Seismic Twitch

I got tired of reading academic articles of sociological research after the first article. I really tried to read the next one but I got bogged down somewhere in the first page. It was then that I realized that I, not only needed a break, but that except for when Anne was here yesterday, I’ve done nearly nothing except read and study since mid last week. So I decided today needed a break.

Actually, I think that happened a bit earlier. I was up before everyone left the house to deliver the Sun. I sat up and did my computer readings and then tried to get into the article. I started to fall asleep so I went and laid down. Sometime while I was sleeping Bran came and joined me. I woke up again at 3 pm. I didn’t find out until then that the reason he laid down was that he had a headache and it was greatly releived or gone when we woke at 3. Then he made some porridge.

After I ate, I managed to finish the article that I had started reading last night and again in the morning. Then I began on the next one. After I gave up on that I looked up and saw my “feel good” journal. All I’ve been doing for the last couple of years is just shoving stuff into it, not pasting/taping them down. Now seeing how much stuff there is to go into it, I think I’m going to leave it until after I’m out of school and then build a scrap book (using all those neato-keen tools and papers) so that it’s all properly organized and such. Right now it’s a book that Bran got me long ago. It’s made ofNiva paper from Nepal. The paper has a wonderful feel to it. However, being a standard binding, it hasn’t the ability to expand to the swell of items I’ve stuck in it over the years.

Starting at the beginning of the book are entries I did in 1999, about disclosing to Dad in 1998, about the fairy tale I wrote (maybe I’ll post it here someday), about quitting smoking on March 26, 1999, self-love and self-care affirmations, notations about volunteering for presentations, volunteer orientations and going out and doing a workshop in Milden for the staff at Bridgepoint Centre for Eating Disorders.

One of the items taped/pasted in is a letter I wrote to Andrew Vachss. He is a lawyer/advocate for children in New York state. He is one of Oprah Winfrey’s heros. In fact, it was his appearance on the show that peaked my realization that I had choices I could make and that my life wasn’t predestined to be failure after failure. I wrote back a response to him and he sent a post-card in response to the letter. In my response I reacted to his statement that surviving lacked respect because it left surviving to being a matter of chance. I’ve since shifted my view somewhat, but not a whole lot. I have, however, chosen to take on the word he chose…”transcender.”

I have various cards that were given to me over the years, different affirmations and compliments that people had written over the years, things I got at various workshops, poems like “Phenominal Woman” by Maya Angelou, and my favourite poem..

I also have little drawings and gifts that Boy has given to me over the years. One is a “get well” rainbow. There’s a picture of Boy and I when he was 5 or 6 years old. He was probably 6 since his hair is cut short and that didn’t happen until after his 6th brithday. That was ugly hard for me, letting him cut his hair. He had the cutest curls, but his classmates kept calling him a girl. So, since it was his hair and both Bran and I had decided to not interfere with such minor things as hair style… I even have a dinosaur bandage from the package we bought to amuse boy. Of course, after that every little bump and mishap required a bandage.

I also have many thank you cards that classes had written for me, as one of the presenters from Tamara’s House. Each of the presenters were given one. In the case of a certain sociology professor, each class member wrote a thank you note on a small recipe card and they were included in the envelopes. I have 4 or 5 such packets, at least 2 haven’t been put in the book yet.

Most proudly attained, but not placed in the book as yet is my acceptance letter from the university. I think of all the things in the book, of all the reminders of achievements I’ve attained and progress I’ve made, that is the one that means the most to me. Tied with that is a copy of the journal entry I idid right after I was interviewed by a police officer regarding the sexual abuse from the oldermale sibling. Those two things, I think, are probably the most significant steps I made in the past years. It’s not that the other things are unimportant, but that those two things represent enormous leaps over the immense abyss of fear that always stood in my way. The other things got me to the edge of that abyss. Doing those two things was the step into the abyss and emerging on the other side in triumph.

Here is the journal entry from September 1, 2004:

Today was the day.

The actions of the day were actually simple. The complication of feelings made it a very twisty, painful day.

The Constable phoned me at work while I was in the staff meeting and we arranged to meet at the police station at 12. Bran wasn’t able to come with me. We both thought that the interview would be after lunch so he arranged for Boy to return home for 12. That meant that he had to be at home. It turned out ok though. I needed the quiet time riding down to the station to gird my loins, so to speak.

I did get a bit of a thrill riding down the bridge to downtoan. Since there were no pedestrians making their way up or down the bridge in front of me I let my bike sort of go without using the brakes and sped up to 35 kph. I’ve never ridden that fast before.

When I got near the station a work crew was pulling up the grills in the sidewalk in front of the station. Those are the grills that are over the ventilation system or whatever of big buildings. Anyway, they had the sidewalk all messed up and there was a big crane making my life interesting. I locked up my bike and then called Bran on my cell so that he could be with me in voice at least.

I went in and the Constable was sitting beside the door. I didn’t even register him there. Anyway, we had to wait a little bit while his partner parked their car. It never occurred to me that he would have a partner. The front desk officer let us in through a side door but we had a very long walk to the “soft room” or what I call “the non-perp interview room.” It has a couch and two chairs rather than just a couple of uncomfortable chairs. There was a camera up on the wall in the corner, one across from the couch and a micorphone behind the couch.

I sat on the couch, took off my sandlas and curled up into a as tiny a ball as I could while I waited for the City police and the two visiting officers to get things together, and begin taping the interview.

He took a lot of basic history, like where I was born, who lived in the house when the assaults took place, etc. I couldn’t give him a start date, or even an age. I could only give him the events around in a very gneral sense. I could only give him details of the first assault, which really were the other events as well because there wasn’t much change in the ‘routine’ of the abuse. He asked lots of questions about other things, but I didn’t know. I just can’t place a memory on them. We went over the details a couple times more to make sure that everything was gotten and then we were done. The whole interview time was about 1.5 hours, maybe a bit lonter. It was harder than I’d have liked it to be, but easier than I dreaded.

Anyway, I’m not alone in this anymore. I know I’ve always had the support of Bran, Boy and my friends and co-workers, but his is the first time that someone else is doing work as well. I have someone else on my side, someone with power.

The Constable is going on 3 weeks holidays after this week. His wife is expecting their first baby and he’s taking this time to be there for her. So I have that long to decide whether I or not I want to tell Dad before they call him for an interview. I can also change my mind about having an investigation happen.

I have decided to go ahead with the investigation. If I just maek the report it’s still a secret. Nothing being done about it makes the secret still intact. Having the investigation means that it’s opened up to the glare of inspection. Whether or not it goes anywhere is moot to me. I can say that i went as far with it as I could.

I feel like someone has lifted a great weight off my body. Sysiphys has escaped.

Sometimes looking back can be painful and fully of regret. To this day I don’t regret doing the police report. I don’t regret the fight Dad and I had on the phone about it. I don’t regret anything about that whole thing. I did what I needed to do and let my family sort out their own shit about it. I think, on that day, I grew up and became a full adult. On the day Dad and I had it out about it, Dad grew up. Funny how things work out.