I don't know how to fix it.

[u/glhall1960]

They say 'hindsight is 20/20'. Folks laugh about those “I died once and Mom told me to walk it off” memes. I was raised exactly that way. It didn't matter what injury we'd incurred, we were just “whiny little hypochondriacs” and treatment only came if it were emergent. In retrospect, it's just sad that I've lived with this for 55 years and considered it 'normal', for lack of a better way to put it, for much of my adult life. I wish I could cry.

When I was 11 a great uncle passed from stomach cancer. Uncle K had been in World War II and was a horrible alcoholic, but on the rare occasion he was sober, he was the greatest guy, just a gem of a person. Uncle K was Earnest Hemingway's driver during his tour in Europe. Hemingway was no slouch when it came to substance abuse and best I recall he didn't like to drink alone. After Uncle K's funeral we were on our way home and as they discussed his life and lore, I started crying over the loss and of course I was humiliated for it. This was just one of the many times that I'd been admonished over my propensity to cry, and I'm not sure why, but that time it apparently landed somewhere, as I've not been able to freely cry since. Sometimes I can just 'feel' a room and almost get overwhelmed. I'll be the first to admit I am hypersensitive. I wish I could cry. I can tear up. My throat clinches. I can hardly talk. I might even cut loose with the occasional sob, but I can't freely cry. My Granny B was the same way and while I'd like to think I'm suffering something congenital, I tend to think hers was due to trauma experienced, too. She never said as much, but given her circumstances, I'd have to think it was more likely than not. I think it's a reasonable assumption for part of my issues since I seem to be locked into a endless loop of grief and sadness because I cannot grieve as I normally would. I remember when Dad passed. I locked myself in my bedroom and tried to just let it out. Nothing. A few tears. A sob or two. But the pressure. I felt like I was going to explode, in intense physical pain, but I couldn't just let it go and I finally just passed out asleep. So there's that. It's always there, it's never changed.

It started out as an innocent evening celebrating the holiday with Mom & Dad hosting a pinocle game at their house. My family's pinocle games were legendary, back in the day, running 24/7 all weekend. Nothing unusual, just a group of friends and family gathered for a great time. The adults were being a bit loud and rowdy (they weren't 'partiers', but“avid” players doesn't even do justice) and being next to the living room were interfering with our evening television viewing. It was late 1973 and we had a small portable black & white television in the kitchen, so we took it back to my and my brother's bedroom and set it on the desk to watch in a much more peaceful environment. Just for context, I'd just turned 13 and was the oldest minor in the house, and if anyone had any doubt about my future proclivities, I'll clue you in on the tale of the Wedgewood tea set I DEMANDED for my sixth Christmas.

Anyway, here we were, all piled on the beds in my bedroom, in the glow of the TV. There were four of us and as I said above, I was the oldest, and the only boy. Everyone settled in and started watching the sitcom of the moment and I even went and got some snacks (not much, though, because snacks “[were] for the adults”). After grabbing snacks and settling back in, I started watching the show. It was a really peaceful, warm, comfortable moment, a moment that gives you the warm fuzzies to think about, one of pure security. Looking back, it just seems so surreal now.

Anyway, I was on one bed with one of the girls (G1) and we were laying 'head to foot' as we watched TV. The two other girls (G2, G3) were on the other bed and we were all just watching the tube and shooting the breeze when G1 flipped ends, grabbed me by the shoulder and rolled me on my back and decided she was going to give me kissing lessons. I froze. Things get kinda fuzzy here as G2 and G3 left the room. Suddenly the bedroom light came on, exposing G1 mauling me and groping my junk with a free hand. Chaos ensued. The flashes of memory I have are how humiliated I felt when I was yanked out of the bed with my erection quite visible, though thankfully still in my pants. The next is Dad, reluctantly I think, took the strap to me with Mom standing behind him screaming 'beat him!” over an over, and “hit him again!” when Dad would let up. I had the privilege of watching G1 being beat just as mercilessly. I think this was the first time I remember dissociating, just yeeting off to the nether reaches of my mind to get away from it all. After that night the incident was never spoken of again, but it wasn't the end.

All of the above happened on a Friday or Saturday night. I don't recall anything else that weekend aside from the aforementioned assault as I think I was still just completely shut down in total humiliation. Monday, however, was interesting. Being an 8^th grader, we had to dress for physical education. I do remember things getting quiet in the dressing room and getting some rather fearful looks from fellow students, but at that point it hadn't even registered. The stripes didn't hurt unless I was dressing/undressing so for the most part I was oblivious to them. You see, the aftermath of that evening left me with thankfully temporary, but rather long lasting, 3” wide stripes from the razor stroppe Dad used. From my neck to my ankles I was striped like an old prison uniform. Up to that point I hadn't had a mirror available to actually look at my injuries and since they weren't a constant pain, I just ignored them. Monday's P.E. Class gave me the opportunity to see the object of my utter embarrassment. I had more stripes that stretched across my back and around my right side (Dad stood to my left) than I could bother to count and all of them were literally 3” wide mottled bruises with most having abraded edges. Good times. It also gave the entire class a good look at my back. I was almost dressed and ready to leave class before anyone ventured to ask what happened. I still remember the guy. Always struck me as a good guy, too, but he came to me at the end of class all deer-in-the-headlights and asked what happened. Without thinking I just said “I got caught in bed with a girl”. His eyes got bigger and from what I gathered afterward, I was legend, at least until we left the county at the end of the school year and no, we weren't on the run. My parents bought my grands business in the next county. They had a successful run, but Mom, even today at 90, swears it was the worst move they ever made.

That brings me to today. I'm now soon to be 66 years old. A couple of weeks back I was pointedly propositioned by a close friend. I froze. Again. It's taken me this long to realize it's the same thing, over and over, that when I'm in a one-on-one situation, being directly propositioned, and I can't just laugh it off, I freeze... even dissociate under certain the circumstances. Sometimes I'll just bolt. It also seems I have a mental block. I was discussing the whole ordeal with another friend at lunch last week and he looked at me and said “you were getting hit on all the time, I couldn't understand why you never responded”.

For the record:

I've never been in a committed relationship.

I can count on one hand the number of intimate partners I've had.

I can count on both hands the number of intimate encounters I've had.

I can count on one finger the number of times intimacy was reciprocated, it's also the only time I've been intimate in 45 years. (and I froze then, too).

There have been a few times I've tried telling this story, but I guess I always started from the wrong end. I was speaking to the result of all this and without context no one understood what I was dealing with. I'm done. Recent telling is the first time I've tried to tell this incident's story from the beginning, and even then it was quite abbreviated. This all happened decades before mandatory reporters and while some of the eyewitnesses are still living, all the adult participants except one are all now passed, and the last one has severe dementia. I really don't know what I intended to accomplish with this little diatribe, but I do know that putting it into words feels like a start.