CHECKOUT TIME
After five months a message from John’s wife informing him of her return arrived, meaning I was once again homeless. With help, I finally managed to get an interactive website up and running on which I uploaded all I had discovered and researched, as well as the Steps, Traditions, and Preamble we’d written. Then I forwarded the passwords and security codes to the original women who had asked me to get Survivors Anonymous started. My first sponsor offered a couch for a few days, and Stan had a week available before his daughters moved in to start university close to him. I accepted Stan’s offer, and spent a day visiting my parents – well, where my sister and I spread their ashes – to apologize and say goodbye which felt kind of comical as I might well be seeing them in a few days. After a quick YouTube search on how to make a noose I bought a length of rope, only to have to re-visit the hardware store for a longer piece. I checked myself into Monkey Valley Resort, on the side of Chapmans Peak Drive overlooking the eight-kilometre stretch of Noordhoek beach. Hard to find a better view, but I’d chosen the resort for privacy and the accommodation’s featured thatched roofs with exposed beams.
I didn’t want to do this, and I kept telling myself this wasn’t right. More importantly, I didn’t know how to evaluate how my action would affect my children but I knew it couldn’t be good. I tried to negotiate with God. Believing I was owed, I asked for a catastrophic heart attack or any other way out. I’d had enough, and more than anything I simply wanted an end to my repetitive thoughts. To sleep eternally and never awake again sounded like bliss. But not at my hand. Suicide is often referred to as a form of insanity. Perhaps it’s true. I needed to put some more thought into where I was, though I’d exhausted my ability to think. I reverted to paper to write a final summation as a last-ditch attempt at clarity, or more likely as a delay tactic. I started with, ‘I don’t understand and I don’t know why it’s come to this.’ I categorized what I should cover, what I was grateful for, where I’d failed, what regrets I had, if I was holding on to resentments, and what unanswered questions remained.
I understood from an early age that I wasn’t the smartest cookie in the jar, and I’d simply have to work harder if I wasn’t going to be a problem for my family. I became the kid who worked through the night to prepare for exams, and it paid off. For most of my working life, I’d experienced an upper-middle-class lifestyle that I was more than satisfied with. I also believed that I’d been fortunate to have had more opportunities than most. Three women had been willing to marry me, and I’d been privileged to father four children. I’d been granted custody when it was virtually impossible. I’d been accepted and liked wherever I’d socialized, and I’d made a few good friends. I’d travelled the world until I’d had enough. I had bought, designed, built, or renovated eight homes, and I’d enjoyed a couple of interesting toys. For many, my ordinary life may not seem like much and perhaps they’d be right. However, for me, who was not meant to survive a single week and who’d made it to sixty, it was so much more than I could have planned.
Staring me in the face was the fact that with all the opportunities I’d had, I’d failed to take care of myself and I’d knowingly not provided for my retirement. I’d had three wives, but I’d failed to keep any one of them happy or to make a marriage last. I had a reasonably successful small business that in my opinion had been incredibly good to me and my kids. But despite this, I’d failed to adjust to the changing environment or attract someone else who could. I believed I was a good parent, that I was always available, loving, supportive, and always prioritized my children’s needs. Hoping they’d find their passion, I did all I could think of to expand their imaginations and encourage and back their interests. Since they were in their twenties and thirties and are supposed to take risks, I was no longer able to be their safety net – let alone take care of myself. And considering the properties I had owned, and the way my generation messed up the market, I should have been able to give my children a better financial start. However, I still had the life insurance policy I took out shortly after Jeremy was born, which I hoped would provide my children with enough to get a foot in the door. Other than that, I could only hope they would someday forgive me, remember how much they meant to me, and just how much I loved them.
REGRETS
Does anyone get through life without regrets? I love the life I’ve had, and I’ve certainly had my chances. But damn, it’s been pretty lonely, and I do regret not being able to find a long-term partner – someone with shared values and with whom I could be honest and open about my past. I met, married, and divorced my first wife all before my twenty-third birthday, and I’ve often wondered if she had been the one. In recovery, I’ve tried to find her to make amends, but even with the advent of social media there was simply no trace of her, her family, or any of her siblings.
