories from this stranger. We start talking about places to travel. He gives me some off-the-beaten-path places to visit, roads that are most certainly less traveled. I take mental notes.

We start talking about how short life is. I briefly tell him what I do for a living. He has no meaningful interest in it, and I am comforted by his honesty. Still, I do strike a chord with him when I mention that our lives are but brief breaths of air. He vigorously shakes his head. Then he leaves me speechless with his final story.

One night while driving the dark roads of America, he was in a conversation with one of his best friends, who also happened to be a truck driver. They were keeping each other awake, as both were worn out from the taxing day. Bill was driving in mid-America; his friend was driving in Virginia.

At one point, his friend shouted out, “Oh, s**t!” 

Bill responded, “What’s wrong?”
“I loss control of my truck, and flew off the edge of the cliff. Oh, man, I’m going down. Tell my wife and kids that I love them.”

My mouth was open. “What did you say? What did you do?”

“Nothin’,” he retorted. “I just said, ‘I’ll miss you, man’, and then there was a loud noise. And then there was silence.”

Conveniently, he had to head back to his truck, and I had to head back home. I had 250 miles to go, but I didn’t want to drive home; I just wanted to keep driving. I wanted to drive on the straightest path possible that wouldn’t take me over any cliffs.

Evil?

Body:

I read your latest blog.. and it made me think of an email I had forwarded to me about evil. I want to share it with you. I really enjoyed reading it, and I think you might to...

with love,
Andrea

A science professor begins his school year with a lecture to the students, "Let me explain the problem science has with religion."

The atheist professor of philosophy pauses before his class and then asks one of his new students to stand.

"You're a Christian, aren't you, son?"

"Yes sir," the student says.

"So you believe in God?"

"Absolutely. "

"Is God good?"

"Sure! God's good."

"Is God all-powerful? Can God do anything?"

"Yes."

"Are you good or evil?"

"The Bible says I'm evil."

The professor grins knowingly. "Aha! The Bible!" He considers for a moment. "Here's one for you. Let's say there's a sick person over here and you can cure him. You can do it. Would you help him? Would you try?"

"Yes sir, I would."

"So you're good...!"

"I wouldn't say that."

"But why not say that? You'd help a sick and maimed person if you could. Most of us would if we could. But God doesn't."

The student does not answer, so the professor continues. "He doesn't, does he? My brother was a Christian who died of cancer, even though he prayed to Jesus to heal him. How is this Jesus good? Hmmm? Can you answer that one?"

The student remains silent.

"No, you can't, can you?" the professor says. He takes a sip of water from a glass on his desk to give the student time to relax.

"Let's start again, young fella. Is God good?"

"Er...yes," the student says.

"Is Satan good?"

The student doesn't hesitate on this one. "No."

"Then where does Satan come from?"

The student falters. "From God"

"That's right. God made Satan, didn't he? Tell me, son. Is there evil in this world?"

"Yes, sir."

"Evil's everywhere, isn't it? And God did make everything, correct?"

"Yes."

"So who created evil?" The professor continued, "If God created everything, then God created evil, since evil exists, and according to the principle that our works define who we are, then God is evil."

Again, the student has no answer. "Is there sickness? Immorality? Hatred? Ugliness? All these terrible things, do they exist in this world?"

The student squirms on his feet. "Yes."

"So who created them?"

The student does not answer again, so the professor repeats his question. "Who created them?" There is still no answer. Suddenly the lecturer breaks away to pace in front of the classroom. The class is mesmerized. "Tell me," he continues onto another student. "Do you believe in Jesus Christ, son?"

The student's voice betrays him and cracks. "Yes, professor, I do."

The old man stops pacing. "Science says you have five senses you use to identify and observe the world around you. Have you ever seen Jesus?"

"No sir. I've never seen Him."

"Then tell us if you've ever heard your Jesus?"

"No, sir, I have not."

"Have you ever felt your Jesus, tasted your Jesus or smelt your Jesus? Have you ever had any sensory perception of Jesus Christ, or God for that matter?"

