CHAPTER 5

To Rat or Not to Rat

   Even now, when I hear of kids who are abused, neglected and/or abandoned, physically or primarily emotionally, I flash back to my nights as a young kid hiding out and semi-sleeping in the bleak, damp and grimy incinerator room of our apartment building in New York City. I had to.

   Even with the peril it represented, exiling myself felt safer than being alone in the apartment with my mother when I sensed she was preparing to pull out her erratic flash cards. She was not a happy player in the Life Game.

   My sensations were inexpressible. Sensations of helplessness, of ultimate mortal aloneness, of belief that I had been rejected by the one person on the planet I had assumed was the main loving squeeze of my kidhood.

   I often felt as if I'd been born into a festive global party as an unwelcome guest.

   Even if I had put my feelings into words then, there was no one to tell. I felt nobody would care. And, horror of horrors!, what if I told someone how my mother acted toward me and they said: “It's what you deserve, kid, for being bad! Face it, you're not worth being loved!”

   It was horrible enough suspecting I might not deserve to be loved upon this planet, but to ask for my greatest fear to be vocalized would have been succumbing to the Kidhood Krazies.

   Once again, fear was canceling love.

   Even now, as I close my eyes to journey back into the kid I once was, I still don't know who I could have safely approached. Who I could have trusted.

   My fears of telling, of reporting on her, were supported by three key considerations:

1. My mother was publicly smooth, as are so many abusers. So, I feared telling and being disbelieved. Then, having life made worse upon my return home.
2. Telling, to rat on another, is ruled as Murder 1 in kidhood society, as it is in so many families. Ergo! Just the thought of telling on my mom made me feel like the ultimate Rat of Rats.
3. I felt I was selfish to get help; for by helping me I might have risked hurting her. Getting her in trouble. And who would have taken care of her if I left?

   These three ingredients created a major Catch-22, as they still do for any kid contemplating asking for outside help.

   The possibility of hurting your very own parent or guardian, no matter how detestably they may treat you, creates an overwhelming terror within a kid's small world.

   No matter how gravely you may be hurting, no matter how intense and destructive the abuse may be that you're enduring, when you start suspecting you are the cause, that possibly you asked for it (as told), then it becomes natural to misplace the blame on YOU.

   When you don't realize you're The Victim, you begin to believe you're The Criminal. A heavy load for a kid to carry.

   When I speak of my background, my thoughts are limited to my mother as she was the only known branch on my family tree.

   My dad died when I was a baby and for whatever reason, my contact with the few relatives I heard existed was blocked. My isolation from the family spree never bothered me as I thought: If my mother is this much of a hassle to raise then I'm glad there's no more berries dropping off the tree that need attention.

   From the first moment I began consciously observing my mother, I felt she was scared and overwhelmed by the role of Mother. That she'd have gladly resigned had there been a socially accepted exit wherein she would've looked good. Not only to the world-at-large … but to herself.

   At nights, I'd hear her crying, demanding God and the apartment walls to tell her why her husband had the nerve to die and leave her in this mess — with “that kid!”

   Neither God nor the walls seemed to reply.

   Maybe they did and she just didn't like the answers.

   In the beginning, I privately joined in her 20-question sessions, hoping to hear some answers; some advice that might've helped me help her to help us as to: Why I was born..

   I now see how very under-qualified I was to release her from the Cell of Continuing Sorrow she imprisoned herself within. Coming from a kidscope of just trying to make her Be Happy! was like applying a band-aid to a hurt far bigger than me.

   I doubt if she ever dealt with her grief. I doubt she knew how. Nor that she had to COME OUT in order to GO ON.

   LETTING IT ALL OUT was not then publicly promoted.

   The media therapy programs, so popular today, were unheard of then. To even imagine Dr. Phil’s open counsel as party chit-chat would have been unspeakably ludicrous. His License to Unlace would surely have been piously seized by some Moral Majority.

