That Sound You Hear? Those Are the Hounds of Hell John, and They’re Here For YOU!
A Slow, Laborious Climb From the Monster’s Head
I feel sullied, and no amount of scrubbing or scalding water will remove the dirt.
Someone I love, who I’ll refer to as Gabe, came to me with a story idea. I’ve been exorcising my demons for months now, and Gabe had been witnessing a nugget of the catharses I glean from those stories. Those nuggets, the momentary feelings of justice served, have been denied to my friend for decades. It’s that which they coveted. Their tormentor was not just a narcissist, and those are words you’ll typically never see me write — JUST a narcissist.
Their tormentor was a narcissist, a sociopath, and a pedophile. Their tormentor was a family member, and Gabe wanted a little of what I found through writing.
My dear friend suffers from Complex-PTSD, trauma bonding with family members who looked the other way, and myriad other scars and disorders as a direct result of the monster’s actions.
I’ve written about narcissistic, sociopathic husbands and psychotic ex-wives. Each time I step away after submitting and start thinking about the next piece. Some I write in 20 minutes, others take a day. It’s satisfying — usually.
So when Gabe shyly broached the idea for the story of John Jay, I thought I could do it.
However, it’s left a smudge somewhere in my mind I can’t seem to wipe away. Some part of me scorched from coming too close to the flame of the monster’s depravity. Perhaps, in part, it’s because I wrote from the point of view of the real monster in the story — John Jay. I’m not sure.
What I am sure of is this — the largest part of what I feel is shame.
My friend came to me with what happened to them years ago, and I listened. However, it was too brutal and too miserable and like a horse shying away from a perceived threat, I sidestepped honest, authentic conversation and numbed out.
I felt like something was breaking, but I stifled the rage. I kept this from them, and I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t about me, so I hid my hurt, frustration, and rage to let them talk. Fine, but I failed to understand they needed to hear authentic feelings and responses.
I am grateful for the patience they had while I summoned the courage to listen without fear of causing more hurt through a thoughtless response or weighty emotion.
They needed to hear how much I respected the person they became in the shadow of such adversity.
Writing the story gave them something I’d been unable to provide them — an ear for one thing because I had to listen and dig to understand. It also gave them a voice — and it was loud. I looked into their face while they read and saw the veil lift. Gabe felt the fury of another person on their behalf — they felt the nugget.
After all the torture I depicted in the story, there was one paragraph in particular that did it for them. Because beyond the scope of our understanding, there lay the possibility that John will have to make good on his debt.
While they read the story, their shoulders relaxed, they sat a little taller, and a small smile tugged at the corner of their mouth. Something lifted. A single breath of air in a foul room allowed some sweetness to enter. Then they slowly nodded their head.
That’s what writing does, doesn’t it.
If writing this story with them removed a single stone from Mount Everest that sits on their heart and psyche, it was because they dared to talk about it. I admire their courage and strength. This person survived and left their situation at the earliest possible moment.
They went on to live a life of morality, grace, dignity and strength. They are kind, nurturing, compassionate and generous. If I could change one thing about my friend, it would be this — they would cleave the voice of their tormentor from their psyche and befriend the little child so brutalized. They would show the same warmth and kindness to themselves as they show to others.
I believe in karma with every fibre of my being.
So wait for it, John. It’s coming for you, and you won’t have an easy time of it. I just wish we could all be there to see it, and maybe then there would be fewer of your type. You are a shit stain on this world, and the line up to piss on your grave with be long.
Till then, I guess we keep putting it out to the Universe how we’d like to see these matters handled in a story here or there — if you have the stomach for it.