"No, sir, I'm afraid I haven't."

"Yet you still believe in him?"

"Yes."

"According to the rules of empirical, testable, demonstrable protocol, science says your God doesn't exist. What do you say to that, son?"

"Nothing," the student replies. "I only have my faith."

"Yes, faith," the professor repeats. "And that is the problem science has with God. There is no evidence, only faith."

The student stands quietly for a moment, before asking a question of His own. "Professor, is there such thing as heat?"

"Yes," the professor replies. "There's heat."

"And is there such a thing as cold?"

"Yes, son, there's cold too."

"No sir, there isn't."

The professor turns to face the student, obviously interested. The room suddenly becomes very quiet. The student begins to explain. "You can have lots of heat, even more heat, super-heat, mega-heat, unlimited heat, white heat, a little heat or no heat, but we don't have anything called 'cold'. We can hit up to 458 degrees below zero, which is no heat, but we can't go any further after that. There is no such thing as cold; otherwise we would be able to go colder than the lowest -458 degrees."

"Every body or object is susceptible to study when it has or transmits energy, and heat is what makes a body or matter have or transmit energy. Absolute zero (-458 F) is the total absence of heat. You see, sir, cold is only a word we use to describe the absence of heat. We cannot measure cold. Heat we can measure in thermal units because heat is energy. Cold is not the opposite of heat, sir, just the absence of it."

Silence across the room. A pen drops somewhere in the classroom, sounding like a hammer.

"What about darkness, professor. Is there such a thing as darkness?"

"Yes," the professor replies without hesitation. "What is night if it isn't darkness?"

"You're wrong again, sir. Darkness is not something; it is the absence of something. You can have low light, normal light, bright light, flashing light, but if you have no light constantly you have nothing and it's called darkness, isn't it? That's the meaning we use to define the word.
"In reality, darkness isn't. If it were, you would be able to make darkness darker, wouldn't you?"

The professor begins to smile at the student in front of him. This will be a good semester. "So what point are you making, young man?"

"Yes, professor. My point is, your philosophical premise is flawed to start with, and so your conclusion must also be flawed."

The professor's face cannot hide his surprise this time. "Flawed? Can you explain how?"

"You are working on the premise of duality," the student explains. "You argue that there is life and then there's death; a good God and a bad God. You are viewing the concept of God as something finite, something we can measure. Sir, science can't even explain a thought."
"It uses electricity and magnetism, but has never seen, much less fully understood either one. To view death as the opposite of life is to be ignorant of the fact that death cannot exist as a substantive thing. Death is not the opposite of life, just the absence of it."
"Now tell me, professor. Do you teach your students that they evolved from a monkey?"

"If you are referring to the natural evolutionary process, young man, yes, of course I do."

"Have you ever observed evolution with your own eyes, sir?"

The professor begins to shake his head, still smiling, as he realizes where the argument is going. A very good semester, indeed.

"Since no one has ever observed the process of evolution at work and cannot even prove that this process is an on-going endeavor, are you not teaching your opinion, sir? Are you now not a scientist, but a preacher?"

The class is in uproar. The student remains silent until the commotion has subsided.

"To continue the point you were making earlier to the other student, let me give you an example of what I mean."

The student looks around the room. "Is there anyone in the class who has ever seen the professor's brain?" The class breaks out into laughter.

"Is there anyone here who has ever heard the professor's brain, felt the professor's brain, touched or smelt the professor's brain? No one appears to have done so. So, according to the established rules of empirical, stable, demonstrable protocol, science says that you have no brain, with all due respect, sir."

"So if science says you have no brain, how can we trust your lectures, sir?"

Now the room is silent. The professor just stares at the student, his face unreadable.

Finally, after what seems an eternity, the old man answers. "I guess you'll have to take them on faith."

"Now, you accept that there is faith, and, in fact, faith exists with life," the student continues. "Now, sir, is there such a thing as evil?"