I regret not being there for Stan when he was going through a difficult financial time. I was having dinner with my friend Vernon who’d been on my case about people-pleasing when Stan decided to join us. Stan, who’d always thought to include me, had introduced me to dirt bikes in the 80s, and I was terrible at the sport. Then he showed me water-skiing, and more recently the Harley Davidson club. He had introduced me to almost all the activities I’d come to love and enjoy. I doubt the incident even registered with Stan, but when it came to the bill, I didn’t pick his up.
Vernon may be right, and I have often questioned my motives and why I don’t seem to appreciate what I have. I get that there’s an unhealthy element to people-pleasing if it’s born out of one’s own need for attention. But I’ll lend someone my car because they happen to mention that it’s their dream car. Or I’ll even let a friend use my beloved Fat Boy for a weekend rally because his bike was being customized and he hadn’t gotten it back. I find it easy to spot someone who is struggling and invite them for coffee in case they’d like to chat. Like most, I enjoy being comfortable and having nice things, but I’m just not too attached – and if I can make someone happy or help someone out, then why the hell not.
There are a couple of other incidents that still bother me, but I suspect it’s more about me feeling guilty whenever I stand up for myself. There’s a lot that I’ll let slide simply because it’s just not worth the effort. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no pushover in business or with anything involving my children. With most confrontations I think I’m fairly rational and willing to listen, so I don’t believe that I’ve intentionally done anyone in. Yet somehow, I still feel guilty and I’m not sure if that’s a regret.
I never got to be honest with a potential partner about my past and how it continued to affect me. I’m not going to beat myself up over it and I’m not sure I’d term my inability to explain myself as a regret. I was first told to forget about it and not think about it, which kind of worked. Except, I never dealt with the shame so it never left me, and it resurfaced in my forties and took me out at the knees. Still, I do regret not using my time with Kathy to let go of that unwarranted shame. After Aida, I decided to focus on raising my children, however once every year or two I’d meet someone and decide to cautiously give it a go. With most, I’d quite quickly discover our shared childhood traumas seldom equated to compatibility. Or I’d manage to avoid having sex for two dates but by the third, it would be impossible to avoid. It was the last thing that I wanted, but I didn’t know how to say no to someone I’d essentially just met without feeling less than a man. Perhaps if I’d paid more attention to the concept of wound buddy attraction and I’d been willing to work on my shame with Kathy, I wouldn’t have hurt others. Once we’d had sex, I’d back away without explaining and basically disappear.
I didn’t know to tell Kathy, so how was I ever going to tell someone I’d just met that I struggled with sex? I had hoped to meet someone who I could trust with what went on in my head. Someone who’d know about the images that flashed through my brain, or about how I couldn’t divorce what I’d seen in the face of my abuser from my mother’s story and how I’d vowed I’d never be like that. I would have liked to have told someone that the vast majority of male survivors are more likely to be over-protective and wouldn’t dream about hurting a kid. However, there is still roughly thirty per cent of adult male survivors who start abusing children themselves. It’s that horrific statistic, and the very necessary media attention it brings, that makes it incredibly hard for the rest of us to reveal our status as male survivors without thinking others will immediately run away.
I was attempting a Fourth Step inventory by writing down my regrets when I realised that I was either in denial – or I really didn’t have any regrets. I couldn’t work it out, so I simply continued by adding should have regretted to what I wrote down. I should have been pissed off with myself for losing the business and for not taking better care of myself. If I’d done that, I probably wouldn’t have considered letting Samuel go. So, if I’m talking about regrets, surely that should be my only real regret. And I should be angry with Aida for devouring him and using his desperate need for her affection to weaponize him against me. At times I’d call out ‘Just call me and tell me how I fucked up, how I let you down, that I didn’t do enough, you think I’m an asshole or even that you hate me. Anything would be better than not hearing or knowing how you are.’
