Six: Once my eyes were opened, could they ever be shut again?

Before I begin my "work" for the day, I want to post the meditation I found in my email this morning. I subscribe to a Native American 12 step site called White Bison. I really appreciate the daily calls to spirituality in my email box.

Elder's Meditation of the Day - January 6

"When we're through with this earth and all these problems, we don't have to come back. But as long as we're here we have a job to do and a purpose to fulfill and that means dealing with the circumstances around us."
--Rolling Thunder, CHEROKEE

We are put on the earth to participate in life. We have a beautiful mind, we have the ability to pray, we have the ability to change, we have the ability to accept, and we have choices. All things God created are constantly changing. This constant change causes our circumstances to change. Sometimes we say life is difficult. During these times we need to use our tools: the tools of prayer, and the tools of meditation. We are designed to change and live joyfully on this earth. The only requirement for living joyfully is to live according to the laws, principles and values given to us by the Creator.

Great Spirit, give me Your courage today, and guide my footsteps.

At the end of the last passage, I fretted that I couldn't remember the third "neurosis" I believe I developed as a result of my father's abuse. I woke up at four o'clock this morning and there it was on the front burner: body image. Between the ages of four and six, particularly in the months preceding my entry into the first grade, I went from being tall and lean for my age to "husky." That was the euphemism clothiers used for "fat kids' clothes." I believe I used food for comfort and as a defense mechanism, not in a conscious way, but I really altered in appearance. Photos make it seem "overnight." I would be the tallest kid in my classes until the eighth grade when my peers caught up and then left me behind at five feet, eight inches. Now, my dad had acquainted me with a REAL MAN'S PENIS (the latter wasn't the word he used) and I understood from that point forward that I would never "measure up," not just anatomically, but psychologically, as well. My last therapist even went so far as to tell me that men can't see their own penises the way other people see them because of the perspective. I developed a complex at four years of age about the size and acceptability of my penis. How "normal" is that? It didn't help when, hitting puberty at the age of ten ( I believe most men recall their first ejaculation) I discovered my father's pornography. How equipped was I at that age to distinguish between fantasy and reality? I was just coming into my own sexually and I actually accepted the scenarios in the pulp fiction as fact.

To this day, I remain terribly self-conscious about my whole body and I fight an on-again, off-again battle with my weight. Years ago, when I was in an intimate moment with someone, they admonished me to "Relax. Quit sucking it in." When I was in college, women could probably read my intentions toward them from a mile away. I was VERY anxious to lose my virginity. I recall making out with one young lady who grabbed my erection through my jeans HARD, and she whispered in my ear wisely, "You feel that, Gary? You don't need me to prove you're a man." Well, that ended the date, but she was really sage beyond her years. During my adolescence, my father had so very little to say to me directly. Around age sixteen, I recall the following observations from him (call the nuggets of fatherly wisdom?):

• "If you really want to do it, then your gonna have to date another kind of girl. These girls you're dating now are too 'proper'."
• "'No' doesn't always mean 'No.' It just means you've got to keep at it and wear her down. It's all part of this little game girls like to play."
• "I just don't see how you can stand wearing those jockey shorts. You ought to wear boxers like me, so you can hang free. Let people see what you have."

I developed a couple of phobias along the way. I've always known--remembered--that my father took me to the movies while mom was hospitalized. There were four cinemas in Bristol at the time: two that showed "B" films ( I clearly remember an old ad from the paper with a gorilla chasing women. No, I don't believe it was a revival of King Kong.) and two that showed first-run films. The Paramount, mentioned before, was the largest and grandest. The Cameo sat on the west end of the major shopping district. It was there that dad took me to see Cinderella. It was my second time to go to a movie. When we lived in Kingsport, my mother had taken me to see Song of the South. I've always been able to sing Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah and the animated bluebird flying around the Uncle Remus character is still easy to visualize. For some reason, dad guided me upstairs to seats in the balcony, which was steeply raked...so much so that I was distinctly afraid of falling. In spite of my fear--or because of it?--he insisted we sit on the first row against the railing. I remember something of Elvis in Jailhouse Rock and another trailer about the life of a country music star (Hank Williams?) For most of my life this and an incident in the rest room of the Cameo were all I could remember...and my father sleeping through much of the Disney classic. But I've recovered this snippet of memory now: my dad scooted forward in his seat and had me put my head in his lap...then I'm on my knees between his legs. I can look up and see the booth with the flickering light of the projector. Sometime...after whatever...I had to go pee. Dad was asleep. I found the men's room off the second floor foyer. I opened the door and I believe I surprised two men who were standing at the urinals. They quickly turned away from each other. My dad came looking for me and dragged me out. To this day I am afraid of heights, although I've had to deal with that issue repeatedly in my work, and I am also afraid of closed spaces. I can attribute the first to this balcony experience. The latter ...well, I can't identify the source but I wonder if the darkness of the balcony, my fear of falling, and my sense of being trapped between the balcony wall and my father's legs aren't responsible to some degree. What little there is of this memory is clearly sexual in nature, although I don't recall dissociating. Instead, it feels like a blackout. What I have recaptured...well, minor victories are important.

I believe my wife is getting frustrated with the attention I'm giving my issue. She said a while ago, "But life has got to go on." Indeed, it does. Balancing the demands of daily living and the ghostly presence of my father in my memory is difficult. That's why I'm writing this, so I can go on.