Pretense and court bows
For weeks I have been making real progress cracking open that week in 1974. Then my therapist asked a potent question; while I was gone did I think of my family? It was hard to admit, but no I didn’t. He asked harder questions. All just revealing how much I sensed myself an outsider in the family.
Looking at my relationship with them, I see how much I make sure to say exactly the right thing. My responses have always been calculated. My first consideration is deflection, steer conversation away from any of my guarded secrets. My second concern is what would the son, brother, twin say. My third, was it close enough to a truth I would remember what I crap I uttered. I’ve been pretending for so long the process is rapid, effortless and worse, automatic.
I didn’t have to ponder when it started, I knew. Once again I stand facing the ramifications of the assault in kindergarten. I see that little boy pretending to breath, pretending it didn’t happen, pretending no one saw it. I was helpless, hopeless branded searing feelings without words.
I believed the public humiliation was an open secret at home. I had to pretend to keep my shame inside. How could I be real if so much of me was forged in this unspeakable event? How could I connect when I had so much to hide ?
Those 2 minutes and its aftermath are what so much of my psyche is anchored to. Time and again all strings lead back to the playground. Boomerang, the answers call me back.