I write a lot about the abuse of children and how it comes back to haunt others around that child as said children become adolescents and adults. Given that things do not go away if you ignore them, no matter how many times people in a position of say over me have tried to tell me otherwise, I feel more than just driven to talk about it. I feel compelled, in much the same way as a ten-ton bomb feels compelled to hit whatever surface is below it when it is dropped from ten thousand feet above.
The most salient point to understand at this point is that when you tell a child you are going to expose them to strangers so they can point and laugh at his genitalia, walk around in your underwear around them constantly in spite of them telling you this makes them uncomfortable, ask them in front of the rest of the family if they shave their fanny in a Play School-like voice, and more besides, you are guilty of child abuse. There is no room for opinion in this. Whilst both of my parental units are guility of this crime, the unreprentant manner in which my male parental unit responds when I tell him that things need to change in order to give me any means by which I can escape this should give anyone who knows the situation I describe a good idea of why I refuse to acknowledge him anymore. My mother, bless her, does the best she can, but one of the reasons I hoped and prayed that we would not cross paths with the one Queenslander I want to see happy and well during our visit to a shopping district is because I know that my mother is frightened of me and finds interaction with me very difficult.
I do not doubt that my mother would do anything to go back in time and undo all of the things that went wrong in our combined lifetimes. To reset things, so she would not have to go through the process of watching herself help others to turn her little boy into a monster that is so lonely, desperate, and afraid that he would welcome being told “you have six months left to live”.
I am pretty sure that she has heard the story indirectly, but she knows that one reason I am so anxious to return to Western Sydney is because in the part of Western Sydney I am thinking of, touching people for support as you try to get on a bus because you cannot stand out in the rain for five seconds is something that never crosses the mind of the elderly population. From a survival point of view, it cannot. Because they just never know when such a touch might just upset the larger, heavier person to such an extent that said person just turns around and knocks their head right off their shoulders. Country folk can piss and moan about how violent cities are (in spite of their bumfukk hicksville having a higher per-capita murder rate, much of the time), but I happen to like it. It means that people who do cross into your space without permission or query for such are usually the type of people you want to take a little more seriously, anyway. Police officers, muggers, and so on.
The thing I am getting at here is that throughout my childhood and adolescence, I was treated with an appalling lack of respect for my personal space, even by people whose job seemed to consist of telling others to respect peoples’ personal space. When that lack of respect leaves an adolescent or adult male feeling uncomfortable when naked in the company of women he happens to otherwise like, something is quite clearly wrong.
Obviously, when a person writes things that are as heavy as stories of abuse that combine psychology with sexuality, and I hasten to add that family units are not the sole culprit with this, there is going to be a lot of disagreement in the air. Unfortunately, my way of looking at it is incredibly simple and on the point. Just like there is no such thing as “mild” autism, there is no such thing as “mild” abuse. Abuse is abuse is abuse. Yes, there are ways of abusing people that do a good deal more physical and short-term psychological damage. Yes, there are ways of abusing people that pose a greater threat to their lives. But when you abuse someone in a manner that is clandestine and hidden, the effect can get worse over time, the more that the abuse is ignored and left to fester.
In fact, if I had been able to go to a doctor and tell them that I had been bum-raped, and let them take physical evidence thereof, I would have preferred that. Because I have simply lost count of the amount of effort I made from ages ten to freakishly over time trying to say “this is an abusive situation, get me out of it”. All to no fukking avail whatsoever. It got so that I was starting to believe the attempts to convince me that I deserved to be abused and mistreated, and that success is something I am never going to forgive the authority figures in my immediate space for. In fact, it is largely the reason why I would kill certain teachers’ children or grandchildren just for being related to them. I only wish I were making that up, really, but the point I keep having to come back to is that the abuse I keep describing is what has turned me into the sort of person who would do such a thing.
Nor is it an either-or proposition. One aspect of The Incredible Hulk that came across far better in Louis Leterrier‘s adaptation than Ang Lee‘s is that Bruce Banner does not feel especially gifted with the fact that he turns into a twelve-foot tall green giant that can kick cars away like footballs. He is scared of himself, he is scared of hurting the people that mean anything to him (especially Betty Ross), and he is most afraid of what could happen if the secret to what he is falls into the wrong hands. That is the kind of fear I feel on a constant basis, and it even makes its way into my writing. In my canon, the Human race does not end because of overpopulation or nuclear bomb fantasies. It ends because Kronisk gets so angry about a person who was decent to him being murdered by his enemies that he decides the entire species can go to hell and die for all he cares.
You see, from reading one, or even all, of the articles on a given journal, you cannot presume that you know everything about the author. Whilst there is a literal volumous amount posted here about the outs and bads of my life, there is quite a lot that I keep hidden away, either ready to be brought out for when I think the occasion calls for it, or to never see the light of day. And the factors in which of these wins out are numerous.
But anyway, this is just the end of a bit of a meandering statement in which I urge people who think in future to give me a piece of their mind. Do so intelligently and politely. It always gets better results that way.