Things

There are so many things a kid can’t discuss in therapy. She tells him ”this is a safe place to share”, ”you can talk to me about anything” and ”everything we talk about in this room stays between us”, but it’s all lies. Honesty puts you ”at risk”, he learned this a long time ago. You’re left with the not-so-important things. ”How’s school?” Fine. ”Are you getting enough sleep?” I guess. ”Did you do anything fun over the weekend?” Not really. ”You look happy/sad/angry/bored today.” Sometimes she’ll ask him to fill out a form where you rate your feelings on a scale from 1-10. He never strays too far from what’s considered normal. Not too high, not too low, but somewhere in the middle. Indifference is good. A blank expression is even better. Don’t cross your arms, don’t clench your fists. Don’t cross your legs, it’s feminine. Don’t sit with your legs too wide apart, it’s threatening. Long sleeves, even though it’s 85 degrees outside. If pushed he’ll say, ”I miss my dog”. I miss. Me. She once asked ”Do you think you’ll grow up to be a perp? Is this something you worry about?” It made him wonder if she’d ask a girl the same thing. With boys it’s automatic. Only boys grow up to be perpetrators, abusers, rapists, wife beaters, sadists. It was a question made to rattle him, shake him up, make him talk, but he hates her now. Men are inherently evil, we’re wired this way. There must be something wrong with our bodies, something wrong with our brains. There’s something wrong with me. The truth is he’s more worried about growing up to be like his mother, hopelessly stuck and powerless, unable to do a damn thing about anything. He wants to say, “I have something in common with her, we’re both scared of men”, but it sounds ridiculous, funny almost. What if she laughs at him? He can feel his face redden. The pain stays. It stays right here.

Fine

For a brief moment I feel fine, almost a little drunk or high. My body resting on top of the sheets, relaxed and warm like I‘d spent the whole day playing outside. There’s no one else in the room, no anxiety or pain. He’s not coming back. Do I want him to? I feel safe here. I’m laughing, see? Giggling in a little boy voice. I’m beyond tired. I could sleep for days, months, years and it wouldn’t be enough. When I was younger I couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Its bold aggressive colour, its warmth and smell. It doesn’t bother me as much anymore. The cuts scream look at me, please help me, please notice me, please hold me, but they’re old reminders. I haven’t cut in a long time. I miss the release, being able to cry. I’m fine now, I’m doing fine. It’s barely noticeable, what I’m doing to my body. I look healthy, you said so yourself. You gave me the all clear, permission to slide further, deeper into hell.

The little kid had so many questions. He waited and waited, but the opportunity never came. They moved quickly from A to Z, rushed through the different stages of grief, told him to share but never paused for long enough to really listen. Silence is uncomfortable. Grownups like to see results. When there’s no visible progress people lose their patience and then they give up. Throw away the crayons and sketch pads, the ugly rag dolls he wouldn’t touch. You win, Charlie. You can go now.

Tough Love

The Somali boys love soccer more than anything, I watch them play until it gets so dark they can’t make out the ball anymore. They talk loud and fast. Their tall gangly bodies full of nervous energy, as if being constantly on the move is what keeps them together. Sane. When I first arrived I thought we had nothing in common but our history of violence, but that’s not entirely true. They look grown to me, so much older than their real age. Their maturity intimidates me, but out there on the soccer field they’re just kids playing. Experiencing childhood, the way it could or should’ve been. It’s strange living in an all-male environment, being around all these guys, cocky and self-assured, certain of their part, their significance, their place in the world. It’s all an act, but they act their part so well, and I can feel myself withdrawing into my shell. Becoming the quiet, invisible kid I was certain I had left behind. I apologize for being alive, for taking up space, for breathing their air, that’s me. “Could it have anything to do with the fact that you don’t want to settle in?” my friend asks. There’s no special treatment, no being an ”only child”. There’s no L spoiling me, letting me do whatever I want whenever I want, but I wonder if they know how much I crave rules. How much I crave parenting, boundaries, structure. I understand why prison is not such a bad thing for some people. They wouldn’t survive in a different environment, they wouldn’t know how. I feel like I had more common sense at 9 than I do now. I knew my place, my responsibilities. I had a role, a part to play in keeping my family together. Now I’m just scared. I don’t know what’s expected of me. I’ll stay out late, I’ll get drunk just to get a reaction. I want consequences, I need tough love. I’m not that fragile, I won’t break if you punish me, but you might get through to me, the person inside the shell. Maybe I’ll never be able to understand any language other than violence. The way my dad ”spoke” to me. He’d know how to get my attention. Everything seemed crystal clear then.