   When I was a kid, I often thought my mother was selfish. Then I'd get mad at myself for being selfish in wanting her to notice or love me when she was drowning in her own girl pool.

   Then I woke up! And ceased all judgment on both of us.

   This doesn't mean I accepted or justified her violence, terrifying assaults, erratic moroseness, ruthlessness and routine indifference . Her attitude was her choice.

   Rather, I knew I had to view the whole picture — not just my section, the side that consistently took on the guilt that was not mine. That assumed responsibility for what she initiated.

   Sure, if I was on a Justification Jury, I might say:

   “Well, maybe she was abused as a kid, neither loved nor treated kindly. Ergo! She could not help herself. She had no choice but to abuse, confuse, misuse and duplicate.”

   Well... Baloney.

   Because, if she was abused and subsequently abused me, would it therefore be OK for me to abuse others because I could not help it? Because it's an unavoidable and natural progression like an unavoidable collision course … a genetic thing? If I followed that myth, could the Chain Theory automatically classify my abuse of kids as Forgivable?

   Hell & Heavens, no!

   Abused kids are trapped by social constriction to live in the deplorable atmosphere that abusing adults create . . . freeing the kids to emotionally Break the Chain needs to be our primary concern. Then working with the abusing parents — if they allow.

   True, in the past there were pathetically scant refuges for abused kids to turn to — if society even recognized their plight. And, now, the ratio of acknowledged abused kids to available safe houses is tragically deficient.

   With the media explosion of Child Abuse broadcasting the devastating number of kids needing our help, we still do not have enough sanctuaries to protect them.

   And of those that are available, pathetically few offer kids the spiritual counsel needed to help them wake out of their nightmares; to share their experiences with other abused kids; to learn the value of openness; to discover they need not feel so isolated; to help them comprehend the need to constructively vent the pent up anger so prevalent within abuse victims; to show them the futility and self-destructiveness in revenge. And most of all, to let them know they are worth being cared about and loved. And WHY it needs to start with them loving themselves.

   Even with the available media advice and warnings, many adults still don't realize the need to set themselves free so as to create their own attitudes, atmospheres and settings.

   So, imagine how difficult it is for the kids to fathom the concept of freeing themselves from their abusers' problems unless outside help and encouragement is given them.

   I launch this dialogue as an attempt to understand the Good, the Sad and the Ugly. Then press delete. So, if this catharses never goes anywhere other than for my-whys-only, if its soul purpose is to clarify my Life Puzzle for me so I can live more vividly, contribute more to the lives I touch; if it's simply intended by fate to further open my eyes to the garbage I'm still toting from yesteryears, so be it.

   However, if you are reading this as a published work, than it's living proof that:

1. Abuse and its after-shocks are a widespread vital issue for us all to address, individually and collectively. An issue in need of social and private recognition and solutions. If not, there would be no market.
2. There's a purpose for all we experience if we choose to identify it. Then share our experience and, hopefully, our cures without attachment to how we may appear to others: Victim or Victor. Sage or Sap.

   My path has further shown me that sharing must be done without attachment to how others — be they family, friends or the ominous they — receive it. Without attachment to whether or not our abusers ever apologize or continue in denial. Whether they ostracize us for daring to expose the family litter boxes, or sigh with relief that one of us finally had the guts to come forward with the truth, thus relieving them from their burden of guarding the family closet.

   When sharing is done without attachment strings, yet with a desperate desire to alter our abusers' attitudes, with the ulterior hope that by hearing how they hurt us, that maybe now they'll give us the love we seek, we are still giving them — other mortals, other kids of God, classmates of ours in this Cosmic College — the power to abuse us. Primarily by allowing them to believe they still have the only vote as to whether we are Naughty or Nice.

   Sharing our feelings simply with the intent of exposing them to the light of reality for our sanity's sake and extracting the growth points, is a giant step toward dumping the garbage from our past. That which continues to retard our current life.