I knew who Aida was and what she could do – she had blocked me from seeing Ellen. But Samuel was so much older and even though I knew the kind of pressure he’d be under, I never for a moment thought that I’d never hear from him again. I had to ask, What did I miss? I’d invested in weekly professional advice on how to best protect him. Yet somehow, I’d still gotten it wrong. I had so many questions: Was this pressure from his mother? Or had living with me been so terrible that he genuinely didn’t want to see me again? Or was Kathy right, that spending time with his mother could free him from a harmful pattern of attraction and I’d simply have to be patient for a lot longer than I thought? Then there’s what I didn’t want to consider. I’d been so focussed on protecting Samuel from his mother’s undeniable neglect, what if I’d completely missed that Samuel had been genetically pre-programmed to be more like his mother? Was I facing the nature-versus-nurture debate, where no amount of nurturing from my side was ever going to change who he was always meant to be? I believe in the principle of service, or self-transcendence, and I wanted to teach my children that we’re meant to care about something outside of ourselves. I see service as the pathway to happiness, but just look at where that’s landed me.
The idea of Samuel being self-centred was almost unbearable to me. I preferred to keep remembering the child who cared about stray bees and who’d thought about his sister while we were on holiday and drew their names in the sand. I also couldn’t deny that he’d been intentionally punishing me. At least that’s how it felt. I may be an egotistical asshole that needs to be right, but I’m likely to continue searching for a way to let Samuel know you cannot go through this life hurting others without ultimately hurting yourself. Above all, I’d like Samuel to know that whichever path he may choose or how much he may hurt me, I’m never going to stop loving him unconditionally – even though I may strongly disagree.
Next, I wrote out a couple of pages about who and what had pissed me off and what I should be resentful about. Once again, I realised I was jotting down stuff that I was no longer angry about. I was a bit disappointed in Valeria at times, but I somehow always understood why she needed to blame me. As for Aida, yes I had been fumingly mad with her, but eventually I understood she was acting out of fear and that she truly wasn’t well. It might sound a bit patronising, but I’ll keep praying for her health and happiness and hope she does well. Ultimately, the two of them provided me with my children who turned out to be the greatest joy of my life. So, just how was I supposed to remain angry or disappointed with either of them?
CONVERSATION WITH GOD
When we first met, I was just a young kid that had recently been traumatized. Then, even the concept of the trinity didn’t seem too complicated. After my military service, I moved away from you primarily because I wanted to experience life and have some fun. I also couldn’t wrap my head around the concept of an all-powerful loving God who just happened to have created an eternal hell for anyone who disagreed. However, there were a couple of ideas I hung onto which have served me well. I kept believing in a loving power that had my best interests at heart. To paraphrase, this world is way too scary, so I needed to know that you had my back. I followed a path of service that seemed to connect all faiths – admittedly because I discovered that service, kindness, and honesty almost always worked for me. That said, it didn’t work in my marriages. Supporting my wives’ ambitions with everything I had just never seemed to be enough.
Getting legal custody of my children meant giving up everything I owned. Still, as far as I’m concerned it simply wouldn’t have happened without you, God. Then in the case involving Samuel where securing custody would have been more than enough for me, I got back ten times the amount I had to give up – which bolstered my faith in you. For more than thirty years, I had the greatest time of my life raising my children and I can’t thank you enough for that. There was nothing I could do about the issues they had with their mothers, so ultimately, I had no alternative but to give them back.
Right now, I’d like to talk to you about the esoteric experiences I’ve had. The first was when Jeremy was still a toddler and we were sitting on the beach watching an unusual storm as it whipped across, lashing the waters of Table Bay. Then twelve years later, there were our hundred and twenty days together which started on the evening of Ellen’s sixteenth birthday. Guided by my younger brother and sister who hadn’t survived six months, you showed me what I wish I hadn’t seen and you asked me to write it all down. Then six years later, you sent a messenger to tell me I was exactly where you wanted me to be. Then you asked me to set aside my writing and to get out there to look for a leader who could support other survivors like me. I almost overlooked the first occasion, which frankly I didn’t understand. However, the second and third were so indescribably powerful that they profoundly changed my life.