Now uncertain, the professor responds, "Of course, there is. We see it everyday. It is in the daily example of man's inhumanity to man. It is in the multitude of crime and violence everywhere in the world. These manifestations are nothing else but evil."

To this the student replied, "Evil does not exist sir, or at least it does not exist unto itself. Evil is simply the absence of God. It is just like darkness and cold, a word that man has created to describe the absence of God. God did not create evil. Evil is the result of what happens when man does not have God's love present in his heart. It's like the cold that comes when there is no heat or the darkness that comes when there is no light."

The professor sat down.

We have lost a great soul....This is one of my favorite songs by him. To me, it's a song that realizes this simple truth: From the moment of our births, we are all approaching our deaths. All of us.

 Death Continues in our Steps

(For Mr. Dylan)

Death is in all our paths; we laugh, we spin, we
try (vainly) to control what is not for us to control.

I am amused by life's relentlessness -- her lashing ways:
accosting me more than the crime warranted. What of

this? Oh, Death, thou art truly persistent. You are
unavoidable; only fools and harlots take no heed of you.

But me? I am always eavesdropping on the chatter of ill counsel,
those forked, cretinous tongues. What babble they make!

Oh, Mr. Dylan, it is true, as your gong once declared: Idiot Wind;
it is amazing that they can breathe at all.

How to move when you are stuck

Getting through the Woods

“I’d run that roller coaster, oh, but that just breaks my heart.
So much hard travel just to wind up where you start.”

Jeff Black, ‘Carnival Song’

My senior year at college was a wild ride, or perhaps better stated, a thorny spiral through depression. I had a lot of dysfunctional issues going on. For starters, I broke the codes of my school’s phone system and had started a phone scam where my friends and I could make long distance calls for free. Unfortunately, one of my friends got caught by the dean of the school. And although she wouldn’t have ratted on me, I felt obliged to speak up concerning my part in the whole scheme. My decision to confess led to me being placed on social probation, and thus losing my right to speak as the bachelorette at my graduation.

I was devastated by the consequences; it sent me into a tailspin. This situation was then exacerbated by another epiphany. Concurrently to the events of the phone scam, I was taking a sociological course called, ‘Lifespan’. In this course, issues within the human lifespan were explored. Lectures and discussions were the common format for the class. We delved into birth and death topics with passionate hunger to understand the world in which we lived.

“As I walk down through the valley, not breathing the angel mist
Nothing to protect me from this place that the Devil blessed
Walk with arms wide open, and I dream where the wild wind blows
Faith will give me shelter, and time my only warmth.”

Jeff Black, ‘The Valley’

One day, my professor began speaking about sexuality. She talked about coercive sexual interactions that could have damaging effects on the receiver. She started listing certain behaviors that were deemed inappropriate, and if anyone we knew experienced these behaviors, they were probably molested. At this point, I started laughing internally. I remember saying to myself, “My teacher is clueless on this topic. She has no idea what sexual molestation is, because if that is sexual molestation, then it happened to me.”

The horror sunk in. Was I molested? Was what Dan did to me considered a violation? But wasn’t he my friend, and weren’t we friends even after the first few times? After all, it was I who continued to seek out his friendship. Yeah, he was odd and strange and somewhat creepy, but he was my friend. Yes, I was 11 and he was almost 17, but still… The endless analysis would not conclude. I felt sick. Was I really molested? What does this say about who I am?

This self-discovery was not what I needed to be compiled upon my recent issues with my dean. I felt lost, desperate. I found myself in a gloomy space filled with haphazard thoughts of life and death. I was depleted and unprepared for this revelation, and I needed to tell my story to someone, not just anyone, but someone who knew me deeply.

“As we shed our skin, the skin that we shed is in the past; the past is dead.
Yet, it still remains a part of who we are and what we had to be.
And so I’m stepping off the cadence of this drone,
finding that is what makes us alone.
Crazy people speak to me, and I don’t think they’re crazy anymore.”