Shedding Skin

Dance is like shedding skin. I am slowly getting to know myself, really becoming aware of my body for the first time. I enjoy pushing myself, I enjoy the repetitiveness, I even enjoy the pain that follows practice. I feel safe, I feel at home, I feel happy. I remember watching dancers on TV when I was younger, admiring their strength, their stamina, their sensuality. Wishing, wanting it so desperately, but too afraid to ask. It was out of the question, my parents would never pay for lessons. Boys don’t dance and the ones who do…well they’re different in the worst possible way. Girly, effeminate, soft, fruity, flaming, faggy, gay. Boys shouldn’t appreciate beauty, it’s better, so much safer to worship mud and dirt, to graze your elbows and knees, to only use your body for running and climbing. Bold, brash and confident. Don’t think before you act, just do it. Being a boy should be automatic like breathing, but I had to think about it. I had to create this other persona, this façade to hide behind. Neutral, somewhere safe in the middle. A little too nice, a little too quiet, but never obvious. If you can’t be aggressive, and God knows I tried, the second best thing is to become invisible, to cease being a person. And then you can start erasing your body. You’ll take up even less space. You’re no fun to mess with because you’re too weak to fight back. The only person who won’t leave you alone is dad, but he can’t hurt you any more because you’ve stopped feeling. You don’t feel sad, you don’t feel happy, you’re not even in the room while it’s happening. And then one day it stops. You’re safe, that’s what they keep telling you, over and over. You have to re-learn everything, replace your fucked-up dictionary, become a boy, a person again. But I am out of control, suddenly aggressive, so confused, who am I really? Am I turning into him? Everything is turmoil, pitch-black angry chaos. Acting out, they call it. Like a pat on the head. This is normal, this is recovery. A return to normalcy, yet I feel anything but normal. I’m fighting myself, fighting my body, I want out. Why is every attempt unsuccessful, what am I doing wrong? Do I want to live after all? I’m not used to feeling, now I’m feeling too much, I’m overwhelmed, please make it stop. There’s no progress, nothing visible to the eye, nothing tangible, I’m not getting well fast enough. I read somewhere that the mind chooses to forget, but the body always remembers. It’s a painful reminder. How can I learn to like myself, to accept my body and its history, the fact that I’m turning into a man? Can I get to know him, little by little? Can I write it out, can I talk about it? Is it safe to explore, to come out of hiding, can I dance now?

I don't think anyone can illustrate dance like Jakob Karr.

Anger

Afterwards, when everything was out in the open, I sensed that the grownups around me were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. They would say things like “don’t be afraid of your anger” and “expressing anger is healthy, just let it out”. It’s almost like they were expecting me to go off or explode at any second, that’s what a normal boy my age would do. You get mad, scream, maybe break a few things (or even better, you get into a fight at school and it’s ALL because of what happened to you) and then it’s over with and everyone can breathe a sigh of relief and move on. They made it sound so simple, so easy. But this “anger” they were talking about, it simply didn’t exist. I felt sad, scared, confused and very alone, but I didn’t feel angry at my parents or anyone else. Everyone’s talking about my anger, like they own it. Just ‘cause I’m a boy I’m supposed to direct the anger at other people and get in fights, not harm myself. Loud voices in class made me shrink in my seat, I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I didn’t want to be noticed at all. No feelings, no thoughts, no sound. I wanted peace and quiet, I wanted everything to be clean, spotless like those blinding white sheets you see in the ads on TV. I wanted to sleep through everything like a small hibernating animal, wake up and all of a sudden winter has long passed and it’s spring. I wanted order, perfection and I wanted to be in control, I just didn’t know how. My body felt strange and unfamiliar to me, like it didn’t belong to me and I didn’t belong in it. It became a shell, my armour, a wall between me and the outside. You can punch and kick that wall all you want, try to tear it down, but you’ll never succeed. You’ll never find the person hiding on the inside. Grownups were hoping for this huge explosion of words and angry tears, when all I longed for, all I really needed, was the silence afterwards.

Broken

It's not the first time you're here, son
Words bleeding from my mouth
Coloured red like the stains on my clothes
Forcing angry tears to stay on the inside.

You have to give us names, son
Hands squeezing my shoulders
But there's no warmth in your voice
You say we're concerned, but I'm not your child.

I'm leaking memories
They're leaving my body like a spring flood
Grownups wearing forced smiles
Their faces look like deflated balloons.