“In your case, all was uncertain… for your father was not wicked, all of the time. Your confusion was the result of two opposing forces with no clear resolution. In this case, ‘Father is good’ and ‘Father is bad.’
His words are spot on.
I find I’m nodding in unconscious agreement.
André pauses and his face softens. His compelling dark eyes meet mine. “Such a child must then live a lonely life of bitter uncertainty, constantly moving back and forth, between joy and despair.”
Wow.
This is such a simple way to sum up my childhood—yet to hear it stated so succinctly is an inexplicable relief.
For me, despair was a result of suppressing my rage. When I couldn’t focus my confusion and anger outwards, it often boiled inward, to the misery of self-loathing and guilt.
With André’s careful direction, general memories of my father and my unnatural relationship begin to fall from my lips.
I can’t tell him specifics.
Whenever my words trail off, he prompts me with attentive nods and sounds such as, “Oh?” or “Mm?”
His calm demeanor doesn’t change—respectful interest is what registers in his expression. Not embarrassment, not shame, not sympathy. Not shock, horror, disgust or pity—the four of which I fear most.
He’s not angry for the lost innocence of my childhood, nor is there any other emotion except mild curiosity.
He’s focused on me. He’s right with me, as I bare my soul.
The man is easy to confide in, yet there’s so much buried here. I’ve barely touched on the subject. I’ve given him no particulars.
I tell André of the ‘games’ my father and I used to play. My dad interfered with me starting, I think, from about age nine. I explain that I was the oldest of three children, and my father’s ‘favorite.’ As a child, this favoritism seemed normal.
Looking back now, it’s so obvious what was going on.
It’s a wonder no one else saw it.
With respectful and exact questioning, André pulls the truth from the dark well of my subconscious, stuff I’ve never spoken of to anyone. Specifics I’ve tried to keep buried deep within myself.
The devil is in the details.
These are the toughest to speak of, so I skirt around them as much as possible.
It doesn’t matter what I say or do, André knows what’s going on. He’s patient and understanding—yet I’m aware of a no-nonsense element of steel within this mild-mannered Frenchman.
He intends to make me tell him everything.
That’s what I’m afraid of.
Chapter 7.
“Abuse? Ah. Such problems, even with time, do not go away on their own. They must be addressed.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
My mother was always away at some fund-raising event or with her friends when these activities occurred. After a couple years, my father began to interfere with my younger brother, too.
When he started on my little brother, it was wrong on so many levels. I should’ve protected Alex, but how could I stop my dad? This confession is difficult, as it’s a great source of guilt.
I’m ashamed to say that at the time, I was relieved to have a break from my father’s more depraved attentions.
“You have never spoken of this to your brother?”
I frown and shake my head. “No. Never.”
My brother Alex was there at the time. So was I. Why the hell would we talk about it? By then, the moratorium on speech had been put in place and our silence concerning ‘games’ with our father was too well ingrained. We wanted to forget it—not get further into it by hashing it over. Discussing our abuse wasn't an option.
My brother’s married and he appears to be whatever passes in society as ‘normal,’ but I know he has a substance abuse problem. Like many wealthy Americans, cocaine is his drug of choice. I have no idea how he holds down his position in the family business, but he does.
Alex and I learned how to pretend everything was fine.
If you do this long enough, after a while, you even begin to believe it.
“And so, this too, is most common, my friend,” André assures me. “It becomes a difficult conversation to have, no? The father, he would have warned you, in oh-so many ways, never to speak of what you did together. Even now, when he is in the grave, his commands from the past hold you mute. Like a gag, they have made you keep silent… until now. An adult, particularly a parent, often has godlike power over a child.”
I’m quiet for a moment. Body and soul, I feel burdened by memories; buried by a mountain of dark mental pictures of my past.
“These games your father and you played together… did you sometimes initiate them?”
Shit.
André’s question is right on target.
I’m on the receiving end of a perfect head shot. The man is as fucking accurate as a professional sniper. I’m utterly astonished. How does he hit the mark with such precision?
I feel faint, as if my blood has drained right out of my veins. André’s words echo in my head: These games, did you sometimes initiate them?
“For the love of God, how could you know that?” I whisper.
His watchful eyes soften with understanding. “Oh, this too is most common, you understand. You are not alone in these experiences. To make the victim, not only an active participant, but to make them want to play and even initiate such games? Ah, it is very clever, no? In this manner, your abuser manipulates you into believing that you are to blame. The guilt, the shame… it is yours.”
“I should have stopped it… but instead…” I can’t say anymore. I close my mouth, shocked by what I almost said.
I often started it.
Our eyes meet and I swear André sees right through me. He nods. “I assure you, mon ami, you would have needed assistance from another adult to end such a crime, and even then? Who can say? Your father was a hero in your community. A child cannot fight such influence.”
“I—I don’t know why I’ve never told anyone or asked for help. I never tried to stop it.”
“He made sure you didn’t.”
I take a little time to think this over, to try to remember. I don’t recall exactly what he said to me when this whole thing started, except that I was ‘special’ and what happened was ‘our game’ and ‘our little secret.’