Tania Alexandra, ‘Little Have Not’

At first, I attempted to share my pain with my mother, but even before my words were out, she said something to the effect of, “Well, Son, just remember, whatever you did in the dark, it will be brought to the light.” These insensitive and unreflective words were the last idea of support that I had in mind.

I called my friend, Charlie. Charlie is a guy who is only 5 years older than me. He is a friend and mentor. I felt that I could trust him. He had been in my life since I was 14 years old. He was a big brother of sorts, punishing me with brutal fishhooks whenever my mouth ran quicker than my brain. I thought that I would give it a shot.

And jackpot! I was correct in my assumption. Not only did Charlie listen to me, he offered comforting words and support. I was contemplating suicide, and he pulled me back from that edge.

“And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
This ain’t no place to lose your mind
This ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart, and give it one more try.”

Ryan Bingham, ‘The Weary Kind’

I made it through that time period of my life without self-mutilation, without giving up, and once I got through the initial force of all that occurred, I started speaking out about all of it. I wrote poems about my interactions with Dan; I spoke to friends and lovers; I announced it at open mic poetry readings. I did not keep silent.

When I reflect back on my molestation I realize that until I had a name for it, I didn’t perceive it to be psychologically troubling. Secretive? Absolutely. I knew that others would judge it. However, once a name was attached to it, I found that I was not the better for it. In fact, I think there is something valuable in not pathologizing our experiences. Was I molested? Well, according to the definitions of molestation, I was molested. But what did that really mean? The experience that I shared with Dan only caused great emotional discomfort when a label was attached to it. So, the imperative question is – how does one handle unfavorable experiences, especially those that are considered personal violations?

“All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true...”

Brandi Carlile, ‘The Story’

For the sake of this essay, allow me to focus on molestation, and more specifically, molestation done by someone familiar to one’s life. In my situation, it was done by Dan, a good friend of mine who lived in my neighborhood. I was almost 11 when it first happened, and though he forced himself upon me, Dan was not my first sexual experience, and because of this, I believe that I was better equipped to place the experience into a psychological box that was not fraught with the added level of “loss of innocence”.

I think it’s safe to say that most people delve into their sexual lives after, (for what I am referring to as), their pejorative compasses are framed. I make a distinction between pejorative and moral compasses. Moral compasses are those guidelines, societal and internal, that are seen as absolutes (e.g., murder is wrong, adultery is poisonous); whereas, pejorative compasses are value judgments about varying behaviors that may be viewed positively in one instance, and negatively in other instances. Sexuality is perhaps the most lucid example of this guidepost. No parent would ever suggest that sex is bad or wrong, (unless they believe that all creatures are born through some miraculous event that does not utilize sex), but each parent would vary as to when sexual interactions are acceptable for their children. For some guardians, their decisions are based on roomier guidelines (e.g., maturity level of the child, a parent’s own onset of sexual experimentation); while for other parents, the rules of sexual engagement have stricter criteria (e.g., marriage is the only acceptable forum for sex; wait until one is in love).

The average age of early, sexual experiences within American youth is around 13. Likewise, pejorative compasses start to crystallize between ages 11-14, ages that fall prior to the majority of sexual interactions. My sexual interactions with others began around age 10, and perhaps, slightly before I turned 10. At this stage of my life, my moral compass was rapidly developing, but I did not have a functional pejorative compass; I was left to analyze my choices without measuring these decisions through the lens of societal scripts. On the one hand, this freedom allowed me to exist beyond the rigid framework of judgment and societal barriers. On the other hand, by me not having a more structured protocol for sexuality, some of my experiences tended to leave me far more emotionally vulnerable than I was suited to deal with psychologically, at the time. I am grateful for both sides of the coin. Please do not misinterpret me. I do believe there is a place for merging mores and sexuality, and even a (tiny) habitat for people’s judgments about appropriate sexual activity; however, in my life, because I developed a sense of my sexual self outside of the pressures of dogmatism and Puritanism, I was left to decide for myself how I viewed a particular experience. Labels of good/bad, for the most part, were not applied to an experience a priori; my opinion or judgment of an experience was only a footnote, not the governing force of an encounter. Personally, I have found that pejorative compasses leave people riddled with guilt, shame, self-doubt, depression, and a disintegrated personality. I cannot tell you the amount of children and adults, friends and acquaintances, who have shared with me personal stories of abuse or violations that had left them torn to the very core, falsely diminishing their sense of personal value. (I, too, have been prey to this deceit.) More often than not, when I listen to these individuals, I find that it is not the actual situation that had left them waned; rather, it was the judgment (from self or others) about these circumstances that facilitated the harboring of worthlessness. By labeling an experience or violation as ‘bad’, they receded into victimhood. But might I suggest, my friends, another perspective to consider?

