Judas Priests...

Forewarded to the Melbourne Age...

 

 

Please understand, as a victim of child abuse at the hands of a Catholic Priest, I have an edge in my voice, a way of expressing myself, that renders me for the most part unpublishable.

I accept this, with no hard feelings.

And yet, despite this caveat, I feel it is somewhat liberating to send this response to the parliamentary hearings on Child Abuse to a legitimate news source- even if it is not read or published.

We don’t want much, most of us.

Well, I don’t know what the others want.

In the trial of the priest in my own case- Brother Mamo in Warrnambool, I never even met the other victims.

I’ll tell you what I want.

To be acknowledged…and to move on.

I think I have this now.

Thank you for the opportunity to…let this go.

The priests have been defending their rites again this week, only this time- it’s before a parliamentary inquiry.

The head honcho of the Catholic Church, Cardinal ‘not so curious’ George Pell was in the hot seat, deflecting responsibility in a manner that would make Clinton blush with pride.

‘We did NOT have sexual relations with those children’…

I’m not going to go into what was said in the hearing; it’s up for public record.

If you like- I can save you some valuable time and effort.

It’s about…Deniability.

That’s it.

Compassion?

Any?

Not really.

Expecting compassion from the Catholic Church is like expecting table manners from a cannibal.

& I’m not even going to go into that other can of worms- religious hypocrisy.

I think to be fair- just as all human beings are full of ambiguities- so too are they chock full of hypocrisy. We often do it without even thinking.

So I see no point going into all that.

Let’s call it human frailty.

And as for religion?

Fairy tales for adults.

Dawkins gave us a handy yardstick for this; either you believe the universe is older than 10,000 years…or you do NOT. It’s as simple as that.

Let’s leave all that. It’s been done to death.

I’m not sure what more I could heap on this pile of useless arguments over religion…

Except more useless arguments.

Is there any point to it?

Not really.

It’s tired.

I’m tired, frankly.

Tired of talking about it.

Tired of thinking about it.

All of it.

As a ‘survivor’…

I want to look ahead, and keep on marching, frankly.

Looking ahead.

Trying to piece my life back together again.

When you have been abused as a child…

you feel like a Mosaic Man.

Trying to rebuild is a long, hard monotonous process.

Not everyone makes it.

I heard on the radio today an enormous number of people top themselves.

As a result of the abuse…& their inability to cope with it.

I’m not surprised.

I’ve thought about it.

I think about it still.

Why not?

Those abused in childhood spend the remainder of their days trying to put themselves back together again…like Humpty.

But you can’t always find all the pieces.

& you’re not sure which bits go where…

Who and how to ask for help…

Even if you should ask for help.

You muddle on alone…

And sometimes…

It all falls apart again.

It’s weird, all right.

It can fuck up your life.

You can’t quite get it together.

& that feeling of not knowing exactly why…

Plagues you.

The human mechanism wants to fly right.

It is said to be a self-correcting mechanism.

The majority of us are built to want to get it together.

But if things fuck up constantly…

& you can’t quite figure why…

THEN, you have feelings of shame & guilt because you can’t make it all work properly.

It’s a bag of wild animals.

It’s no fun.

Life might not be supposed to be an endless round of fun…

But it’s not supposed to be endless buggery either.

Pardon the pun.

That’s how the abused keep an even keel.

They use puns.

Humour.

Sexual innuendo.

Kind of a…protective shield.

A defence mechanism.

Against…what I call…

the Parade of Weird.

It’s almost impossible to fit in.

Find friends.

Keep friends.

I lost most of my friends when I got sick.

I don’t blame them for leaving me to it.

I would have.

Abused souls are, frankly, really fucking weird.

A problem child is one thing; but a problem adult child?

More than most people can handle.

If they leave you?

Don’t blame them.

They have their own lives.

& you just have to muddle along.

As best you can.

Oh…medical attention?

I never found any worth a damn.

Here in this country…the medical profession seems ill equipped to know what to do with those suffering from child abuse.

I don’t blame them.

How can you blame, or feel anger for the ignorant?

They simply don’t have any idea what to do.

They tell you to ‘snap out of it’…

Then if you do not…they pump you full of meds that make you groggy as a punch drunk prize fighter on the mat…then run a few volts through your body like a dead car battery.

But that’s about it.

Barbaric?

Sure.

We haven’t really fallen far from the tree.

Haven’t really ambled too far down the evolutionary path.

Even if you could see a Doctor this century…they have no idea what to do.

And they have NO interest in figuring it out.

I was in hospital briefly, & I was not there long enough to even TOUCH on my abuse as a child.

There simply wasn’t the time, or the interest.

They don’t care to hear your story.

Etc.

They.

The abused tend to lump everyone in the same category.

Priests, doctors, everybody.

Are against us.

A side effect, I fear.

It is hard to trust.

Hard to know how to find help.