At some level deep down, even as I child, I must’ve known it was wrong. But I wanted his approval so badly. I felt honored to be chosen—to be special enough for him to want me.
I say nothing more.
I can’t.
“Grant,” André says quietly, and his expression is bright with understanding. “You felt as he intended you to feel. It is the natural curiosity, trust, unconditional love and innocence of a child that he used against you. He made these games between you fun?”
Bullseye. Another fucking head shot, raw and brutal.
I can barely hold it together—I feel like I’m bleeding out. This shrewd Frenchman knows everything. The ‘fun’ we had together makes my stomach churn. The phrase ‘good, clean fun’ goes through my mind and I feel like throwing up. It wasn’t good or clean. It was dirty. Wrong. Repulsive. Sickening.
“Yes,” I murmur, choking on the bitter taste of this poisonous truth.
“But of course,” he acknowledges his direct hit lightly.
Right now, I can’t take anything lightly.
And yet, André’s tranquil composure in the face of all this shit, is oddly soothing. He’s a counselor and it’s quite obvious that he’s heard this sort of thing before. He wasn’t shocked, horrified or offended. My story is nothing new to him—which is disturbing in itself.
The serene manner in which he listens to my secrets makes me feel that maybe, just maybe, it’s safe to talk freely. Now that I’ve begun, I want to tell him more. Maybe I’ll be able to speak of the specifics of the terrible, terrible things I’ve done.
Monster! Pervert!
/> My stomach twists into a tight, painful knot with some of these memories. I close my mouth tightly so I don’t throw up. Hopefully, I’ll be able to talk about it—once my lips are able to form words.
I don’t know if I can do this—it’s right up there with my greatest fear. If I’m brave enough to tell him, will I be able to look André in the face again? Or will I see disgust and contempt in those watchful dark eyes?
If I can, I hope to have the courage to tell him everything.
Chapter 8.
“What has been done to you is one thing. Yet to really suffer, to truly be burdened with guilt and shame, such pain always begins not with what has been done to you—but with what you have done.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
My mouth is as dry the dust surrounding us. I open my water bottle and take a long drink.
“Children love games,” André says conversationally. “They live for fun. You were a child, mon ami. It is instinctive and natural for a child to play with other members of one’s family.”
I frown and stare at my feet. Yeah right.
“And then, too, in your case we have the male physiology.”
I raise my head to meet his gaze at this comment. An eloquent smile curls his lips, a message I clearly “get.” Sometimes I feel as if he doesn’t need to say a word for me to understand him.
“Oui, oui, but of course!” André says. “A penis does not discern the difference. It does not know right and wrong, good and bad. It is an animal of mindless sensation. While some of these things your father did were perhaps unpleasant, most of these games felt good. He made you hard and brought you pleasure, no?”
My cheeks surge with heat at this, my deepest shame.
Two curious rock squirrels come closer, chasing each other around a tree. Their scolding chitters sound loud in the quiet of the desert.
I’ve watched friends die. I’ve killed people. I’ve suffered grievous physical injuries. I’ve run, I’ve hidden and fought in terror of certain and imminent death. But I swear to God—discussing my childhood secrets is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.
André’s simple question, echoes in my mind: He made you hard and brought you pleasure, no?
After a long moment, I admit the accuracy of his statement with a curt nod.
“Merci,” he says, his voice measured. “Thank you for your honesty. This is a most difficult discussion, oui, oui! Only the most courageous face such a trial. I salute your bravery. The truth—it can be painful.” He gives a shrug of philosophical resignation. “And yet, it is still the truth, n’est-ce-pas?”
André’s warm praise eases something inside. He knows what I’m going through. I’d thank him, but I don’t. I’m not sure if I can say anything. Instead, I sigh and nod once more.
“The pedophile, such is a master of manipulation,” André says. “Those who have not experienced this do not easily understand. They think the victim should have told someone, or done something to stop it. But why would they? A child does not know better. With most pedophiles, it is not rape. Non! It is a willing choice and a seduction.”
A wave of shame hits me and my stomach churns. My breakfast threatens to come back up. For a moment, I close my eyes. I hold it together by gripping my knees firmly. My hands would be trembling if I didn’t.
His words, “willing choice and a seduction” repeat in my mind.
I shake my head, an unconscious physical denial, but he’s so right. No wonder I’ve been stuck right there in the past. Confused and ashamed; buried in guilt and self-loathing.
“Did you watch the movie, Sophie’s Choice?” André’ asks.
It takes me a moment to get my bearings. I hold on to his question like tugging on the reins of a runaway horse. Thankfully, I can stop this mad gallop into my past for now. I can take a much-needed break from the appalling mental and emotional struggle I’ve been battling.
“Sure. I saw it,” I say, while sucking in a deep, fortifying breath.
My counselor’s gone off to left field once more, but that’s OK. In fact, it’s a relief. It’s a well-earned respite for me, whenever he changes the subject.
