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