The storms that beset our lives, the creatures (real and imagined) that scar and ravage us, it is to them that we must give thanks, because every one of those things, though they may have been dispatched to destroy us, are the very fabric that birth our new evolution. We need not acquiesce to weakness because we have suffered. By no means! As light was born from darkness, as the earth was formed through fire and noise, as the oyster churns the pearl from its pain, as infants take their first breath amidst choking on defecation and suffocation, so must we -- who have been tormented by the shadows of memory and condemnation -- learn to respire and shift and settle and shine. We are already all that we are. We are already perfect, spending our lives relearning and recalling that simple truth.

“I am the sum of all my actions, and that’s all I own.
And I live in these words.
I live in these thoughts.
I live in them, but they are not my identity.
I live in the throngs of my rights and my wrongs,
Representing a little have not.”
Tania Alexandra, ‘A Little Have Not’

So, what do we do with this oppressive wad? We know it hurts. Dan used to ‘punish’ me by forcing himself on me. We know the details are not pretty, but they are real, and they haunt us. And then there are you, my readers, who have experienced a greater burden than my story. Your story involves a sibling or a parent. I met one girl who had had three abortions…all because her father was the father. She was 13. The nitty-gritty is gory, putrid, and troubling. We don’t want to know, and yet, we cannot look away. But even when we know, the question will still remain – what now? What do we do now to get through it all, countering with an adaptation that will replace our ancient pejorative script?

I do not have all the answers, but I will share with you two insights picked up along the way. If these ingredients work for you, then use them; if they don’t, then try to make it up as you go along.

“But then night rolls around, and it all starts making sense
There’s no right way or wrong way, you just have to live
And so I do what I do, and at least I exist
What could mean more than this? What would mean more? Mean more?”

Bright Eyes, ‘Hit the Switch’

First of all, speak. Speak out. Speak up. Speak it. Figure out who are the safest people in your life. Think about it, but don’t be alarmed if those people are not the obvious choices, and don’t waste precious anger on people with whom you feel ‘should’ be there for you in your moment of need. Not everyone is worthy of your story. When you find that first, safe person tell them that you are scared and vulnerable, and that you need them to listen, not judge, pity, nor solve your story. You just need them to listen. And remember, if you share your story with someone who has known you for most of your life, but has never heard your story, they may be initially dazed. Roll with that. Don’t overanalyze what they are thinking. Stay present, and speak. Or cry. Or remain silent. But stay present, allowing yourself to be completely invested in your grief. Allow your safe person(s) to hold this pain with you.

You are not a diminished being, and the past cannot be changed. You can keep telling yourself, “if only things were different…”, but they are not different, and no wishing it to be different will ever change that simple truth. What can be altered, however, is how you frame the events that took place. You are powerful beyond measure, and no one can take that away. It was not your fault, so stop trying to figure out what you could have done differently. My question to you is, “what will you do now?”

The more you tell your story, the easier it will be to tell your story. As contrary as this may sound, I would advise against keeping your story secretive, once the healing has started; for only in the chasm of masks, can pain grow. After telling Charlie my story, I went on to tell some dear friends at college. After college, I told others. I recall one night sitting in my parents’ living room, speaking to my sister, Michele, sharing my story with her, while my baby sister, Joy, sat there quietly, listening to our conversation, watching Michele and I share stories of pain, tearfully.