So much so, that despite my fears I kept trying no matter how much I lost and how painful it became. To get legal custody of Samuel, I had to lose so much – but I’d been pretty close to zero before and it had worked out incredibly well. I trusted you had a plan that I was simply not privy to. I’m not sure I can claim to have walked in faith, but I guess at times I did: when the business kept failing no matter what I tried, or even when Samuel moved to his mother and I was cut out. While I questioned my sanity, a part of me accepted that anything which interfered with what you’d asked me to do would simply be removed. Now I need to ask whether our connection was nothing more than a grandiose religious delusion, another form of addiction, or a self-centred need for attention? I know that I seemed powerless to stop and the consequences seem to be pretty much the same.
On the other hand, several intellectuals who are a lot smarter than me speak about experiences that are so similar to mine. Academics have researched the effects of hallucinogens like magic mushrooms or DMT. Magic mushrooms contain the naturally occurring psychoactive and hallucinogenic compound psilocybin. Studies often report profound mystical experiences that users regard as the most significant experience of their life. Many report having entered a different experiential dimension where they died an ego death and transcended their normal mode of perception. Their personalities were permanently or drastically altered, and they often lost their fear of death and were less likely to suffer from death anxiety. Well, that research pretty accurately describes what happened to me, except without the use of drugs. Some of these academics go a step further, by even describing their work as observable and verifiable psychedelic evidence of God.
Then there are other bright individuals from the so-called intellectual dark web – who are supposedly agnostic – who speak of conscious living through the practice of meditation and refer to Judeo-Christian principles of service as potentially the real meaning of life. Other scientists from the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN), describe the yet to be defined but measurable forces which are greater than gravity as the scaffolding holding the entire Universe together while using the world’s largest and most complex scientific instruments to probe the fundamental structure of particles that make up everything around us. Perhaps I was just cherry-picking what I wanted or needed to hear, then subconsciously applying confirmation bias to block out the rest. However, most scientists seem to agree that despite our incredible development, we’ve barely scratched the surface of what’s yet to be discovered, let alone understood. So I simply can’t comprehend how anyone can claim to know with absolute certainty whether there’s a god or not. As for me, I’m good with simply asking ‘Surely somewhere in the ninety-five per cent we’ve yet to discover there’s space for a loving God who might just be trying to reach us and who has our best interests at heart?’
I FAILED
I hit zero, so I cannot deny that I failed. I saw or called my parents almost every week of my life and in their retirement, I made sure they owned their own home. In the final few months of their individual lives I made myself available to them every day, ensuring they wouldn’t be alone when they passed. I held my mother’s story for as long as I can remember. Then in the ultimate act of treachery, I wrote her story down. Writing about my parents, my children, and even my ex-wives was an incredibly painful journey filled with self-doubt and feelings of betrayal which made me wonder if I deserved to hit zero. But I did finish my story, which less than four per cent of those who write are ever able to claim. That said, it still required a few good rewrites and a patient editor if it was meant to be read. Still, I’m not sure if it will help me, or anyone else.
From all the research I’ve read, I knew that sexual abuse of children happens more frequently than society is willing or able to admit and it wasn’t just the odd weirdo. Indeed, even though I was close to bankruptcy, I felt compelled to take one more step. I don’t want to make this a gender issue, because it undeniably happens to more girls than boys and I’m encouraged by women who have found the courage to start a movement where they can safely share what happened to them. But young boys can also be victims, and we’re more likely to put a bullet in our heads or a needle in our arms before we put a hand up to say ‘Me too!’ I’m grateful I found a free solution that worked for me on a day-to-day basis, and for all the various Twelve Step meetings where I was privileged to share. I’d additionally like to thank those who trusted me with their story and who shared how they’d been quietly adapting their primary program to recover from abuse.
I seemed to be going in circles. I’m happy with the life I’ve lived and I knew there was a strong possibility of hitting zero, but at the same time I had never expected it. I was always worried about being homeless, but I don’t believe I’ve ever been afraid of death. Perhaps I’m arrogant or just a slow learner, but in this moment with the clarity of hindsight and knowing full well how this would all end, I’m confident I’d make the same decisions all over again. I’d asked God for an alternative because I just couldn’t see how another suicide statistic would possibly help. Whether it was the right thing to do or not, it all felt kind of special – walking to this ledge in faith. I’d paid for a week in advance, and I’d tested the rope on the first day. Enough said – it was time to get on with the task at hand. Exhausted, I looked forward to the nothingness of endless sleep.
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