And when we do find a hint of assistance…

We deflect it.

We see ourselves as unworthy.

There it is.

Makes us very hard to help. We are already ready to reject it.

So why would anyone?

Anyway…a few hundred volts always sorts things out.

As I say, though…no hard feelings.

It’s hard to bear a grudge against ignorance and apathy.

Barry Dickens already pretty much summed it up in his book.

Why re-invent the wheel?

I concur with him.

He’s an intelligent man.

The intelligent often suffer the worst.

The sensitive.

They see the horror in the world…so clearly.

They are able to tell of the horror…but it is becoming increasingly difficult to find anyone to hear it.

In a world where most people are happy we dropped fire on innocent Iraqi women and children to keep our oil supplies safe…

In a world where children are molested by people in positions of responsibility every day…

In a world where lies, hypocrisy, & corruption are de rigeur…

The horror, indeed.

We, the disappointed…are seldom able to find a way to come to grips with the absurdity.

To live with it.

We find it hard to know where to put that horror.

So we turn it inward.

Until it drives us insane.

And the stigma?

Sorry…but that ‘aint going nowhere.

Raising awareness???

People are as aware as they wanna’ be.

Fear of mental illness is as old as mental illness itself.

You never know what a nutcase is going to do to you.

Quite right to stand well back.

In indigenous tribes, the mentally ill are sequestered from the community.

Banished to the desert.

Speared to death in extreme cases…

It’s a sad affair.

Being mentally ill is as miserable as the circumstances that made you ill in the first place.

The opposing forces feed one another.

In the absence of anything else to eat.

People don’t want to be around you long.

So there it is.

This ‘aint the schoolyard.

Not anymore.

‘Why won’t you like me?

Why won’t you be my friend?’

Because you are deranged, and I fear for my life.

Fair enough.

Right?

Nobody likes me!!!

Tough shit.

Child.

Grow up.

Go and eat some worms.

Thank the Gods you are alive.

Go to the Children’s Hospital and look at some bald kids who won’t make three years old because of Leukemia & then tell the world how lonely you are.

Then count your blessings.

Living alone is WAY better than being dead.

I can live alone.

It’s cool.

It ‘aint so bad.

At least I & I have common interests.

I know how I like to be touched.

I’m an attentive lover.

I can love myself enough.

I can do it.

One day at a time.

I stay alive.

I didn’t invent that.

Staying alive.

Just holding on.

We all do it.

To one degree or another.

(I’m simply speaking from the ‘unique’ perspective of an ‘abuse survivor’.)

That’s what I’m called now, apparently.

It’s like a little club.

I would never want to belong to a club like this.

I don’t WANT to be a member!!

I’m a member of the Public Library.

That’s enough clubs.

But here I am; in this weird ass club.

Like a really fucked up masonic lodge.

I had no idea.

We even have our own secret handshake.

It’s a wee tickle of the genitals.

I’m not sure I want any part of it.

I didn’t buddy up with any of the other victims when my molester came up for trial.

They didn’t want to know me.

Nor I them.

I heard, they all met up for dinner the night before the trial. Apparently it was long lost buddies all around the table.

Made me feel a bit nauseous, hearing about it.

“Did Father Ted kiss you, Barry??”

“I’ll never tell; not outside the courtroom…”

Pass the fuckin’ salt.

Abuse victims are not who I want to hang out with.

I want to hang out with WELL people.

I don’t want this!!

Tough titties.

Life just goes that way for some.

Live with it.

I got it.

& this kind of weird, fucked up thinking. ..

Anti-social.

Mood swingy.

It just goes on and on.

Like that mythical guy rolling that ball up the hill…

Tedious.

I just want to be left alone.

& yet…

not.

I don’t know what I want.

We seldom do.

Work that one out, if you dare.

Care.

I doubt I would bother, if I were you.

So what do I do for kicks?

Internet.

The last recourse for the unstable.

I make out all right.

I find I am able to thrash things out, with other like minded mentally challenged.

Of course, I don’t know how many abused souls are my friends.

Maybe they ALL are.

Maybe that’s why they are making friends online, rather than the real world.

The internet is made for people with issues.

Some have shared their stories with me…

& I them…

& it helps a little…

But once it’s told once…we don’t need to go over it again.

And again.

It’s like taking the exact same shit in the lavatory.

Over…

& over…

Again.

Never wiping…

Never flushing.

I don’t know how many kindred spirits are out there.

Not everyone bleats about it like I do.

I don’t know whether it helps, or not.

I don’t know.

No fuckin’ idea.

Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

I guess.

Whether it is ‘healing’ or not…

Doesn’t seem to matter.

I do it anyway.

But some people keep it to themselves.

That is up to them.

Some people shut up about it, and keep marching.

Which is the better?

I don’t know that either.

I wish I were more like them.

Some wish they were me.

How little we know of each other.

But better??

How do you measure shit like that?

