How Will I Ever Deal with Paedo Again?

Just a quick post really (at least by my verbose standards). I’m not sure whether I’m actively seeking advice here or whether this will be rhetorical musing, but I’ll see where my fingers-to-the-keys take me.

My mother rang me about 11am this morning, but I was suffering from a (fairly infrequent of late) Seroquel hangover, so I ignored her call, with the intention of calling back as soon as I was feeling a little less out of it. Unable to wait for me to contact here, however, she left a voice message advising that she was calling to determine whether or not I would care to be in attendance with her at the McFaul residence tomorrow.

Hearing the words asking that question struck a familiar, yet nonetheless steadfastly awful, terror through me. I felt a cold sweat on the back of my neck, my pulse quicken, my body freeze. I struggled to breathe. All as a result of a few little words. Would you like to go to Maisie’s tomorrow? Such a benign, innocuous sounding question. A normal familial pursuit, an everyday occurrence of simplicity and sheer ordinariness.

Except that it really, truly isn’t – not for me. I still haven’t met (insofar as you can ‘meet’ a baby) Marcus’ baby brother, which I suppose was in part the rationale for the proposed sojourn, but given that the poor kid is called after Paedo I am not sure I know how I will react to him. I know it’s not the baby’s fault. I mean, of course it is not the poor baby’s fault – how could it be?! But he, entirely unwittingly on both his and his parents’ part, represents a history with which I would rather not deal. A dark, venomous period of wickedness levied against me, an evil that has insidiously but definitely rubbed itself off on me. The poor baby, with his Paedo-infected name, represents abuse, despair, abandonment, neglect, betrayal and lots and lots of pain, of every conceivable description.

But this navel-gazing is not about the baby per se, though there is a possibility (as the above attests) that there could be difficulties arising in my potential relationship with him. But no, I am wondering how I will ever deal with Paedo again.

The abuse probably finished when I was about 11 or 12. Since then, until my early 20s anyway, I still saw Paedo with fairly considerable frequency, and though I could have been accused of sexually taunting him at times [whore], and though I deliberately removed myself from what I felt were potentially ‘dangerous’ situations, I never much thought about all the rapes – not overtly. Presumably it was compartmentalised in my Pandora’s Box-esque bank of traumatic memories, but it was not there out in the open, not in general.

It is now though. It is very, very much out in the open indeed. Pandora’s Box of tricks is well and truly opened, and I have no control over the psychological consequences of same. I have hallucinated him. He has followed me – watching me, wanting me, needing me to suffer just as I suffered as a child. Rumination on what the real him actually did haunts every electron and neuron of conscious (and probably unconscious) thought that zaps through my brain. What he did, how he did it, why he did, what I did to encourage it.

Therapy is to blame (if ‘blame’ is a fair word, which it isn’t), as you – my darling readers – might well have surmised. It is not C’s fault; sooner or later all this stuff had to come to the fore. It has to be processed, to be resolved in whatever way such things can be. I do recognise that my long-term history of mental illness is directly correlated, at least in part, with this (though of course there are a gazillion other contributing factors also).

However, as endlessly detailed here, I do not believe that such psychological processing and resolution can take place in the few months I have remaining with C and I have started to shut down on the matter, presumably to protect myself from further perceived hurt and even more retraumatisation. I discussed this with C last week, something about which I will eventually write, so at least he is aware of things. The nature of this has left me – both now and probably in the future – in a very awkward position vis a vis Paedo and the family at large. How will I deal with them – how will I deal with him?

As you know, I went completely doolally at Christmas time when I last saw Paedo, and that was even before I told C any details about what Paedo had done. After having told C the specifics, and after having attempted to discuss my more visceral reactions to it, I went completely doolally all over again (it was arguably worse this time, as I started to see Paedo, and ‘They’ apparently reserved the right to demand I kill people, the fuckwits). So, if we combine those factors – ie {seeing (the real) Paedo [A]} + {discussing stuff in therapy [B]} (plus {how I reacted to my mother’s voice message on the subject [C]}) – what the sodding hell is the reaction going to be? I fear that all hell will break lose.

A + B + C = A familial apocalypse.

I can’t consistently refuse to go to Maisie’s house because I don’t have an adequate or believable lie excuse to get out of it with such frequency. After all, my mother does not believe (or at least refuses to accept) that Paedo sexually abused me in any way, so it’s not like the truth represents an escape route.

I’m fucked. I can’t not see him, because he’s part of a family that my mother so heartily values, and simultaneously I can’t see him, because I will once more end up a psychotic, wailing, collapsed mess.

What to do?

Related posts:

1. Forced to See My Childhood Abuser
2. Paedo, Aggression and Bastard Transference – C: Week 56
3. The Death of Sanity