“Bon, eh bien.” He nods. “Upon arrival at Auschwitz, the brave and beautiful Sophie is forced to choose which one of her two children is to die in the gas chamber. The surviving child will proceed to the labor camp.”
I nod. Sophie’s Choice is the kind of movie where you come away feeling sad, and the memory of it—the terrible, heartbreaking dilemma—stays in your imagination for weeks.
André’s eyes flash with emotion as he lifts his hand and raises his index finger to make his point. “Bon. If the Nazi had simply taken one child—Sophie could have lived with this, yes? It would be out of her hands. She would have been given no choice, do you see?”
My teeth clench, but I nod my understanding. In life it can be wonderful to be absolved of all responsibility. To have all options taken away. To know for certain there’s absolutely nothing you can do to change your fate.
To be free of blame.
André’s raises and lowers his head rapidly, making his point. “It is cruel, yes, it is horrific! Sophie’s grief—her pain, her suffering—it would have been unspeakable! Yet she would not have felt such guilt.”
I consider this for a moment.
I understand the heavy burdens of blame, regret and guilt. It was the act of deciding which child would die that destroyed her. It was her choice, which was impossible to live with.
When I meet André’s gaze there’s a strong emotion he’s communicating through his expression. He wants me to appreciate how Sophie felt. He wants me to get the connection between our two stories.
My pulse kicks up as I begin to fully understand.
André’s aware of the exact moment I “get” it.
“Oui, oui,” he says excitedly. “Your situations are not similar, and yet they are, no? It is because Sophie was made to choose that she felt herself to be a part of that choice, comprenez-vous? It becomes her decision. From active participation, Sophie shared in the act. She felt responsible—complicit in a vile crime. Mon Dieu, it was the most heinous crime a mother was capable of committing.”
My jaw tightens. I’m not thinking of Sophie now. My mind and memories are all focused upon my father. It feels dishonorable to speak ill of the dead—a social faux pas, and inherently wrong. Bad, good or otherwise, I don’t want to speak of my father.
I don’t want to think of him at all.
André reaches over, pats my knee comfortingly and pulls away. “Mon ami, I will tell you something few people know. Sexual excitement and orgasm during rape, sexual assault or abuse is very common. If the victim is a man or a woman—it makes no difference. Do you know why? Biological programming! The human body and particularly the genitals react to stimulation as the bon Dieu has designed! This is the best-kept secret for those that have been abused. Victims feel responsible and ashamed because in many cases, their bodies responded, do you see?”
Feeling a little queasy, I nod my head. I of all people understand this.
I’ve lived it.
“Oui, oui,” he says. “Rapists use this trick to make their victims blame themselves for their attack. And the pedophile? The pedophile assuages his or her guilt with his victims’ orgasms. For it is proof they wanted it, no?”
“Do you think my father thought that way?”
“Mais oui, of a certainty. All sinners must continuously rationalize and justify their sins.” He gives me a quick smile. “Otherwise they would not be able to continue to keep sinning, no?”
“But what about sociopaths? They don’t feel remorse.”
He shrugs. “So research shows. Me? I do not believe it. It may be hidden, it may be buried deeply, but there is always the conscience. The immortal soul? It is aware of the difference between right and wrong.”
“Do you think my dad was a sociopath?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Am I?”
I blurt out, and immediately I’m sorry I asked.
“You are not,” he says and his voice carries a quiet ring of certainty.
I nod. I couldn’t be a sociopath. They’re supposed to be free from guilt. Remorse, shame and guilt sit like three loathsome demons on my shoulders, whispering in my thoughts day and night.
“Yet, it is not what is done to you,” André says, “but what one has done that is capable of destroying one’s life. Responsibility for one’s sins, it clings like glue—such cannot be escaped.”
I’ve got nothing to say to that.
André rests his arms on his knees and bends closer, as if confiding a secret.
“Grant, shall I tell you what I fear for you? Self-condemnation for participation in such abuse, particularly with the perversity of incest—such gnaws away, on and on, bit by bit every day—breaking a person down with shame, blame and oh-so many regrets. And guilt? Je suis désolé—guilt, my friend…” He shakes his head sorrowfully. “Guilt destroys the soul.”
I suck in a deep breath and exhale slowly. Nothing new there. I could have told André that.
One of Sophie’s children was put to death, and it wasn’t in any conceivable way her fault. Yet life isn’t always as simple as right and wrong, or good and bad. Real or imagined, for many, it’s about what they feel responsible for.
No wonder Sophie committed suicide.
“Do you understand why I spoke to you of Sophie?” he asks.
“Yes,” I murmur in a low voice.
“Grant, your abuse was not your fault. None of this was your fault. The father is to blame—regardless of your participation.”
I nod because I understand. André says it isn’t my fault. Why doesn’t that make me feel better? I’m numb, despondent and strangely cold, despite the heat.
Monster! Pervert!
“You have lived with this most hidden shame for far too long, mon ami.” André says. “And this burden was given to you by your father—a man every child is not only born to trust, but to instinctively wish to please. He twists a natural behavior. He corrupts what should be an act of pleasure and a physical expression of love.”