A Traumeter?

Crazy.

Such a thing would sell like hot cakes.

Because I am not alone.

I reckon half the planet has been abused in one way or another.

I was thinking the other day…life IS abuse.

You’re born…you get abused…you die.

Why not?

How else would you find out what you’re made of??

My abuse isn’t special; it’s just as mundane, and sordid as anybody else’s.

It doesn’t do to mythologise this crap.

Get over it…

& move on.

Get your shit together.

MY shit together.

What you do with your shit is your own business.

And the Child Abuse hearings?

I heard nothing of any use to ANYONE.

It sounded like the whole thing was an orgy for eunuchs.

More porn for the clergy.

It’s an auction.

Catholic Priests fucked a lot of children.

& now it’s time to ante up.

They are just haggling over the price.

The bean counters & the lawyers are trying to figure out how much to charge.

For a piece of young ass.

Multiply it by…

The number you first thought of.

That’s what it seems to amount to.

How much is a piece of child’s ass worth these days?

I mean, obviously Australian children are worth more than, say…

Poor countries.

But what is a good figure?

What’s a reasonable sum?

Oh dear…

If only those priests sought out the services of a prostitute when they felt horny.

Why didn’t they?

Too immoral??

Or is it just about the young stuff????

Hmmm.

It’s a mess.

It’s a goddamned mess.

I’m not certain anyone knows how the hell to tidy it all up.

The Catholic Church ‘aint helping, that’s for goddamned sure.

I’m glad those responsible for the hearing are trying, though.

Somehow…it’s almost enough to be…

Acknowledged?

& Compensation?

I keep coming back to the same dilemma.

How much is my young ass worth?

Is it worth more to me in cash terms now, than then?

How do you calculate that shit?

Has the unpaid monetary debt owed to me climbed in value somehow over the years, and will the value be calculated incrementally like interest?

Or will it depreciate in value as I get older, and less cute?

What about the value of the dollar?

What about the value of my soul???

How does anyone even figure this kind of crap out?

I am sure the lawyers have a way.

With the customary cut.

It’s a bit like gold mining.

Or betting on a horserace.

A ticket in Tatts.

Will the government lift the compo cap?

Will we all get our million bucks?

Will it ease the pain?

Will it give us back our lives?

Will it compensate us for the betrayal?

All the pain and suffering?

Will it…

Give me a good night’s sleep???

I was thinking about the homeless today.

These people who don’t quite make it.

Can’t get their shit together.

Some molested, no doubt…

Some not.

Life sucker punched them just one too many times, and they could no longer get up.

I get that.

I keep getting up; I’m not sure that’s guts…

I think it might be LUCK.

Or ignorance.

Like a whipped dog who won’t stay down.

So each day, I wonder if this is the day I will turn myself over to the void.

Or if I can summon up enough hope, love, light and humour to keep going.

See if I can keep on marching- just a little bit longer.

I harken back to what I heard on the radio, about abuse victims killing themselves at such alarming rates.

I think about suicide daily.

I thought we all did.

For the longest time…I assumed all human beings did.

Just like I thought all kids were abused.

This is the hardest thing to come to grips with.

The realisation that NOT ALL human beings were traumatised as children.

That NOT ALL human beings think about suicide every day.

That’s really weird.

To me.

I really assumed it was universal, for a LONG time.

I still haven’t quite gotten over it.

But whenever I feel the temptation to feel sorry for myself…

I realise that I am NOT alone.

I know the church are not there for me.

They weren’t then, when my bare ass was bent over a tea chest- and they aren’t now.

No surprises.

But at least it is being talked about.

Seriously discussed.

For the first time in…

I don’t know.

I don’t think about time like other people.

For me, and people like me…

It’s one day at a time.

And being thankful.

One day at a time.

For some discussion.

For what I have here, and now.

A sunny day.

A hot meal.

A roof over my head.

A smattering of family and one or two loyal friends.

& I am thankful I have not been hacked to death by hordes of bloodthirsty thugs in Rwanda.

Right? Perspective?

For now…I am thankful that I was able to listen to the debrief from the hearings on the radio today.

Thankful that I still have my faculties…

That I can still fashion a reasonably cogent response to what I heard.

That I don’t have brain damage, like some unlucky victims who drove themselves into a tree or blew their brains out or hung themselves over the confusion and desperation their abuse led them to.

Being thankful for small mercies.

That’s what it’s all about now.

& staying the hell away from church, religion priests…

& courts.

It was kind of…healing.

In an odd…unexpected way.

To be heard…

But frankly- I never want to see another court in my life.

Or another priest.

Another doctor, or another lawyer.

I’ll leave the calculations to the boffins.

I’m sure they’ll come up with a suitable/satisfactory figure for my molestation.

Divide it by the number they first thought of…

& stick it where the monkey put the nuts.

Me??

I’m thankful for…

Just one more day.

John Warwick Arden