In graduate school, I began sharing poems about my experience with Dan at open mic readings. Yes, I shared explicit poems in front of groups of strangers. It was wild and reckless and liberating, but please understand me, you do not have to be as brazen as I was, it’s not necessary to approach such an extreme in order to mitigate your distress. Nonetheless, I believe it is important to speak it out with more than just one person. I find that people who share their story with a sole confidant, whether that person is a friend, family member, priest, or counselor, take longer to heal than those who continuously invest their narration into multiple mediums. The boogieman only grows stronger when we avert our eyes from his gaze.

A second approach to your healing will be the reframing of the events itself. The more you accept some script of victimization, the greater the discontent, the longer you will grope in darkness to find your balance. See the events for what they are – growth experiences. The abuse that happened to you, though leaving you scarred, is not a companion to defeat; it is the insignia on your armor, the very sinew in your newly formed muscles. You are stronger, not weaker, once you stand up when you’ve been knocked down.

There are plenty of negative angles to consider when one has been molested. That’s the easy part. The real ‘gift’ of any negative experience is just that – recognizing the gift of the negative experience. Who better can speak about living, than those who have been close to death? Who is more equipped to identify the sadness that lies dormant behind the eyes, than one who has sheltered sadness behind his/her eyes?

I have learned to be thankful for my engagement with Dan. This does not mean that I would want the molestation to happen again, but it does mean that I no longer view it as a curse. Do we, as human sojourners, not value experience over any other form of training? Are we more trusting of the person who has studied from a book about heart disease over the person who has seen what a heart looks like when it is infected? When building a home, in whom do you put your trust to get the job done? Is it the person who has read on the internet how to build a home? Or is your confidence allied with the person who has built multiple homes? Without a doubt, pain is a tough teacher whose lessons are steep and treacherous, but she gives us the raw material that when heated, refined, and polished renders a far greater result than what was there before. Take courage, my friends, pain and happiness travel the same road; they are not enemies, they have a symbiotic relationship. Whatever pain you feel now will be the very matrix that births your happiness. Look not to cease your woe; rather, walk alongside the sadness which takes you through that dismal and cumbersome woods. And though you grope through the darkness that surrounds every corner of your comprehension, hold tight, for you will shortly see more clearly: the dusk is always before the dawn.

“And I know we can make it. We can make it if we try.
We can rise above this mess, and fly in a clear blue sky
And I know when the light falls on me,
there ain’t nothing I can’t overthrow,
there ain’t nothing I can’t overcome or come to know.
So, lay your heavy load down on me.
Strip everything I have away
I am not your prisoner; I am not afraid.”Jeff Black, ‘The Valley’

I want to conclude by saying this -- I am thankful for my early onset of sexuality; I am thankful for Dan; I am thankful for all of my decisions, great and small, wise and foolish. And as crazy as my past was and my current can be, all of it has shaped me to be less judgmental, more understanding, about the wide range of experiences and revelations that others have in their lives. What gives anyone permission to judge another about the source that makes us beautiful? Our paths have brought us here. We are not damaged goods; we are angel dust and energy. I know your story, whoever you are. I know the tune of that sad song that plays over and over. I have nested in the very corner which you are now curling yourself. You think you are alone, but you are not. Peek out that window. Go ahead, try it. Do you see that light on in the house across the street? That’s my light. Oh, it’s not much, but it’s on, and if you take a few steps towards that house, I will meet you halfway.

“The mission's over now, and my breath is running out.
Can't let go of it, can't let go of it.
I didn't mean what I said, I didn't mean what I said.
I love you more than this. I love you more than this.
Then lights they fill the air, or were they always there?
I finally see it. I finally see it.
And I heard the Captain say, I heard the Captain say,
‘You're always close to it, so very close to it.’
There's so much energy in us.”
Cloud Cult, ‘There’s so much energy in us’