   It's a pivotal method to ease on down the load.

   And the sharing need not be done in public. Simply sharing with our mirror is remarkably cleansing. So too, we must never forget:

   For when we keep our inner scars of abuse covered with denial or guilt of possibly having deserved what we endured, with fear of being further hurt by daring to ruffle our abusers' tethers on our lives, we allow those scars to further contaminate our spirit. As well, we prolong the day of freeing ourselves from our abusers' clutches, be they still in our lives or in our memory banks.

   When we examine the To Rat Or Not To Rat Restrainer and the guilt it can trigger, it helps to ask ourselves:

1. Who are we protecting with our silence?
2. What denial are we feeding?
3. Whose denial are we feeding?
4. Who is being most hurt by our denial?

   If the answers to the first three questions are Our Abusers then the answer to the fourth question may be Ourselves. At that point, we may then be able to see we are Self-Abusers.

   So, the next questions become: Do we allow our fears to keep us locked in the Prison of Intimidation? Or, do we let the Truth set us free?

   Martyrdom can become addictive. As can remaining in the Blame Pit for another's abuse. Discomfort can seem comfortable when we have not freed our hearts of the ghostly wardens from our past.

   When we think we deserve to hurt, that we no longer care about being loved, that our happiness does not matter, that love is not in our cards, or that our peace of mind is trivial compared to protecting our abusers, then it's a sure sign our self-esteem is still being battered. That our emotions are in critical need of the TLC only we can deliver.

   Sure, when you've grown up believing your needs don't count, it's rough to suddenly consider them. It ain't easy to abruptly believe you matter. Nor to reclassify yourself as #1 on your priority Giving List.

   But, from personal experience, I can honestly say: It's worth it. Not only does the quality of life improve but so does the quality of all current relationships.

   When I explore my continuing feelings toward the sexual molestation I experienced by being a guest in my mother's strife style, I now realize I have the right to say what pleases me; what I want in a romantic/sexual involvement. Heck! Even what I want to give and receive in simple everyday encounters.

   When I faced my secret fear of duplicating my mother's attitude, I discovered my overly lenient posture toward the kids who have entered my life was not helping their growth, nor soothing my ulcer symptoms.

   By understanding I am my own individual, I know I have conscious choice. I know I am not my mother's clone. Ergo! I no longer fear losing a kid's love by setting fair limits. And thus, kids have the choice of gaining a better comprehension of what's expected of them and (bonus!) we have a chance for a more honest relationship — IF they choose.

   This is not to say all relationships shall be perfect — whatever perfect is. Nor that one's child shall suddenly become our perception of a flawless kid-angel, nor a direct import from the Utopian Mommy Depository. But at least we can know each other for who we really are; to live each day without the trash from other's obsolete files; and, to grow without the handicap of being pose-colored asses.

   By ridding myself of the need to play martyr to my past, I'm now better able to not let myself be used by family, friends, business associates or anyone.

   I liberated myself to say when Enough is Enough. And, to give according to my ability without overdoing it, as I did in the past when my sincere contributions to others turned into such grandiose sacrificing that I often ended up feeling used due to my own choice of action.

   My newly formed clarity definitely improved the value of my friendships by learning to say NO! when I'm over-taxed. As has learning to equally consider my needs in situations.

   So, when I say it's worth examining the past without pose- colored glasses, I know. My current life is a living example for that recommendation. Especially, when we're honest as to what we uncover.

   When we explore without the desire to make anyone right or wrong; when we do not distort the past with what we wish it held; when we allow ourselves the honesty to see how our past may be continuing to negatively affect our present life; when we give ourselves the flexible freedom to clean up our act by gutting the garbage; and, when we realize we may still be laying in the crumpled bed made by others, it sure helps our spirit's freedom to see if we are the cover for others, or the comforter for our souls. As I remind myself:

Copyright © 2006 by Krystiahn - All Rights Reserved